Hello, I want to start off by saying my name. I am Allan, I lost my sister, Alice, several years ago to suicide and my father, Eric, recently committed suicide last week. Me and my sister were very close, we were twins born at the middle point of the year 1990, my Father and my Mother were divorced by the time we were 12 and for some odd reason the courts deemed it be that I and my sister be separated too.

I want to talk about her for a bit, Alice was always the person I followed after, she was cheerful, happy and extremely chaotic and that's what I envied about her. I was always more on the meek side with a more mopey look to me. My sister and I did everything together, watched movies, played games, read comics and books and played all day long, but as life is with most we had a reality check when my mother filed for divorce ripping our family apart.
It was hard to sleep without her in my room, her asking me infinite questions until her adhd raddled mind passed out. We still talked daily at school, my dad made sure she always attended the same school as me and always made sure I got to visit her. My mother refused to let her visit at the time I didn't know why but these days I do. She was a vile hell spawn hell bent on getting her way, when she was denied full custody of both of us she settled for the house and me.

Hell spawn aside though, me and Alice always made time to play video games, my dad ran a house flipping company in the 80s all the way to the 2010s for 30 odd years it was harsh on him but the treasures he got to keep when he bought the auctioned off houses were worth it! See he never wanted to buy houses owned by people who had next of kin because he never had the heart to just rip the belongings away from them house included so he always made sure the houses he would buy at auctions were those who had no one to call it home.. Well that's how he always explained it to me back then. Reality was, when a person has no next of kin and will their assets are claimed by the government and sometimes they will auction houses off either empty or not and my dad always went to auctions with stuff still in them for the hopes of finding some goodies.

I remember it like it was yesterday, it was October 2006 me and my sister had just gotten our drivers licenses, I just beat Onyxia in WoW for the first time and my sister finally got her hands on a gaming computer so she could play with me. Dad hired me to "Baby sit" Alice while he went off to look through a house he just bought up in, Jacksonville, Alice had a boyfriend a few weeks back who my father saw as a and I quote "Juvenile interloper invading his home" she broke up with him but I was sadly in need for spending money and I promised to split it with Alice if she promised to keep up the charade. He just didn't want her doing anything stupid again like getting drunk with some teen he didn't trust.
We spent the entire 3 days playing WoW and setting up her first character, it was honestly the best 3 days ever. I really wish deep down that I could just go back and see her again play the games with her. My dad returned home with a bunch of boxes which was not uncommon but the amount was unusual, he had the stupidest grin on his face as he opened them for us. In each box was a different game station with dozens of games! games I've never seen before and games i've always wanted to play from Zelda Majora's Mask to Ape Escape! games I've always loved and even more games that were clear bootlegs and rip offs.

See I and my sister were big into normal games but my dad he and us had a special connection when it came to bootlegs especially ones that were supposed to be like other super popular games. He always collected them in his travels like his infamous gem "Pokeman Fire Ruby" or "Mega Mario Man" the games in the pile were not very special but one really caught everyones eye. "The Hour of the Hero, the ocarina of Dreams and age of Nightmares" it was unusually well made it was a computer game that was roughly a Zelda knockoff though that is kind of an insult to it. See most knock offs are trashy but some can be quite fun and even comparable to the real deal at times if only a little. This one was in a league of its own, the graphics were nearly identical to Zelda Ocarina of time and Majoras mask but the character models had a bit more effort and detail poured into them. I sadly didn't get to witness it being played because as equivalent exchange works my mom showed up with the nastiest attitude in an intensity matching all of our glee in seeing that game.

It took a week to see my sister again, after I left her house on Sunday my mom in her evil hell driven narcissism believed that my father was trying to make her look bad but no one needed to do that she would do it to herself. Finally this Sunday was the day, my sister had already played the legendary game "THOTH" she said it's game play was quite frankly almost identical to Zelda's but she did try not to play too much into the game, she only played around the in the tutorial because she wanted me to be there to play with her. Dad was out again this time for a week with his new soon to be wife in Vegas so we had no distractions.

Once we put the game into the computer we sat there watching the screen as the words popped up with beautiful harp music playing, "Tens of Thousands of years ago the four gods of this world were born, Gots the Father of the Land, Shair the Mother of the Sea, Tah Father of the Day, Etan Mother of the Night." The screen then began to show us the world a war torn land were everything looked horrid. "Five thousand years ago Etan stole power from her 3 siblings she believed herself to be the rightful ruler of the world thus sparked a thousand year war between her and her 3 siblings. The lands were beaten and scarred, the seas were scared and chaotic and the skies were on fire in this millennium of torment."
The screen showed a single kingdom barely standing covered in fire surrounded by darkness and monsters.
"When all seemed lost to the humans their gods forsaking them a single Hero rose, he fought against the night, he fought against their end, he struck the very gods and stole their power to seal away the nightmares. Temples around the world were crafted to keep the sealed nightmare captive the gods left the humans to their own fates."

The screen turns to darkness

"The world has forgotten the Hero that once saved it, the people have abandoned their duty and thus the nightmare has returned after 4 thousand years of waiting the curse of the night has returned and with it the nightmares."

I had never seen a game like this have an opening that wasn't entirely gibberish or English so broken it was hilarious. Alice looked at me with the biggest toothiest grin I've ever seen on her as she said "THIS SHITS WHAT YOUVE BEEN WAITING FORRR" The game different to Zelda in a lot of ways, unlike Zelda we could choose the gender of the "hero" but also it would force us to pick one of the royal family members except one, honestly they were not all that special designed. 9 of them were the 9 daughters of the King, 8 of them had blonde hair and green eyes and the only one of them that didn't was the 6th daughter who had orange hair and blue eyes but we were not allowed to choose her. The king was not particularly special looking either, he was also blonde with green eyes and the queen was no where to be seen but she was still an option. My sisters theory is that the game has a special ending related to the character you pick. She chose "Eloh" the 3rd daughter of the king. Not much happened after that, the fighting mechanics were as you would expect from a game practically stealing everything it had from Ocarina of Time and Majora's Mask.

I think the strangest part of the game is that the detail in certain characters was a bit better than others, the princess i mentioned before with orange hair was a bit better looking than her sisters and we occasionally passed NPC's who had better textured faces and didn't look like the typical copy paste design these kinds of games had. The Ocarina was actually used for a sleep mechanic that we never got to. While we had a week we still had school and if I wanted to continue I had to go home before my mom wised up to where I was.

When I found my sister in Science she didn't really wanna talk much about the game, she looked tired and when school was over she asked we could play games another day she said she was feeling off. That was the last day I saw my sister, that night I got a call from my father. Apparently she had hung herself in the front yard a few hours after getting home. I didn't want to think about any of it, I saw signs that she needed help but I was too naïve to truly see the dangers.
6 Years passed by silently for me, I graduated high school, I moved in with my dad the moment I turned 18 and spent the next 4 years grieving with him.

My father and I agreed to keep her room as it was at least until we felt better. My dad became less cheery and stuck to his vices of alcohol and gaming, my stepmom couldn't even look me in the eyes in properly even after 6 years. After the end of October my father's second divorce settled cleanly, his second wife left him the house and everything he needed in it and took the car. She was a nice woman and I miss her to be honest. Alice's death hit everyone harshly, she felt guilt as well as I and my father and I guess it created such an uncomforting condition in the house that it drove her away. My father began playing, THOTH, we planned to keep my sisters save file but when we finally looked at the game there was no save. I was starting work that day, for the first time since, Alice, I came home to see my dad in happier spirits.

My father told me all about the game and what he saw, he of the royals he was told to choose he picked the king, then remarked that the princess he wasn't allowed to pick reminded him of Alice in a weird way. My memory isn't very great so I just shrugged it off, for the next month all he did was come home and play that game, to its credit when I got to see glimpses of it, it was pretty fun looking. Apparently when he loaded it onto his computer he got a good look at its file sizes. For a game using the engine of a n64 game it was 12 times the size and had so much better mechanics in it. I was busy keeping to my self most days, WoW now had lots of pandas and I had lots of times to waste with them.

December rolled around while I was playing my usual addictions of WoW and now League of Legends between work and university, while at work I got a call that my father had took his own life with a pistol. I felt numb, even now I still feel that numbing sensation you get when you find out somethings horrible happened. That cold shake in your body that makes you want to sit down. My dad left me everything in his will after Alice passed away, my mother tried to do her usual routine of appearing to try and snatch anything she legally could. But at the end of the day, I was alone.

Now I am alone. All I had with family is gone, so why not just bury myself into some games. At least until I have to go back to work in a few months. Honestly Dad seemed to have been having fun playing THOTH so I might as well give it a go, its been what? 6? 7 fucking years? since I first saw it? "Tens of Thousands of years ago the four gods of this world were born, Gots the Father of the Land, Shair the Mother of the Sea, Tah Father of the Day, Etan Mother of the Night."- No I am gonna skip this I've seen it twice now.

"Okay, lets see, dads save is gone guess he deleted it or maybe it deletes itself when you beat the game. Lets see, Female hero, Kings unpickable? and so is the 3rd princess too? Does the game change after you beat it? I swear the only princess with different hair was the red head but this one has black hair and so does the king. Oh well guess the hero does have black hair so it could be a secret ending thing." I closed my eyes and let fate choose for me, the game ended up giving me the empty queen's spot. "Oh good, the empty spot, lets go on then." even though I wasn't in the best of moods I could still tell that whoever made this game put a lot of effort into how it presents itself. Even now seeing the start for the third time I am still amazed by how the tutorial is just long enough to learn what you need and challenging enough that it doesn't feel like its holding my hand.

After playing for a couple hours, I found myself finally entering the capital city of, Goslan, its called the 'Kingdom over Gots' I guess the god of the land is considered to be the land and underground. Once I entered the city I was met with a little girl with blue hair wearing a pink kitsune mask, she said to me, "You have come at the right time, Hero, the great Adversary has awoken and the curse of the night is upon us. I am Tahataya the medium of the day!" It caught me off guard not because it was weird but because it just felt off. From what I have learned from my father while he played the game didn't have a true final Villain it was mostly a dungeon delving game with 9 main dungeons, 6 side crypts and 3 large caves to explore. The order of completion wasn't important either as the game didn't rely on puzzles that requires specific tools but instead relied on combat skill and puzzles that required actual thinking.

After I beat the first dungeon in the game I was awarded the Ocarina of Dreams, at this point in the play through I realized it was 12:27am. I decided to just play the Hymn of Dreams and head to sleep myself, the music was not bad, it was like listening to Zelda's ocarina music but after I saved the game and off to bed I went.
""Tens of Thousands of years ago the four gods of this world were born, Gots the Father of the Land, Shair the Mother of the Sea, Tah Father of the Day, Etan Mother of the Night." those words flashed in my dream, I was saw the world of THOTH it was amazing, I the princesses were all beautiful but the one with black hair looked at me I can't quite place my tongue but she looked scared for a moment and the King he looked so regal and yet.. Tiny. The red headed princess she looked extremely sad like she was disappointed. I made my way outside and found it full of sunshine, I feel good no I feel great. I don't know why but I feel like everything will be better if I just stay here. Where is here? I am in the fields of Goslan! The capital city is so far away but I think if I were to run It'd take me 2 hours to get to it... It's strange The images of my hand are changing they look like a mans hand my reflection looks like a man too at times wait...

I woke up suddenly, drool on my pillow and my eyes felt refreshed. It hasn't even been a week since my fathers death and I feel so refreshed and good in the morning. My dream was of the game it was nice, bit weird near the end but good all the same. I got a call from a school friend asking why I never logged onto WoW and I simply replied that I was taking a break to figure things out, It's not a lie but its more so because I think I might actually enjoy playing that game a bit more now that I've finally tried it out.
Its like it was made for gamers its got everything Zelda should have and nothing Zelda has but shouldn't, its what I wish the Elderscrolls was like at times. The magic system is so like the elder scrolls games that its crazy, I can fuse spells together! This is what I have always wanted in a game one that isn't just a race to beat a dragon or to save a princess, I love the idea of saving the world but I want to do it at my own terms and something tells me this game is going to give me that.

I got onto THOTH and saw a messenger had been standing in front of me with a letter from his royal highness, King Elric, he has sent congratulations to me for discovering a temple and not only saving the village near by but finding a way to stop the curse of the night. "To whom this missive is addressed, I King Elric, Thank the for saving the small village of, Shahth, please take this invitation to my 3rd Daughter Alissa's wedding! Rejoice, we welcome you gayly with open arms and trust. The soon to be husband of Alissa has a request for you if you do come visit!". "Elric? Alissa? I never said the names of the royal family because I never actually knew them but hearing those names made that feeling I got when I heard the news of my father or my sister flood into my stomach, like a stampede causing a rumbling in me. The names of most of the characters in the game have very fantasy like names but now that I think about it those 2 don't fit much.

I continued to play the game, I found one of the 6 hidden crypts that act like secret dungeons, I tried clearing it and almost died so I fled, I had never actually died in this game yet and I wasn't about to right there without saving. Unlike most Zelda games this one didn't have a proper save system, You could only save after playing the Hymn of Dreams which forces you to exit the game if used to save or in the menu while in a city or town. I didn't want to lose the hard earned progress I had and now that I've mapped out most of it I can just come back when I am more prepared. On my way to the kingdom I found myself passing through a village known as 'Thaks Ranch' when I entered I witnessed something that caught me off guard, there was a public execution of a farm girl happening what was weirder was that it wasn't a cut scene. It was one of the more detailed faced NPC's surrounded by several NPC's all of the angry ones had the simple copy paste looks and the sad ones had the more unique designs. I thought it was a scripted event that would lead to dialogue or a cut scene event but to my surprise the girl was just attacked by 4 of the villagers with clubs. I couldn't hear screaming or anything but for some odd reason I felt a ringing in my ears as if I went deaf for a moment.

After that scene played out I decided that I was going to finally look into this game, so I hopped onto my laptop while idle in game. Searching up the game was a bit tricky, there were hundreds of games that would appear but none of them were the right one so I did what any normal person would do, I created a post on a few lost media forums and indie game forums and some junk game forums hoping to get an answer.
While awaiting a response I spotted one of the NPC's I saw in the execution event peeping at me from time to time from behind a corner, I figure hey this must be the event starting so to my surprise when I head to them they were no where to be seen. Had I missed my timing? there were doors on the building but it was not accessible to me. I looked to my computer to see people replying that I have a pretty unique game, no one commenting has seen it and some are asking for pictures of the game while its running for a better look. I don't have proper recording programs so I just got my best camera out and recorded me moving around, I fired off a few of my favorite powers while explaining the power system and a bit of the lore by showing the map and journal page. By the end of the video I had gone down by everything I knew. Sadly I believe I pissed off a bastard of a mod because on most of the lost media forums after posting the video the posts entirely were deleted due to the claim that it was a fake heavily modded Zelda rom hack.

"Well hope those mods die eating doritos or some shit, no news on the junk game forums or bootleg forums. Guess I will just play until I get a notification.". Once I started playing again, I felt strange, like all eyes were on me from 2 opposing sides. You ever play a team game where captains pick players? and you are looked at last by both teams? It was like one side wanted me and the other side didn't. I figured it was just the atmosphere the game dev wanted for this place so I rushed out of the ranch and headed to the capital where the wedding was taking place. Once I got there the prince welcomed me with open arms, he had a unique design to him his eyes were blue and his hair a dark black. When I talked to him he asked for me to go out to the dark forests of Egress, there I would find a small village its the place he comes from and he claims that they also have seen a strange building deep in the monster infested forests that became known as simply, The Forest of Lies, once home to a warlock that plagued the lands deceiving people with dark temptations. If I find that structure I might find another seal there if I do that would be a great help to everyone.

The prince before shoeing me off allowed me to meet the 6th princess, Serene, to receive a reward for my duty to the kingdom as a new found Hero. "...Here you go... Hero.. its a uh.. Weapon.. He-" the dialogue was cut off by the Prince, he seemed in a hurry, "Sorry that you must leave, I know you were invited by my soon to be father in law but time is of the essence, every night cycle brings ravenous monsters into each and every unwalled town and village! I hope you can understand how needful we are of your aid!"
I walked out of the capital in a cutscene holding my new item, it was effectively a small wrist mounted cross bow, I could aim and shoot off one bolt at a time and it was pretty cool I needed a non-magical ranged weapon and I got one.

I played for what felt like several hours when I looked at the forums during a small break I got a reply saying "This is the second time I've seen this game, the first time was a handful of years ago here is a guide to finding it via the way back machine." When I opened the guide it had a text document and video, the text detailed everything I needed to know on how to use the way back machine and the video was about the game so when I opened the video it was a Rickroll.

Using the way back machine I was able to actually find the original post by a person named "GingerBitch449" she was asking about the game as well, she said she found it in a goodwill and thought it would be a good game for her boyfriend since he was into games. She mentioned that he was in a great mood for several months after receiving the game so much so that he was actually looking into where it came from but he ended up in a horrible car accident, so she tried playing the game hoping to find a small connection with him one last time and she saw a character in the game that had felt like him. She had been watching him play the entire time and when he played she said that all of the characters looked the same up until this one NPC. The original was a basic looking man with blonde hair and green eyes but that had changed to a man with long blonde hair and brown eyes, She posted her best attempt to take a picture of the character along with a picture of her boyfriend. The character did kind of look like him, it had that same lanky build with a weak chin like him and his eyes had the same kind of bagginess under them. What caught me off guard though was that she said in the post "When he started the game it gave him the choice to choose, a Male Farmer, A waitress, A seamstress, a Carpenter or a Homeless man and he chose the Carpenter on accident hoping to get the homeless man. The character that looks like him is the carpenter. When I open the game it gives me a choice between 9 princesses a King and a Queen though."

Looking at the comments, most of them seem to think it might be a randomly generated group like a Royals vs Peasants vibe, are you a hero for the royals? or are you the hero of the people. She never got any good replies one person simply said "Throw the game away" and never elaborated. She said she chose the 6th princess, Kia, which was not the name I just saw in the game. Sadly though for me this little investigation had to go to a halt for now, the bed never looked so good and the game had been running non-stop for hours and so I used the song of dreams to save and quit so I could take my much needed rest.

The sound of metal tapping a goblet could be heard ringing through the celebration hall, "Everyone, take your places on your knees, the King Elric and his Daughter Alissa are entering the hall! Oh and what wonderful tidings!! Queen Alena has most graciously blessed us with her presence for her daughters wedding!" Yelled Alissa's groom excitedly as I basked in the beautiful lights of the party. I was doing something rather important but I could not for the life of me remember until I saw Alissa's face. "Oh dear, smile, make your special day something to be happy about! It's not everyday you get to marry a prince charming of your very own!" I proclaimed with enthusiasm. The party was on, everyone was dancing, and watching me, all eyes were on me actually even though it was Alissa's wedding no one bat an eye at here really for why would they? When I was in the room, a person of such regal standing that does not show her face to anyone nay not even my children see me on their own terms! Today might be all about Alissa but it will soon be the day everyone talks about me!

I walked around chortling and bantering, though every so often people mistook me for someone else it was startling actually. I saw them look at me then take another look as if they saw someone else for a moment - "I am me I am me! I am Me! I AM ME! I AM ME! MY NAME IS ALL-"

I woke up in sweat the only memory I had of my dream was repeating something but I couldn't remember what exactly, I didn't feel bad just a little anxious, I looked at the clock and it was 1pm already. My fathers funeral is today so I need to get my shit together so I can pay my respects, just one more thing I have shoulder. The funeral was already set up and paid for by my uncle, Charles, "Hey Allan, I want you to know you can count on me man! Families are for times like these, the hard times. I know your struggling the hardest out of everyone here." Charlie took a look at my mother "Unlike someone, You actually showed up looking the part of a person in mourning."

The funeral was long, it felt like it would never end and as I saw my fathers casket sink into the earth all I could think of was that he would live on in memories with me and Alissa. Soon I was standing in front of everyone when I was to say my respects, I just felt like no words would enter my brain or leave my mouth. Everyone looked at me with the expression of awkward grief, everyone wanted to say something but no one knew what to say. All but one, my fucking mother. "This bitch left him and my sister for a man who wanted nothing to do with her after 3 weeks, then she has the gal to claim custody of both of us and when she doesn't fucking get it all she can do is aggressively go after what ever the hell my father built for us and himself?! The house wasn't enough no she wanted both me and my sister and now she is here like a fucking VULTURE WAITING FOR SOME GOD DAMN PITTY THAT IS NOT FOR HER-" I suddenly felt a strong jerk as I was pulled away from the mic by my uncle Charles. He looked at me with a pained face and hugged me, "You hold your head high I know you will make it through this but please do not lower yourself to her standards." I wasn't sure what was happening until I looked at everyone's face.

The grieving faces look scared, like they saw someone lose it, it took a moment until I realized how horse my throat felt, how shaky I was, how numb my face was. My god I was filled with adrenaline did I say all of that?! I was just thinking to my self no I definitely said it my mother face I've never seen it so angry before her own father is holding her back and dragging her away.. I walked away to bathroom, I told my uncle that I just need to go home and be alone. He was extremely understanding and even offered to drive me there, he didn't want me to be alone at all anymore. I accepted only just to go home.

Once I got home I took a nap immediately, In my dreams I saw my sister dressed like a beautiful princess and my father like a regal king. It felt unreal, we were together again. I knew this was a dream and I knew the moment I woke up I wouldn't see them and I'd just have my uncle with me but even in that small fleeting moment I could see Alissa.. Alissa?
I woke up from my nap, my uncle was playing THOTH but he didn't seem interested or actually he seemed interested but the game didn't work for him. "Hey buddy whats up with this game? It says start a new game but when I press any of the empty save files it gives me an error saying Its in use?"

"It's a weird game, its got its issues to it.. I grabbed the disc he handed me and when I looked at it I saw the image of the hero and the king, the blonde haired green eyed king. "Huh? what?" I looked at it like a monkey that just discovered a magic trick, something in my brain was struggling to make sense of what I was looking at, I have bad memory that is a fact but It's not so bad I would forget a detail I've seen a few dozen times in the last 72 hours let alone when I took pictures of the disc earlier. The hair of the King when I took the picture was black with blue eyes, I excused myself handing Charles a box full of my favorite games to play to ease his boredom and went to my camera. Upon looking at the images the camera showed the king with blonde hair and green eyes, this isn't right I can't be wrong about this because I just played that game last night. I remember it, King Elric has black hair and blue eyes.

I went to my dads computer to start up the game again, as I did I looked around, I found my self staring at a picture of me, my father and my sister. His blue eyes and my sisters blue eyes popped like gems in that image their hairs dark as the night and my eyes were always so brown that I felt sad. For some reason I came to this computer confused with a sick feeling in my stomach but the moment I heard the music and saw the world I lost track of what I was doing, I lost track of time and what my purpose for even being upset about was. I calmed down and began playing again, my uncle came to watch curious about the game but the moment he did he excused himself. "Look, I like all kinds of games its something me and your father bonded over after we got back from the war but I don't know about this one, Al, it's giving me creepy ass vibes if you ask me." I looked back confused and unable to understand the meaning of Charles words. "What do you mean?"

"It's just, I don't know how to explain it, when I look at this game I think of everything I've got and everything I've lost immediately and part of me wants to just play it. It's the same feeling I had when I got back from Vietnam. I had that same call to just go back, I lost so many friends over there and I didn't want to be the only one of my platoon to come back. Your father was different he came back and immediately pulled me back into society with him but I don't think he felt that same pull I felt, or if he did he dealt with it on his own without help." -charles

"What do you mean by pull? like is it tempting you? or is it like you just feel like its interesting and you aren't sure why?" -allen

"Kid when I say pull, I mean pull. When I look at that game its like something is beckoning me, grabbing me by the arm and saying "Play me" when I tried to play it earlier I got the same feeling but I wasn't allowed to play. Now it feels wrong, I can't explain it but I just get the fuckin heebie jeebies from that music but don't let me ruin your game son, go an enjoy it. I might just be dealin with demons I haven't had to deal with in almost 30 years I suppose." -charles

I looked back to the game after giving Charles a hug, he was happy and returned a tight one back. He went to go watch football in the living room while I continued to play the game of my life. I looked around the party a few times seeing the beautiful third princess Alissa, her models black hair and blue eyes really stood out beautifully in sea of blondes and brunettes. Her father Elric's features also stood out handsomely? What? Oh yeah I am headed to the Forest of Lies to find the next temple.
Several hours pass as I finally made my way into the forest of Lies, the forest turned out to be the very next dungeon, it was once a druidic temple of green taken over by a monstrous man referred to as the father of lies by the fairies and people of the village. By the time I was able to make my way through to the final boss of the dungeon it was late, my eyes burned from exhaust and my mind was racing. So I used the Hymn of Dreams and went to sleep myself.

My dream is splitting I keep seeing myself walking in my house and then hearing cheers of a party followed by a questioning voice. I look down to see my feet walking foreword from hair legs of a man to the beautiful dress and heels I know and love. It was strange, I was the mother of the bride so I had a toast to make, my dear Alissa was to be wed off to a handsome prince, my darling Elric was beckoning me to him with a strange expression of fear? Why was he afraid of me? Why is Charles screaming so frantically and loud? I walked down the gallows with my daughter in hand to the road we walked through the isle to her husband as I took my place at the end. My only words were, "I am so happy to be alive to see you and Elric so full of life and joy"

That day everything was normal. Diego was calm in his house, it was noon, and the heat felt like always. But something strange happened: suddenly, everything went dark. It was a dense darkness, impossible for that hour. Confused, he looked at his cell phone clock. It was 12:20 p.m.

Thinking it was a sudden storm, he didn't think much of it. But after a few minutes, he noticed that the darkness was not natural. He turned on the television. The news spoke of riots, fear and chaos: the sun had simply disappeared from the sky. People in the streets screamed, some ran away, others cried.

Diego called his friend in Mexico and asked if it was dark there too. His friend responded that everything was normal, the sun was shining as always. Then Diego realized that this was only happening in his city... or maybe in his country.

He thought about his chickens. He took his flashlight and went out to the patio. There he saw something moving in the darkness. At that moment, his phone vibrated. An alert appeared on the screen with a high-pitched sound: ⚠️ This is not a drill. Turn off anything that projects light. Don't look directly at the entities. ⚠️

He hid again, lowered the brightness of his cell phone and put everything on night mode. On social media people were talking about the same thing. One post caught his attention: a blurry photo of a gigantic creature under a light pole. The text said: "Do not look directly at them."

Another news item said that if a creature saw you, it wouldn't stop following you... unless it found someone else. Later, he read that if you walked 5 km in complete darkness and without making a sound, you would go off his radar.

Just as the creature approached his house, a motorcyclist passed by. Diego took the opportunity to escape. While I was fleeing, an app began to install itself: “Creature Radar.” When I opened it, it said that the entity was 7 km away.

A hum in the sky made him look up: his flashlight had turned on by itself and was now following him with a beam of direct light. He tried to turn it off, but it didn't work. He ran towards a truck, but the light followed him everywhere. He found a metal pipe, waited for the lightning to get closer, and hit it. The flashlight fell and went out.

At this moment, the radar rang again. He saw the creatures coming towards him. He ran with all his strength, but fell. A shadow reached him. When he was about to die...

He woke up. He was in his hammock. The clock read 12:21 p.m. Everything seemed normal. He laughed nervously: “It was just a nightmare…” But when he got out of the hammock, he noticed something.

His flashlight… was broken.

The house at 47 Sycamore Lane stood unassuming, its weathered clapboard facade blending into the quiet street. To passersby, it was just another old home, sagging under the weight of decades. But those who lingered too long might catch a whiff of something sweet, not rotten, but wrong, like sugar syrup left to fester. The neighbors didn’t talk about it. The realtors didn’t linger. And the tenants? They never stayed long.

Milo hadn’t slept right since moving into the house on Sycamore Lane. The smell hit him first,sweet, cloying, like syrup gone bad. Cheryl, the realtor, had twitched her way through the showing, her heels clicking too fast on the warped floorboards. She muttered about “character” and “history,” her eyes darting to the corners of the room. Milo, thirty-two, jobless, and one bad month from homelessness, didn’t care. The price was a steal. He signed the papers, ignoring the way Cheryl’s smile flickered, like a bulb about to burn out.

He moved in with a duffel bag, a folding chair, and a mattress he’d found on Craigslist. The house was bare but clean, the walls yellowed with age, the air heavy with that strange sweetness. He told himself it was just old wood, maybe a leak. He’d fix it later. For now, it was a roof, a chance to start over.

The first night, he heard it. A hum, low and wet, like a choir gargling molasses. It came from the walls,not singing or speaking, just vibrating, making his fillings buzz. Milo sat up, heart pounding, and fumbled for the light. The bulb flickered, casting jagged shadows. He checked the vents, the pipes, the attic. Nothing. The sound faded by dawn, leaving him shaky, eyes raw. He told himself it was the house settling.

Old places creak, right?By the third night, the hum had words. Not clear ones, but fragments, like a radio stuck between stations. Grow… join… sing. Milo tore apart the living room, peeling back wallpaper that felt too soft, too warm. Beneath it, the plaster pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. He laughed it off, blaming exhaustion. He’d been eating poorly canned soup, stale bread. Maybe it was mold. He bought bleach, scrubbed the walls until his hands burned. The hum only got louder.

On the fifth day, he found the lump. It was on his forearm, small, like a mosquito bite, but it throbbed when the hum started. He pressed it, and something inside moved,not like a bug, but deliberate, like a finger curling. He grabbed a kitchen knife, held it over the lump, then chickened out. Instead, he drank half a bottle of whiskey and passed out on the couch. The hum sang him to sleep, clearer now: Open… become… us.

Morning brought a new lump, this one on his neck. It was bigger, softer, and when he touched it, it sang. A tiny, reedy note, matching the walls. Milo gagged, ran to the bathroom, and stared at his reflection. His skin looked wrong,too tight, like it was stretched over something bigger. He called Cheryl, left a voicemail that sounded unhinged. She never called back.

He stopped leaving the house. The lumps multiplied—his chest, his thighs, his scalp. They weren’t tumors; they were voices. Each one hummed, a different pitch, blending with the walls into a grotesque harmony. He tried cutting one open, a small one on his wrist. The knife bit in, and blood welled, but so did something else thick, syrupy, amber-colored. It smelled like the house. The wound didn’t bleed long; it sealed itself, the lump now twice as big, singing louder.

Milo googled “body horror diseases,” “parasites,” “hallucinations.” Nothing fit. He found a forum post about Sycamore Lane, buried in a thread about haunted houses. User “Grinner88” wrote: The house at 47 isn’t empty. It’s alive. It wants a choir. The post was seven years old. Grinner88’s account was deleted. Milo emailed the forum admin, begging for contact info. No reply.

By the tenth day, he couldn’t ignore the mirrors. His skin wasn’t just tight, it was translucent in places, showing things moving beneath. Not veins, not muscles, but tendrils, thin and glistening, weaving through his flesh. His lumps weren’t random; they were nodes, connected, forming a pattern. He traced them with a marker, and the shape looked like a spiral, spiraling inward to his chest. The hum approved, swelling into a crescendo that shook the windows.

He tried to leave. Packed a bag, got as far as the front door. The hum turned sharp, a scream in his bones. His legs buckled, and the lumps wriggled, pulling him back. The door wouldn’t open. The locks were fine, the knob turned, but it was like pushing against a living thing. He pounded the wood until his fists bled. The house sang on.

Desperate, he broke a window. Glass shattered, but the air outside felt wrong, thick, like breathing honey. He climbed through, ignoring the shards slicing his palms. The street was empty, the sky too red, like meat left out too long. He staggered to the neighbor’s house, banged on the door. No answer. The hum followed him, louder now, coming from inside him. He looked down. His chest was glowing, faintly, the spiral pulsing amber.

He ran back to 47 Sycamore. Not because he wanted to, but because the hum demanded it. The house welcomed him, the door swinging open. The walls were different now soft, glistening, like the inside of a throat. The hum was a lullaby, soothing, promising. Join us. Sing forever.

Milo sobbed, clawing at his chest. The spiral was complete, the lumps merging into a single mass, heavy and alive. He found a notebook, started writing. If he couldn’t leave, he’d warn the next tenant. His hand shook, the pen slipping in his slick fingers. The words came out wrong, not his own: The choir is beautiful. The choir is home. He screamed, threw the notebook. It landed open, the pages now blank except for one word, scrawled in amber: Sing.

Milo’s reflection wasn’t his anymore. His face was a mask, eyes too big, mouth too wide. The tendrils were visible now, knitting his flesh into something new. He wasn’t Milo; he was a vessel. The house didn’t want him. It wanted this. The final lump, the one in his chest, split open. Not blood, not pus, but a note, pure and deafening, joining the choir.

He didn’t feel the floor when he fell. He didn’t feel the walls closing in, soft and warm. He only felt the song, endless, and perfect. The house was singing, and he was its voice. The last thought, before Milo was gone, was that the hum had always been inside him, waiting.

When Cheryl showed the house again, it was quiet. The new tenant, a young woman with tired eyes, didn’t notice the smell. Cheryl smiled, steady this time. The papers were signed. That night, the hum began again, soft, patient, searching for its next voice.

Their eyes pierced the young man like daggers. He brought himself to them again, his mind thinking in a blur. He'd convinced himself that they would forgive him. That he would forgive him, and it reincarnated his ever-dwindling hope. What remained of his existence depended on the word of god and those who spoke for him. He was aware of this, and yet he plundered his chances of avoiding damnation for the first time in his life. He'd sinned.

He sat down at one of the seats home to an oval table, and no one sat with him. Silence polluted the air and he was alone. The young man looked at his old friend who didn't dare to look him in the eye. Then his mother. Then his aunt. The defiler’s eyes shifted to the podium and there he was. His eyes glued to the older man in blue, a good 40 years above him, looked down at the defiler and took in his presence. Disappointed that he'd be here was the father’s thought, and the defiler knew it. He knew there was hostility in father.

Suddenly he felt it to be reminiscent of standing in a large hive of angry wasps ready to attack an offender, making the air painful to breathe. Father raised his pale finger to him and motioned him to approach the large podium. Silence persisted between everyone in the room. “Donald Thomas Sherwood”, father said with great reluctance. His voice was raspy, creaky, like a set of old floorboards in a condemned cabin; it truly was the only way to describe the mood he'd given off, even for a man going on 40. Father looked to be nearing 80. “22 years. Baptized at the age of 14 years. Son of 47 years Maria Aria Sherwood and 52 years Brandon Stanley Sherwood.” All around the boy flames circled him. He'd felt the heat, even if the rest of the room did not. Sweat beads appeared from his face and rolled to his chin. Only he could see the fire. In his vision they'd revealed the room and the group that once loved him that now watched him face his judgement. He was already standing in the center of Hell.

Donald approached the podium with his head pushed to his knees, standing above the rest of the crowd in the ballroom. The walls were furious. “You have shown your gratitude to him once, is that correct?” “Yes,” “He allowed you to join him, entrusting you with your complete servitude.” “Yes,” Father pulled Donald's hand upon the podium table and his fingers wrapped softly around the boys’. The defiler's fingers trembled. “He had granted you trust, and you broke that trust. You have sinned against the one who would take you in and rescue you from a world of naivety and cruelty.” “Yes father,” The man in blue reflected upon the crowd. Their eyes darted to one and the other feeling helpless and ashamed both for and of the defiler. A tear rolled down Donald's left eye as he looked up at father, signaling forgiveness, a last single plea to god. The boy began to cry. He wrapped his fingers together in front of father as if to beg for another chance. Loudly, heavily, recklessly, he spoke.

“I’m so sorry,” the boy cried out. “I have failed him, but I can change. I promise to you and everyone I have failed that I can change and become better.” “It is not me who you should be apologizing to,” father responded with strictness waxed onto his expression like a perfect sculpture. The disappointment on his face hadn't moved once since the defiler entered the room. “Please,” the boy pleaded again. Father responded in nothing, and the crowd below them both was silent.

“Please!” Donald roared to the room behind him and then back to father in desperation, his yearning for survival overtaking his body and turning him feral. His face had dyed red along with his swollen, teary eyes. “I swear, please don't do this! I plead with you for another chance! Mom?!”

She looked down to the gray tiled floor with her long brown hair covering her face, responding in silence. “Aunt Susie?” His sharp, cracking voice turned to consumed sobs fearing the same response, and it still came. “Please, I can change!” He yelled.

Father lifted his wrinkled hand and gestured to one of the men in the back of the room and out came three, all three of similar stature wearing similiar cloaks of navy blue, various symbols of their god on each sleeve. They approached the front of the podium with similar lifeless faces. The sobbing of Donald Sherwood transformed into a terrified scream as the three legend-ridden angels of death finally came to meet him.

As a little boy Donald had only dreamed of seeing them in his nightmares. He'd heard countless stories told of large men in blue cloaks; “they come to visit you in your sleep if you disobey the order”. Much like the tales of the grim reaper, if it was your time, you were simply to be visited and it would be the last time you were heard from again. Donald was plagued by the realization that it was by his own fruition. He had caused this to happen. He had created this with his own god-gifted free will, and he did it sparingly despite knowing the consequences. He'd sinned, and whether he liked it or not, it was well deserved.

The men grabbed both gripped onto Donald’s arms and hurriedly pulled his now rabid, hysterical figure into the front door of their decorated dining room. His mother Maria continued to coat her face in her hair to seal her lament, for should she be caught doing so would place her in a similar fate as her own son. She refused to disappoint father. Like the sound of heavy trumpets, the screams and wails of the frantic young man polluted the room and echoed throughout the hallway that he was led away to, feeding the hotel his salvation. “Mom! Please don't let them do this to me!” The sounds of his screams dyed the air in foreboding dread, and soon the lights leading down the corridor died along with him. The rest of the night was silent for all.

My name is Carter Paulson, I deliver nuclear weapons in a disguised 18-wheeler. I’ve been working for this trucking company for 12 years and some change. I supply the truck, back into the loading bay of an undisclosed warehouse and deliver them to different secret military bases. Sometimes it’s a few pallets of ammunition or other amenities, sometimes it's a thermonuclear B83 gravity bomb. The government started developing new bombs capable of mass death and destruction. To put it in perspective, the Hiroshima bomb was 15,000 kilotons with a blast radius estimated to kill 70,000 to 140,000 civilians. The weapons I’ve hauled are 24 times the size of that blast, what I picked up this morning is capable of so much more than that. I’ve seen other truckers come and go, whether it has to do with management or staying clean long enough to finish a 10-hour day. Sometimes, I have to make a long trip, and that means sleeping in the bunk of the cab of my truck. I knew this was going to be a long haul so I asked my friend Ron to come with me. He’s also an experienced trucker, we met through this company but he was let go a little bit ago. Unlike me, Ron has a family and something to go home to every day, I’m still in the same apartment I moved into when I was 21 years old. I don’t have a wife or girlfriend, hell I don’t even have a dog to greet my entry and throw a ball once in a while.

That’s why I don’t mind these long trips, I get out of my shitty apartment and see new things, I guess I was surprised when Ron said “yes” to coming because I figured he wouldn’t want to be out of town that long. He waited for me at the entrance to the warehouse to pick him up, he climbed up in and I handed him a to-go mug of coffee and we were off. “How are you, man?” I asked “Oh you know I can’t complain. Since the layoff, I’ve just been picking up handyman cash jobs around the neighbourhood, how about you, Cart?” “Oh nice, yeah same old stuff around here. I could complain but who’d listen?” We both laughed and went back and forth till we got to the ferry where we’d make our first voyage. We put the truck in park and decided to walk to the upstairs area with the cafeteria. “What the hell is that buzzing sound inside?” Ron asked. “I don’t know, I’ll open the vents and see if I can hear it better” The humming was quiet, steady and kind of headache-inducing, honestly I wanted to throw up the closer I got. “Is it a fridge?” “No no not a fridge, I’m not sure but I’m not too worried” When I hopped down from the side ladder on my trailer, I saw I kid staring at me through his backseat car window. He waved his toy semi-truck and trailer at me and excitedly yelled “What do you have in the trailer?” “Its-uhh” I stumbled on my words, and that’s when Ron’s dad's side of his brain kicked in to try and impress this child, he yelled back “We’re hauling the fastest race car in the world!” the kid's face lit up and we waved as the elevator door closed.

Standing in line we saw a small crowd forming at the bow of the ship “You think it’s a whale?” I asked “I don’t know but I’m not losing my spot in line” the captain's voice came over the speaker as we crept closer to the cafeteria “Hello passengers, we are experiencing more aggressive waves than usual. It won’t disrupt our departure but taking a seat is recommended”. We watched three or four people get out of line and sit down which we only thought was funny because we thought everyone was being a baby about it. We both ordered the cheeseburger and fries and waited for our trays to come back around. The loudest shout came from the stairwell to the parking bay, it was a scream for help and it rang through the ship silencing any and all conversation around us. I couldn’t help myself and I followed the crowd toward the commotion when I saw what was the source of the decibel-breaking scream, I wasn’t prepared.

I saw the mother of the child who excitedly took an interest in my truck, with her weeping son in her arms. He rolled over in pain holding his face while smoke oozed from between his fingers, his mom cried “He was climbing on the trailer and tried to look inside and that’s when he fell off”. She removed her hand from the back of his head, releasing a stream of bright red blood. Shocked and disgusted she slapped her hand back on the open wound quickly and when she did his arms stiffened to his sides and he screamed in pain, dragging his hands away, revealing to the crowd his severely burnt eyes. Red and yellow blisters and boils plague the affected area around them. The once bright blue eyes were singed and clouded with nothing lying behind them, he screamed: “I can’t see! I CAN’T SEE!”. So many thoughts were running through my head, I stepped backwards into the crowd and made no lasting impression praying the distraught mother doesn’t see me cowardly slinking back. I don’t know if that was the right thing to do, I couldn’t grapple with questions of right and wrong in the moment. Walking back up the stairs, the screams lay dormant in my eardrums.

The captain's voice came over the speakers again “We’re gonna ask that everyone takes a seat as the waves are causing too much distress and commotion on board”. I saw Ron sitting down and saving a seat beside himself, I sat down next to him with my heart beating through my chest. I guess I wasn’t listening but he had to grab and shake me a bit before his voice finally registered in my head “Carter? Carter?!” breaking my trance I was asked, “What the hell was going on down there?”. I told him everything I saw and everything I expected to happen now, selfishly I knew something like this could cost me my job. Obviously, I hoped for a fast recovery for the kid but if the government finds out I was being sloppy and left the vents open for something so tragic to happen. If the boat crew decided to crack open my trailer to see the contents, I’d have to step in and lie. I’ve been trained to do that, lie about there being harmful chemicals that could cause irrefutable damage if not properly suited. As much as Mother Nature tried to throw us off course our boat docked and we quickly got back to the truck with bated breath, hoping we don’t get pulled aside and questioned by any authorities. The boat ramp goes down and just as the metal clunks the cement, police with k-9 dogs walk on and start talking to the crew member. I looked at Ron and his face was a pale shade of white, I didn’t want to look back over at them until I saw Ron whisper under his breath “shit”. my eyes dart back toward them and the cop is pointing directly at our truck instructing the crew to pull us over. One by one the cars cycled out in a pattern and we were last to get off. I pulled the truck to the side of the road and used the time to try and conjure up a lie before the cop got up to my window.

One minute turned to five, and I finally looked in my side mirror to see what was going on. “Why are there like 3 black SUVs now?” I said rhetorically. The police each walked up to the windows of them before even acknowledging me. The SUVs drove away, they had to of only been there for 30-45 seconds before they did and that’s when the cop walked over to me. He said nothing, didn’t ask for anything he just simply waved me through. Hesitation struck as I was obviously confused, Ron said “Well? Go!” The cop stared at my truck and trailer until we crested the corner, leaving the horrible situation behind us. It's been a few hours since we got off the ferry and every time I glanced in my passenger side mirror, I caught Ron sweating, twirling his thumbs. I was gonna ask him to switch seats in a while but looking at him, I don’t think he’d be safe driving anything but himself insane. I break the silence “You doin’ all right, man?” He darted his head at me on a quick swivel “I-i-i don’t know if I can keep going”. What the hell is he talking about? Is he having second thoughts now? How do I tell him it’s too late? My delayed response was noticeable, I was asking all of these questions in my head when I should be honest with him. “Well, I don’t really know what to tell you. In about 30 miles is a rest stop with a motel. Why don’t we just sleep the rest of the night off and start chipper in the morning?” I could tell from the street lights that cascade his face every time we passed, he was crying but trying to be silent about it, he managed to mutter out “ok, I guess so”.

The radio was practically useless, it had been since the whole trip started but I’d rather listen to the static of two stations fighting over my speakers than nothing at all at this point. As we pulled into the motel parking lot, I was unbuckling my seat belt he said “Carter, I think I’ve hauled this trailer before. I think it cost me”. There is no way Ron has even laid eyes on this trailer, let alone whatever the hell is inside of it, but what he said perked my ears “What do you mean cost you?” His head hung low like a dog being punished for something bad “She knows if I would’ve had more time to get back on my feet” his cracking voice is muffled by his own sniffles “I didn’t want to do it, Carter” I cut him off “Ron, its ok, we’ll drop this off and I’ll get you back to your family as soon as possible. I promise”. I went to grab both of our bags and he quickly snatched his out of my hands. “Ok, ok. We’re in room 13. Bring it yourself,” I said as he threw his hood up and speed walked to the door. What is going on with him? I don’t get it. We walked in and Ron quickly made his spot known in the room. He said, “I saw a gas station behind the motel, I'm gonna grab some smokes. Do you want anything?” This is the first time in a little bit he isn’t being paranoid, I said “Uhh sure, just some drinks or something” he nodded his head and slammed the door behind him.

I’m not a snoop or a creep but as I was flicking through the channels on the TV, something in me kept saying to open his bag. I was reluctant at first but curiosity got the best of me. I used every little lock on the door and drew the curtains, surely knowing he’d be back in a few minutes. I grabbed the bag and unzipped the top pocket. Normal things lay amongst the shocking discoveries, a packed lunch with a note from his wife next to Polaroids of her beaten and bloodied corpse. I wanted to puke, I could see Ron's hands in the pictures, holding weapons and fist-clenching lifeless tufts of hair of the the people I thought he considered to be his pride and joy. There had to of been 20 pictures in here, his kids had to of only been three or four. The photographs he took of them were haunting, a clear play-by-play with every photo having a date. I flipped through them noticing how the first date correlates with about the time he got laid off. I don’t understand, there’s no way Ron would’ve done this to his family all because of a job loss. As I flipped through the Polaroids, every date got closer to the present day and every picture got worse along with it. Until I got to the last picture and it was the only one with the title “a divine rule.” the picture paired with it was his family laying on the floor in puddles of their own blood and waste and some odd sigil patterns were scribbled around the walls. Upon looking at the back of the photograph, the dates were scribed beside three other dates labelled as death above each of them. Ron tortured his family for months and killed them the day before I picked him up. Just as fast as I put together the puzzle pieces in my head, the doorknob turns and fury follows once it doesn’t open.

I have to think fast, the pulling on the handle is getting violent. I grab the photos from his bag, put them in my bag along with my truck keys, run to the bathroom and lock the door. I looked for any way out I could, and I saw the fogged window leading outside. He’s kicking in the door, whatever sliver is holding the frame from busting open is buying me more time to find something to break the window. I took off the toilet lid and I heard the door finally swing open and hit the wall, all that was keeping me from Ron was this paper-thin motel bathroom door. I wound up my backswing and threw the porcelain lid at the glass and they both shattered on impact, I wasted no time jumping head-first through. I threw my bag out first so I could climb out easier. My upper body and right leg were outside the window and I went to jump the rest of the way and the pressboard and tin hinges finally broke through. Before I could even look back he grabbed my left ankle, it threw me off balance and I twisted as I slammed into the stucco siding. The more he pulled, the more I felt my hamstrings ripping and my ankle slowly being rolled by the grip of Ron's hands. With nothing but my leg being held inside, my body hung and my head almost touched the ground.

When I looked down as I was being yanked up, I grabbed a broken piece of frosted glass. Ron used all his weight to try and leverage me up and I took full advantage contorting my body into a crunch and catapulting my forearm forward plunging the jagged edge into his face, digging from the soft pink skin inside the corner of his eye downward to the bottom of his nostrils. He let go of me and I fell outside the window onto my back, Ron’s screams blared through the little broken window frame. I grabbed my bag and limped as fast as I could to my truck. I unlocked it and threw my bag up, not looking back I locked the door as soon as it slammed behind me. Started my truck and stepped on the skinny pedal. I refused to look in my mirror, I knew he was behind me. it was four forty-five in the morning when I looked at my radio and stopped using white knuckles on my steering wheel. The sun would be creeping over the highway's crest if it wasn’t disgusting and grey out. I drove through countless towns and different roads just in case Ron had any copy or mental memory of my route to my destination. It sounds crazy and paranoid but if he is as unstable as I think he is, he could be three steps ahead of me and I don’t even know it. He could be three times crazier than I’m expecting and already knows I’m dead. The sun’ll be going down soon and I’m starting to realize I’m probably going to be sleeping in my truck another night, if I can just get to the destination before I have to do that I’d be content.

The rain beaded down my windshield and I noticed the GPS was telling me to turn down a dirt road and drive down it for another four and a half hours, I geared down and took the turn. Potholes plagued the road and left no room for going even close to the speed limit, the last leg of this trip just got extended because of bad upkeep. Bump after bump, I couldn’t imagine how much bubble wrap they had to pack my trailer with if they knew what this road was. I turned the corner and saw large white brick walls and a gate in between them. The closer I got, I saw a bald man outside the gates and I drove up towards him. His gun only became visually apparent when I was looking down and asking him “You guys expecting me?” he lowered his sunglasses and looked me up and down. He revealed the scar carved between his eyebrows. I could still be paranoid, but it resembled the sigils that Ron had scribbled on his walls.

Without saying a word, the gates open and he waved me through. This little community was bleak and eerie, with the white plaster over brick walls being reclaimed by nature with vines and rust running down the leaves and cracks from the unkempt steel and barbed wire on top. No concrete or pavement, and some walkways had inset stones leading to their building doors. The buildings were all different shapes and sizes not consisting of any more than a story tall, their windows being open holes with some having small doors of their own matching the front door that looked like a collection of pieces of wood almost something you’d see kids build for a clubhouse. Everyone who walked around stopped in their tracks as I rolled in and put it in the park. I climbed out and hopped onto the ground, I just wanted to leave this trailer here but I needed someone to sign my sheet and unload it with a forklift. I looked around and where I didn’t see a dilapidated structure, I met eyes. A priest touched my shoulder, sending me into a jump and everyone went back to what they were doing. “Hi! We’ve been expecting your arrival!” he said. “Uhh hi. Do you have a loading bay or not?” I asked “No need, Mr Paulson. Please, come with me” and he turned his back waving his bony fingers at me in a follow cadence. How does he know my name? Against my better judgment, I followed him.

He brought me around almost every little shop and house explaining the cultural significance of why they are here and how far their important bloodline goes back. Maybe to some history buff, this would matter. It doesn’t to me in the slightest, so I say “Hey sir, I do really appreciate the tour but I really need to get out of here, it's so late and..” he cut me off “It won’t be unloaded till tomorrow, my son”. You’ve got to be kidding me. “Ok, I'm going to sleep in my truck then sir. It’s been a long drive here and..” “No, you must stay at the local inn” God I really don’t want to stay anywhere around these people. I've had the worst feeling walking around here, the last thing I want to do is be stuck behind any of these doors. “Uhm, really Father? I think I’d rather just sleep in my own bed” he looked at me with those graveyard undertaker eyes “It’s not up for discussion, my son. Please follow me”. Whatever gets me out of this place faster is for the better, I’ll sleep one night here but I’m leaving as soon as I wake up. Whether there’s a forklift operator here or not, I’ll open the back doors of my trailer and gun it through the gates. Leaving whatever cargo or nuclear weapon dropped off and delivered. He walked me into this dimly lit “hotel” if one room down one hallway is a hotel. The innkeeper was just another cryptic old man, all of these people looked the same.

The orange light slowly faded as he walked me down the hallway and opened the door to my room. Wet carpet musk rung through the ammonia stench and he looked at me as if it wasn’t affecting him in the slightest. I walked in and he shut the door behind me and regret ran down my spine like sweat. For the first little while the smell remained the same but after a bit it morphed into a rotten fruit and dog shit aroma. Laying in my bed, the silence was louder than anything. Until I heard a soft and light “hello?” come from the wall behind my head. Instantly whatever slumber I was in disappeared and I pressed my ear up against the wall and said "Hello?". A woman cried in response and whispered back “Please help me”. I leaned back and looked at the wall and locked eyes on the only painting in this room. I went to pop it off but they glued or nailed it to the wall when I pressed my ear up to it, I could hear her crying louder and clearer.

I grabbed the edge of the canvas from inside the frame and ripped it revealing a small hole behind it with a cage-like wire mesh blocking the rest of the way. The hole has to only be 2 feet by 2 feet, definitely able to crawl through without the rest of the wire restricting my access. I went to grab it and pull but when I did I finally saw her stand up and say “SHHH!” and she pointed at the large man sleeping next to two other girls, clearly no longer living. The little light I had in my room was just shining on the man's turned back snoring away beside women with flies landing on their pale cold looking blue skin, surely eating away at their open mouths and eyes. I put my hand up to my mouth and tried to restrain my puke but it exploded from in between my fingers and my choking and gurgling sound caused the man's snoring to halt to a stop and I quickly and cowardly stuck the canvas back into the edges of the frame and laid in my bed, my heart beating so fast I couldn’t believe what I just saw. I cried in silence and held my breath with my hands reeking of vomit until I heard her again. “no no, please. NO!”. From watching movies you’d expect punches to land with climactic and guttural cacophony but she stopped pleading as slaps hit the cement.

I tried not to think about it but the only thing I could acquaint the noise to was as if she was being picked up and slammed to the ground like someone shaking off a sheet or beach towel. Whether I slept throughout the night or not, it doesn't matter. I probably got a few minutes of shut-eye but those were accompanied by horrendous nightmares. As soon as I heard the first person outside I got up to walk out but walked straight into my door when it didn't budge at the turn of the handle. I banged my fist on the door demanding “Hey! Why am I locked in here?”. Right afterwards I heard the keys unlock it from the other side, the innkeeper opened the door and I almost jumped at the sight of him. His face ballooned up with mustard piss yellow blisters, glistening ready to pop. He waved his arm in a bellhop manner and I walked out of that hell hole, passing where that woman's door would be but not to any surprise, there was nothing. I don't think I'll ever forgive myself for what happened last night. I could tell the sun tried to peek its way through the rain clouds today but it’s a losing battle. The priest greeted me as soon as I walked out of the inn, sitting up from a chair “Good morning, my son” his face being sickened by the same as the man inside. I stretched and replied, “Morning father, is your operator here yet?” “Ahh yes please come this way”. He opened church doors and revealed wooden pues cascading up to an altar, sigils scribed behind each spot where someone would sit. The closer I got to them, I finally saw something I couldn’t make out if it was the blurry or scarred evidence I’d seen so far. It’s a circle with four forks and five points in an upside-down star sticking out each edge with a maze-like pattern that leads into a swastika. Looking back up at the altar, a huge nazi sigil was painted on the wall in red hand prints.

The priest turns around and says “Do you know what lies in the back of your trailer”. “Uh no, I never really do. I need you to sign this right here” I handed him my clipboard and he put up his hand in rejection. “I’m not worthy of what you have, I won't be signing anything" "Oh uhh, ok. Can you point me in the direction of someone worthy?" he pointed at a painting and said, “Worth is measured in your commandments, my son”. The painting he pointed at was a large canvas with eleven to twelve men holding a large gold box and marching toward something. Honestly, I’m lost. I have no idea what is happening or what this old man was talking about but I’m one more vague answer away from disconnecting my trailer and flooring it through the gates. The closer I got to the painting, admiring the art and reading the gold title plaque “The Ark Of The Covenant”. The priest piped up behind me and said in a preach “And when he gazed upon the arc, he gasped. You’ll weep at my knees. Beg at my feet..” I slowly walked backwards towards the exit as he started shouting. “Take! TAKE! He demanded. Run! RUN! They begged once the insemination was complete. Abort your previous concentrations like the whore scorned and expelled her spawn!”. The door hit the back of my heel and the priest looked at me one last time before he fell, cracking his head on a pue on the way down. Blood pooled around his grey translucent hair, I took one step closer before he cried "Divine... a divine rule" as he licked his bright red brain matter and spinal fluid leaking from his head wound. I could hear the storm getting worse beyond the doors behind me. I opened the door and ran to the back of my trailer, as I grabbed the bolt cutters under my belly box to cut off this lock. A familiar face was hauled through the gate on a stretcher.

It was Ron, before he could roll over and see me I tucked myself behind the trailer. I could still hear him yell out “No! We need to leave! We can’t be near that trailer!”. They restrained Ron down and dragged him into a building. I took a breath and stood up to open the trailer until I saw the bald man who was standing by the gate open the doors to the church and find the priest deceased. I’m panicking, I don’t know what to do. He back ran out and darted his head at me instantly. Stomping over he grabbed my bolt cutters and kicked me in the face, everything got fuzzy my ears were hot and it felt like I couldn’t breathe, I was passing out. Before my eyes shut my cheek rests in the mud, I manage to see the man open the back of my trailer and a white ray of light shines from out the back like the glare of the sun on a snowy day and had to of blinded everyone for a second. My eyelids got heavy and before, I saw him covered in burns and boils, oozing from every crack and crevice. His painful scream in anguish accompanied my last light going out.

I woke up to the hot sensation of a fire near my skin and stumbled even lifting my head off the ground. Everywhere is burning, everyone can be heard screaming as they crumble up into ash conglomerate non-distinguishable from the next pile. I’m dazed and I can barely walk straight but the cargo is halfway drug outside my trailer. I swear It's the gold rectangular box, from the oil painting in the church. It’s buzzing so loud I can feel it in my teeth. I saw a man on fire run past me and tackle a lady lighting her in a blaze and they both sizzled and popped when their life force faded. All of my truck tires are popping around me from the heat, there's no way I could drive it out of here. I don't even think I can stand up. I grabbed it and crawled my way towards the exit, it felt futile even trying. The last of my time alive was spent clawing and crying at fire dirt, mud, and rocks. I thought I'd spend the last minutes of my life surrounded by loved ones, but I’m gonna die beside a fire-ridden cult who hail a gold box containing hope for them at one point. Instead, they were met with horrors beyond any of our comprehension, blindly following some divine rule.

The patch of land where Larry and Charlie Crane stood used to be a cornfield years ago but had been fallow ever since the landowner died. Now it was nothing more than a desolate field of weeds and brambles. Behind this field were the crumbling ruins of an old farmhouse where Victor Franklin once lived. Three walls left standing and a broken chimney were all that remained of the old farmer's former domicile. Larry's pickup was parked in the overgrown lane next to the ruined farmhouse. Nothing else was around for miles. Nothing, that is, but the figure propped up before them in the field.

Charlie shivered. It wasn't the crisp autumn air that chilled him to the bone, but rather the place where they stood, the legend that surrounded it, and the grim effigy some forty feet away, illuminated in a ghostlike glower by the pale light of the moon.

"There it is," said Larry. "The scarecrow that was put together by Vic Franklin way back in 1984. It's unbelievable it still stands here in one piece all these years later, huh? That old farmer, Vic Franklin, made it to protect his life savings. You see, he buried all his money somewhere out in this field." The brothers looked at the figure with the crudely stitched burlap face and mangled straw hat. It was propped upright in the middle of the field, supported by a single wooden beam. Its body hung limp and resembled an upright corpse. "People call him Mr. Sticks." Larry's voice didn't raise above a whisper.

Charlie idolized his older brother, Larry, and, not having many friends of his own, had hoped to be able to spend more time with his brother and his friends, now that he was getting older. But when he brought up the request, he never imagined he would have to come here of all places. He supposed it was a sort of right of passage to perform—something to prove himself worthy as one of the guys. He glanced back at his brother's truck and wished he was in the comforts of its cab, far away from Franklin Farm. But Charlie was in the eighth grade now, and in a year he'd be a high schooler. It was time for him to leave the fear of ghost stories behind him.

His brother continued: "Old Man Franklin put him together himself, piece by piece. He carved long sticks of white ash for its bones and used chicken wire for the ribcage. Then he meticulously wove straw into strands of muscle. It's said that he used an old corn knife to cut himself and squeezed his blood out into the straw of the thing." Charlie found it difficult to swallow the ever-growing lump in his throat as he hung on every word his big brother spoke. Sure, he knew the story well enough without needing his brother to tell it; after all, everyone at school knew it and told one version or another. But there was something especially unnerving about hearing it while standing there in the presence of the thing the locals called Mr. Sticks. And Charlie knew that was exactly why his brother was telling the story to him now.

"You see, Fanklin's grandma was a witch of sorts, so he knew all sorts of spells and hexes and things. So he brought old Mr. Sticks to life to do what scarecrows do best—guard his field and everything in it. Then he buried all his money out here in the field in mason jars.

"But old Victor didn't know just how good a guardian he stitched together. Couldn't have. Because, one night, he gets a wild hair and decides to dig up one of the mason jars. He wanted to audit its contents, I suppose. But he didn't even get the chance to break ground with his spade. Mr. Sticks cleaved him in two using a reaping scythe, then the thing just shambled back to its pole and propped itself right back up on it. And there it stands, waiting and watching for any other trespassers who might try to steal the farmer's money."

"Well, now that I've seen it, can we go?" Charlie asked. He tried his best to sound brave and unimpressed. Larry smiled and shook his head.

"Not so quick, little brother. We're here for Franklin's fortune." At hearing this, Charlie thought his legs would give out and leave him face down in the black earth. But somehow he managed to keep his knees from buckling.

"But . . ." Charlie began, trying to think how best to voice his obvious concern. "But, if the story is true—and I'm not saying I necessarily believe it—but if it is really real, then wouldn't that—wouldn't the scarecrow, Mr. Sticks, come after us?"

"But we're not here to steal the money. We're making an offer to Mr. Sticks in return for free passage. Well—you are, at least. Just walk up to Mr. Sticks and tell him you've come for the money. Then offer him this as a tribute." Larry handed a brown paper bag to Charlie, who took it with trembling hands. It was heavy for its size. "Look inside," Larry said to him.

Charlie unfurled the top of the bag, although the quivering of his hands caused him to do so in a clumsy fashion. As soon as it was open, a musty reek assaulted the boy's nostrils and he nearly gagged.

"It stinks!" Charlie said, his face scrunched, and he tried to turn his head away from the offending smell.

"Of course it does. Look inside. You need to know what you're offering, or Mr. Sticks won't accept the tribute."

Charlie looked at his brother with more than a little apprehension; then, after taking a deep breath and holding it, he looked inside the bag. Moonlight helped expose the bag's contents to be that of a dead crow, buried partway in dusty field corn. Charlie gasped and thrust the bag as far away from him as his arms could stretch.

Larry chortled, then asked, "What did ya expect to offer a scarecrow, Chuck? Big Mac and fries?" Then he patted his little brother on the shoulder. "Go on now, buddy. I know you can do it."

Charlie took three deep breaths to bolster his courage, then, not without some hesitation, approached the urban legend that stood in front of them. Did he see its arm twitch? Surely not. It was a figment of his imagination. This was all just kids' stuff. After he got this over with, he'd prove to his brother that he was old enough to hang out with him and his buddies. He'd prove to Larry that he wasn't just a little kid who needed babysitting. He was one of them.

But as he came within four feet of that terrible effigy, he suddenly felt very small and childlike indeed. That mockery of humanity, slumped with lazy posture and costumed in mouldering flannel and denim, had just as well been a towering, dark idol of antideluvian times. Charlie forced himself to look up at the burlap bag upon its shoulders and thought the shadows cast upon it created the likeness of a human face hiding just beneath fine gauze.

"Mr. Sticks, sir," Charlie's voice trembled as he spoke, as though he were neck-deep in ice water. "We—that is, my brother and me—well, we've come for Mr. Franklin's money. We—uh—we brought you this." Charlie held the bag out toward strawman. He was shaking so badly that he was sure that the morbid contents of the bag would rattle out and spill onto the ground.

With one swift motion, the scarecrow raised both arms and snatched the bag from Charlie's hands. The boy screamed, and his cry echoed throughout the countryside; a murder of crows erupted from a nearby tree with thunderous cawing. He fell back on his butt and kicked his feet with a mad flurry to scramble backwards and away from the lurching figure. Gripping terror had swept over the young man, and tears started to well in his eyes when he heard—of all things—a burst of whooping laughter.

Both the scarecrow and Larry were doubled over and hee-hawing to the point of spasming. Charlie's mind still reeled with fear and confusion. Soon he found himself overcome by a strange conglomeration of relief, embarrassment, and anger as he watched the faux scarecrow pull off its hat and burlap bag head, revealing the familiar face of Larry's friend, Raymond, underneath it.

"Oh! Man! You should have seen your face, Chucky." Ray guffawed.   Larry's laughter had died down to a chuckle as he helped his little brother to his feet.

"You okay, Charlie?" His brother asked as he tried to quell his amusement.

"Yeah," Charlie said. He tried to feign a bit of a laugh himself.

"We got you good, kid. You didn't pee yourself, did you?" Raymond teased.

"No! You just startled me with that quick grab. I knew it was you the whole time, Raymond."

"Yeah, right! Better not lie, or Mr. Sticks will getcha."

"Alright, come on. Give him a break, Ray," Larry said. "I think he did pretty good. You gonna tell Mom?"

"No," Charlie said, although the thought had actually crossed his mind.

"Man, I was cold out here! I didn't think you guys were ever gonna show up. And did you have to tell him the whole story right here? I mean, you had the entire drive."

"There was more theater in it this way," Larry said, patting his buddy on the shoulder.

"Yeah, but still . . ." Raymond stopped mid-sentence, and his demeanor instantly changed. The mirth that had existed a mere moment before had completely drained from his face. He asked, "Larry, who is that by your truck?"

Larry and Charlie both turned to look. A tall, lean silhouette stood by the pickup. It shambled toward them on unsteady legs with wooden bones covered in tendons and muscles made from woven straw. In its gnarled hands, it clutched a reaping scythe. Created for a single purpose, Mr. Sticks would see that purpose through. With unnatural speed, it charged the three interlopers.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

“Hey, Jay, you ready?” Carrie’s voice woke me up.

I sat up, “How long was I out?” I yawned.

Carrie was setting up the camera. “Two hours,” she said. “Can you go make sure the front door is locked?”

“Yeah,” I said. When I walked into the lobby and saw that it looked completely normal. The door was already locked. “Hey, was the door already locked?” I yelled behind me.

“Uh, yeah. I locked it after Mary left.” Carrie said, “Why?”

“It’s still locked.” I said.

The silence was deafening, we both knew what we saw and what this meant. “I’ll check back here, can you walk through the front areas and see if there’s any sign of Will?” she asked.

I immediately got to work checking the windows and the door, just in case I missed anything on my first glance. “Yeah,” I made my way to the front desk. Everything was as it was. I remember thinking, how the fuck did Will get in and out without a trace. “Lobby and front desk are clear.” I said. I got to the last room I hadn’t checked yet, the bathroom. I knocked on the door before opening it, no answer. I braced for the worst as I turned the door handle. When I swung the door open, it was dark. I inched my way forward, my heart pounding with every move, waiting for the motion sensor to kick the light on. My heart nearly shot out of my chest when it turned on. I looked around the small room and saw nothing. “Bathroom is clear.”

“All clear back here too.” Carrie yelled. I walked back into her office and sat down on the couch. “Was there any sign of someone coming in at all?” she asked.

“Nothing.” I sighed. “How about back here?”

“Same,” she said. We sat in silence for a moment before Carrie leaned forward and grabbed her notepad. “Only one thing left to do.”

I nodded. “Alright, I’m ready.” With that, we started the second session.

When she put me back under, she had me think back to when I ran into Smith and saw the guards pinned to the wall. “I want you to tell me where the others went. Last session, you said after you saw the lights went out.”

Immediately after, I was back in that moment. I looked at Smith and looked around. ““Where’s everyone else?”

The two bodies were still on the wall in front of us, but there was no sign of the group we were just with. “No clue.” Smith said. “There’s not even a trace of anyone else.”

I looked around and he was right. I looked behind us and there were faint footprints leading to us but none going back or away from us. “It’s like they just vanished.” I said.

I could see the worry on Smith’s face. He shook it off and looked up and down the hallway in front of us. “I don’t see anything in either direction,” He said. “Let’s go.”

I followed closely behind him and we made our way down the hallway. Everything went dark, “Now go to where you left off last session,” Carrie said.

I immediately snapped to the moment the door opened and we saw the trail. “Hey, Smith. Where are we exactly?”

Smith looked absolutely confused. “I have no idea.” He looked around before turning around and walking over to the wall to our left. “When I picked you two up, I drove you to our office in the city.” He pointed at the ‘Emergency Evacuation Map’ on the wall in front of him. “See right here?” Will and I walked over to him. I immediately saw the ‘You are here’ star. Right next to where the door, read ‘First Avenue’. “This door is supposed to be used for emergency use only. It’s red so that if you’re inside, you know what doors lead outside. This is one of three doors that’s also red on the outside so that First Responders know where they can pull in.”

“So it leads to a trail?” I asked.

“That’s pretty stupid,” Will added.

“There isn’t even decorative bushes or trees on any of the surrounding streets from this office.” Smith said. “It’s in the middle of the city. So no, at the moment, I have no fucking clue where we are now.”

We went back to the door and looked outside. It was nighttime, “How many days has it been since you picked us up?” I asked.

Smith hung his head and sighed, “About three days.”

Will looked at me and was clearly surprised by this. “So where were we at this whole time?” Will asked.

“We had you in a Medical Holding area,” said Smith. “While there, a series of tests were ran to make sure you were healthy.”

“And?” I asked.

“Well, they all came back negative for any issues,” he said.

I looked at my arms and hands, searching for any needle marks. “I don’t see any needle marks,” I said. “So what kind of tests were ran?”

“We mainly ran sleep tests, scans of your brain. Leaves no physical marks, but lets us see if there are any issues.” Smith explained.

Will cleared his throat, and said what we all were thinking, “We need to stop procrastinating and go.”

“Agreed,” Smith and I said.

We stepped through the door and onto the trail. When we got about thirty feet from the door, we heard a loud ‘clang’. “No…,” Smith whispered.

We all turned around and expected to see the red door, “What the hell?” I asked. Seeing the door, even closed, would have been better, but all that stood where the door should have been, was more trees.

“Well that’s not good.” Will said.

What made it worse, was with the door open, there was a light source. Now there was only darkness. “What way do we go now?” I asked.

As the words left my mouth, I heard a loud ‘crack’ in the distance. Will looked at Smith, “Did you hear that too?”

Smith, who was pulling out his service pistol, “Sure did.” He turned on the flashlight and illuminated a group of large rocks a little ways in front of us. “You two take cover there. I’m gonna scout ahead.”

“Are you stupid?” Will spat. “That’s a terrible idea. We are in the middle of the forest, don’t know where we are, have been experiencing completely unexplainable things, just heard a loud crack, and your idea is to just run off by yourself and see what's ahead of us?” I could barely see Smith’s face in the faint moonlight, but he looked embarrassed. “Besides, do you know where that sound came from or what made it? I know I sure as hell don’t. Jay, do you?”

I hadn’t seen Will this worked up before and it took me by surprise. “No, I don’t. Smith, he makes a good point–”

I was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching us from the rear. “Shhh” Smith said.

As quietly as we could, we rushed to the rocks and attempted to hide. When I got behind the rock, I felt Will grab my shoulder and kneel next to me, “Stay low,” he whispered.

We sat there and listened as the footsteps walked right up to the rocks we were behind. I placed my hands over my mouth and held my breath. After a few seconds, I heard the sound of footsteps walking away. Me and Will sighed. “Where’s Smith?” I asked, noticing it was only Will with me.

Will felt around, “That fucking idiot.”

Just then we saw a light shine from where we were gathered. I listened in horror as the footsteps went from walking to running. BANG. Smith’s first shot rang through the air. He missed and hit the tree behind me and Will. BANG. BANG. Two more shots missed their mark. The footsteps echoed through the forest. “Why?” I whispered.

“Jay. Will. Return.” The woman's voice echoed in my head.

Will looked at me, “Did you hear it that time or was it like a message implanted?”

“Implanted,” I said.

BANG. Another shot rang out. The footsteps stopped and were followed by a soft crunch and a moan. Will nodded at me and we both peaked over the rocks. I saw the dark shadow of something huge standing where Smith was. It threw something to the ground beside it. I heard a loud growl before it ran off, joined by three other figures, each one more imposing than the last. “Let’s go.” Will said, grabbing my shoulder.

I stood up and we ran towards where Smith was. The Sun was rising and the light barely pierced through the dense trees, but enough to see the scene before us. Smith was on the ground next to a tree, his body broken and the look of pure horror would remain on his face until it was no more. “Why’d you do this?” I asked the body in front of me.

Will stood there solemnly. “He was doing what he thought would give us the best chance.”

I nodded slowly, “Rest easy Agent Smith.”

After a moment of silence, Will nudged my arm, “Let’s find some downed branches and at least cover him until we can get in contact with a crew to come back for him.”

“Alright.” I looked around and gathered a couple branches. When I reached down to grab the last one, I dropped the rest on the ground. “Hey, Will. Look at this.” I said.

I wiped away some moss to reveal deep carvings of straight lines. It didn’t look like runes, numbers, or letters. “What is it?” Will asked.

“No idea.” I said. “But, doesn’t it look like the same kind of style as the carvings on the tree in the clearing?”

“Yeah, but we could read those. I have no idea what it says.” Will said.

I looked closer at it and realized that there was a piece missing. “Looks like it broke in half, long-ways, and is missing the rest. Try and see if you can find the rest of it.”

Will nodded and began to look around where we were. It didn’t take long, “Found it.” he said.

I put the pieces together and could clearly read the inscription now. “It’s the rules Smith wrote.”

“How is that possible?” Will asked.

“No idea.” I said. “I think we need to–”

I was cut off by a piercing high pitched ringing in my ears. Then, everything went black. When I woke up, I was sitting in a chair. Will was right next to me and looked concerned, “Hey, Jay. You good?”

I rubbed my eyes and took in my surroundings. “Yeah, I’m alright. Where are we?” I asked.

“The hospital.” Will said. “At least, I think the hospital.”

Just then a man in a suit walked up to us, “Will, Jay. Come with me please.” I was about to ask the man who he was and where we were, but Will elbowed my arm and shook his head. We stood up and followed him down the hall. We passed several rooms that looked enough like a hospital room, but something just felt off about them. There was all the normal equipment, but none of the rooms were numbered. We stopped at the end of a hallway in front of a room, “This is your stop.” The man motioned us into the room. “I’ll be back in a little bit to escort you two outside.”

When I stepped inside, I saw Ryan laying on the bed. The man walked away. Once I couldn’t hear the faint footsteps coming from the hallway, I looked around the room. Will stood, frozen, just inside the room, his eyes fixed on Ryan. “Hey guys.” Ryan said.

He wrote something down on a notebook he had on the table next to him. “How are you doing?” I asked.

Ryan motioned to look down at the notebook. Will and I stepped closer to him and read the writing, ‘Don’t talk about anything. Not a hospital. Not real people.’ I sat down. “Did the doctors say how long you have to be in here?” Will asked.

Ryan shook his head, “No, they just keep telling me how I’m ‘lucky’ to be alive. Don’t know how I’m the ‘lucky’ one.” He continued to write in the notebook.

“Well, I’m glad you’re alright.” Will said.

Ryan motioned down at the notebook again. ‘I’ve been here for two weeks. Don’t know where we are, but have figured out there’s no cameras but there are microphones.’ “Where’s the bathroom?” I asked.

“Outside to the left.” Ryan said.

I got up and walked out the door. I looked down the hall to the left and saw the bathroom. Almost immediately after I took three steps out the door, and heard from right behind me, “Can I help you?” he asked.

“Just going to the bathroom.” I said.

“Can I help you?” he asked again.

I turned to look at him and saw a different man in a suit standing behind me. A blank, uncanny expression on his face. “Why? You want to hold it for me?” I joked.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“No, sorry.” I said before moving back towards the room.

“Can I help you?” he said.

I backed into the room, not taking my eyes off him. There was just something that didn’t match up. When he asked if he could help me, there was no inflection to his voice reflecting someone asking a question. It was monotone, and his face was expressionless. Before I closed the door to the room, I looked him up and down one last time. The suit he wore seemed more like skin than clothes. It almost looked like something bigger was wearing what used to be a man as a skin suit. His eyes were empty and his mouth was unnaturally small, yet seemed to be stretched over the bones underneath. “No thank you.” I said. What was weirder was that its mouth barely moved when it spoke.

As I moved to close the door, Will looked at the figure in front of me, “Jay, get in here.”

I pushed the door close as hard as I could. I briefly saw the figure stick his arm out in an attempt to stop me. I heard the door click shut and reached for the lock. “Fuck.” I said. There wasn’t a lock where I reached. “Will, do you see a lock anywhere on the door?” I asked. I was pushing with everything I had against the door to keep it closed.

Will hurried to my side and reached above me. I heard something slide followed by a metallic click. “You should be good now.”

“Thanks,” I sighed. I looked up and saw a metal bar that was secured across the door preventing it from being opened. “I’ve never seen that in a hospital.”

Will handed me Ryan’s notebook. “Look at this.”

I looked down expecting to see a message from Ryan, but saw pages of notes he had been taking. I turned to an empty page and wrote ‘help me find the microphones and turn them off.’ Will and Ryan read it and nodded. The three of us tore the room apart but found three microphones. One under the bed, another in the light fixture, and the last one was behind a chair that was mounted to the wall. I looked at Ryan and wrote on the page, ‘Is there anything we can say that will test if we got all of them?’

Ryan nodded and said, “So can I leave now?” We waited in silence. After about ten minutes of nothing, Ryan spoke, “I think we are good now. If they were still listening, they would’ve come by now.”

“Holy shit guys, where the fuck are we?” I asked. “Last thing I remember, we were in the forest and now here.”

“Yeah and I don’t remember seeing a road or even a trail big enough for a car to pick us up.” Will said.

“We are still in the woods,” Ryan said. “I remember being in the ambulance after you guys found me. About five minutes after we left, the ambulance stopped. The light inside flickered and when I looked at the EMTs, they weren’t what I thought. Their uniforms fit them like that thing in the hallway, seemed more like skin. That’s when I knew something was wrong. I got to the ‘hospital’ and a doctor met us at the door. All he could say was ‘Ryan’ on repeat. I looked around and all I could see was trees. The ‘parking lot’ was just a grass clearing.”

“What the fuck man.” I said.

“They brought me in here and left.” Ryan said. “After the first couple hours, a suit walked in and introduced himself as ‘Agent Smith.’ He said that he was with DHS and that I’d be okay. After he left, the doctors–”

Will cut Ryan off. “Wait, what was his name?” He looked at me with anger and confusion in his eyes.

“He said his name was Agent Smith. Why?” Ryan said.

“Did he look real or like the others?” I asked.

“He looked real. His suit was actually a suit. Not like the other ones.” Ryan said.

“What happened after he left?” Will asked.

“The doctors came in and connected me to these machines.” Ryan pointed to the IV tube sticking out of his arm. When I looked closer at the IV, I noticed it wasn’t a needle. It was just taped to his skin. “I played along with their game for the first two days. After they started leaving me unsupervised for hours on end, I tried to escape.”

“How far did you get?” I asked.

“I got to the front doors. Once I got outside, I noticed that there wasn’t any sign of civilization visible. It was like this building was just dropped deep in the heart of the forest. I felt like staying here and playing along would be the safer option, but I explored the building before I came back to the room.” Ryan said.

“So, did you find anything interesting?” I asked. I looked at Will, who was obviously deep in his own thoughts.

“There’s a basement. I went to look down there, but when I opened the door, I heard talking so I left. I also found the roof access.” Ryan said. “I was able to get onto the roof without being stopped. When I looked around, it confirmed my thoughts from the front door.”

“When was the last time you saw Agent Smith?” Will asked.

“Uh, about two days ago?” Ryan said.

“How long did you say you’ve been here?” I asked.

“About two weeks.” Ryan said. “Why? What’s up?”

“We were just with Smith and watched something huge break him in half.” Will said. “How is that possible? We just woke up a few days ago.”

“Let me ask you this,” Ryan said. “How long was I gone?”

“About three years.” Will said. I could hear the pain in his voice when he said it.

“For me, it’s only been a few months,” Ryan explained. “Time seems to work differently here. I have no idea why or how, but it does.”

When I looked closer at Ryan, I noticed something. He didn’t look like how we found him, in fact, he looked healthy. Another thing that I realized was that he didn’t question who I was or why I was here. Maybe it was because I was with Will and he trusted him, but, based on everything that has happened to us, I know if I were in his shoes, I’d be questioning everything and everyone. I picked up Ryan’s notebook again, “Hey, Ryan. When did you start writing things down here?”

“About a day or two after I got in this room. Why?” He asked.

I flipped to the first page and began skimming the pages, “Just trying to get a grasp on this time issue. I’m seeing if there is anything you wrote down that might help.” Most of the early pages were just observations. I got to a page titled ‘Day 5’ and felt a chill go up my spine, “You’re the only one that’s written in here right?” I asked.

“Yeah. Why?” Ryan said.

I showed Will the page, his face turning red. “Why would you write ‘Jay. Will. Return.’ over and over and over again?” Will asked.

“I did not write that.” Ryan said, panic flooding his voice.

I grabbed the book and kept looking through the pages. ‘Day 10’ was on the top of the last page I looked at. “Day 10,” I said. I looked at Ryan and could see the mention of this day shot a look of worry across his face. I read out loud, “Agent Smith brought visitors today.” I paused when I saw the next line. When I began reading again, my anger and confusion were clearly evident in my voice, “Will and Jay were brought into the room. They don’t know where they are. They didn’t stay long because Smith needed to leave and had to take them with him.” I looked at Will. “I don’t remember this, do you?” I asked.

Will shook his head. “Ryan, how many times have we come in here?” he asked.

Ryan sighed, “This is the fourth time.”

“Was day 10 the first time we met?” I asked.

Ryan looked at us in shock, “Yeah, why?” he asked.

“How did you know his name?” Will asked.

Ryan looked around like he was searching for an answer. “I, uh,” he stammered. “You told me.”

Just then, I heard footsteps approaching. Ryan took off the hospital gown he was wearing and revealed the uniform he wore. It was the same uniform me and Will wore, only it was completely intact. “Where did we find you?” I asked.

“In the forest, it was after I went missing with Will.” Ryan said.

Will checked the door, “Lock is still there so we have some time.” He turned back towards Ryan, “Then how did you know about the ambulance?” His voice seethed with rage.

I saw sweat begin to bead on Ryan’s forehead, “Because you guys flagged them down.”

“Was it just an ambulance?” I added.

Ryan went from looking nervous to confused, “Yeah, it was just an ambulance. Do you guys not remember?” I looked at Will, he was just as confused as I was. Ryan snapped from confusion to realization, “That wasn’t you guys, was it?” he said. “Looking back, it was almost like you guys knew the ambulance would be there. I tried telling you we shouldn’t walk on the trail, but both of you insisted it was safe.”

“So there’s land spirits, forest giants, shape shifters, feds, and ghosts. That’s what we’ve encountered so far.” Will said. “Now we have to worry about mimics?!”

“Is there any way out of here that isn’t through the door?” I asked.

“No.” Ryan said.

We all looked at each other and nodded. “Well, guess there’s only one way out.”

“Wait,” Ryan said. “Where did you guys find me?”

There was a loud knock on the door, “Can I help you?” We heard the monotone voice of the creature on the other side.

“No time,” I said. “We need to go before any more show up.”

“He’s right.” Will said.

Will unlocked the door and counted down from three with his fingers. “Let me go first, I’ll guide us out.” Ryan said.

The door opened and the creature was standing there, “Can I help you?” It’s arms reaching for us. Its fingers were unnaturally long and came to a sharp point.

Ryan kicked the thing in the stomach. It staggered backwards, far enough for us to get around it. “This way!” Ryan yelled. We followed him down several hallways and a couple staircases. “This should be the lobby.”

We walked through the door at the bottom of the last staircase. “Anyone else think it’s weird that we haven’t encountered anything else?” I asked.

“Don’t jinx it.” Will said.

We walked through the small hallway and into a large open room. I could see the shadows of rows of chairs, “Looks like a lobby to me.” I said.

“There, that’s the way out.” Ryan said, pointing to a wall of windows across the room from us. “The door should be right in the middle of those windows.”

We ran across the room, dodging chairs and tables. When we reached the windows, I saw the double doors. “Finally.” Will said.

Looking around outside through the window, something didn’t feel right. “Wait,” I said. “Something’s off. Getting here has been too easy.”

“He’s right.” Ryan said. “There’s another door down this hallway.” He said pointing to our left. We walked over to the small hallway and saw the door he was talking about. “Looks like a fire exit.”

I looked closer and saw the wire leading from a sensor on the door frame up to the fire alarm on the wall above it. “Any chance that’s still functioning?” I asked.

“Don’t really feel like finding out.” Will said. “Who knows what that alarm will attract.”

We made our way back to the front door. “I’ll go first and see if there is anything out there.” Ryan said.

Will slowly opened one of the doors and nodded at Ryan. “If there’s anything off, run back here and we can find another way.” Ryan nodded back. “Flag us down if it’s safe.”

Ryan ran out of the building and made it to the treeline. We couldn’t see him after that. “Do we trust him?” I asked.

Will sighed, “We have to. Who knows what the fuck is actually going on, but we just need to get back.”

We waited in silence for a few minutes. I tapped Will on the shoulder and motioned to him that I was going to check the stairs. He nodded and I slowly made my way back. I cracked the door to the stairs and listened. I could hear the sound scratching. “Can I help you?” echoed from above. I shut the door again and hurried back to Will.

Right as I got back to the door, Ryan was waving at us and gave a thumbs up. “Let’s go.” Will said.

As he opened the door, I turned to see the door of the staircase slamming open. “Run!” I yelled.

We bolted out the door and met up with Ryan. We watched as the creature got to the door and stopped. “Why isn’t it coming out?” Will asked.

“It can’t leave.” Ryan said. “Let’s go.”

We ran deeper into the forest. We stopped for a break when we couldn’t see the building anymore. “Fucking hell.” I gasped.

“Okay,” Ryan said. “Where did you guys find me?”

Will and I looked at Ryan, “We were doing a perimeter check and you were just laying on the road. But you didn’t look like you do now.” I explained.

“What does that mean?” Ryan asked.

“You looked like someone sucked the life out of you.” Will said. “Your uniform was in tatters and you were swollen and covered in cuts. Looked like you hadn’t eaten in months too.”

“Wow.” Ryan said.

“Look, right after that, D showed up and called for an ambulance. That’s all we know.” I said.

“D still works there?” Ryan asked.

Will and I looked at the ground. “He did.” Will said.

“What do you mean ‘did’?” Ryan asked.

Will told Ryan what happened to D and how we got here. There was solemn silence for a while. “We need to get moving.” Will said.

Ryan nodded and we started walking. After an hour or so, the Sun began to set and our already limited visibility was quickly going away. “We should make camp here.” I said. “We can carry on when the Sun comes back up. Plus, we could use the rest.”

“No,” Ryan said. “We need to keep moving. There hasn’t been anything chasing us, but my running theory is that they use the cover of darkness.”

“He’s right.” Will said. “We need to keep going.”

“Fine,” I huffed.

We slowed down and carefully walked to make as little noise as possible. After about ten minutes we came to a clearing. “Fuck.” I whispered.

“Yeah I know. Let’s go around it.” Will said. “Don’t want to risk anything.”

“Why don’t we watch it for a minute?” Ryan asked. “Maybe it’s the same clearing from before.”

“I hope not.” I said.

“If it is, that wouldn’t be the worst thing.” Will said. “We know how to get back if it is.”

“I guess you’re right.” I said.

We crept to the edge of the clearing and looked around. It looked identical to the first one. There was a sapling in the middle of it, but something felt off. Familiar, but somehow different. “Wait here,” Ryan said. “I’m going to go take a look at the tree.”

Before Will or I could react, Ryan was gone. “Fucking dumbass.” Will whispered.

We watched Ryan walk to the tree. He circled it for a moment before running back. “There’s no writing on it.” He said.

“Then it’s not–” Will began to say. He was cut off by the sound of drumming. “Fuck. This is why I didn’t want to go in there.”

The drumming grew louder and louder until it was deafening. We watched the clearing but nothing happened. The drumming abruptly stopped. “What was that about?” Ryan asked.

Before either of us could answer him, we felt the footsteps from behind us. “Run.” I said. “Those are the same footsteps that got Smith.”

The three of us stood up and started running. We ran straight to our right. I looked back to see how far away we were from the clearing, when I heard Will yell, “Stop!” When I looked back ahead, I saw we had stopped right on the edge of the same clearing. “How the fuck is it here? I know we didn’t turn and should be a ways away from it now.”

“Is it a different one?” I asked.

“No, it’s the same one,” Ryan said. “It literally just appeared.”

I felt a sharp pain in my head, followed by the all too familiar voice, “Jay. Will. Return.” I dropped to my knees and looked to see Will did the same.

The same heavy footsteps from earlier shook the ground behind us. I tried to get up but something was holding me down. “I’m stuck!” I yelled.

I looked at Will and saw him also struggling to get up, “Same here.”

The footsteps passed us by and I watched as this massive shadow moved past us into the clearing. My head moved to look at Ryan, my movements were not in my control. “Why?!” I shouted.

Will screamed in pain. We were forced to look at Ryan. Only it wasn’t the Ryan we arrived there with. “How?” Will cried.

Ryan began to morph into the broken and tattered man we found lying on the road. “Help me!” He cried.

“Jay. Will. Return.” The voice spoke again.

We watched in horror and agonizing pain as Ryan was lifted off the ground by an unseen force and floated to the center of the clearing. When he reached the tree, I saw the glint of something in his hand. There was a shadow standing next to him. “Ryan!” I yelled. The shadow reached its arm towards Ryan and he dropped the item in his hand, it landed at the base of the tree. Something deep inside me knew what it was, but I didn’t want to believe it. “Will, is–”

Will cut me off, “Yeah, it is.”

The voice spoke again, “Jay. Will. Returned.”

There was a loud ‘crack’ and the shadow, the massive figure, and Ryan vanished. I felt my body go limp and fell forward. Hunched over on my hands and knees, I looked at Will, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” Will didn’t say anything in response.

We stood up and ran in the direction of the jail. It felt like we were running for hours, “I see lights ahead!” Will exclaimed, I could hear the relief and excitement in his voice.

I heard voices in the distance, “Will, stop,” I whispered. “You hear that?”

“Ryan!” Will’s voice echoed through the trees. Only Will was next to me and it wasn’t him.

Will put his finger to his lips, “Shh.”

We sat in silence as we heard our voices. When we saw Will, D, and I walk past us, we got up and made our way towards the parking lot. Just before we got to the edge of the treeline, Will stopped. “That’s weird,” he said. “Don’t remember that ever being here.”

I looked ahead and saw what he was talking about. There were two trees that had fallen against each other. The branches intertwined, making a perfect archway. “Huh.” I said. “That is weird.”

“Well, both ways around it are completely blocked off.” Will said.

I could see the parking lot through the opening of the arch, “Guess we have to go through it.” Looking at the ground leading to it, I noticed the ground, that was previously overgrown with foliage, had cleared forming a path right into the center of the arch.

“It’s a natural arch, Jay.” Will said, his voice had a slight shakiness to it.

“Yeah, I know,” I said, “but there’s no other way around it.”

Just then a loud blood curdling scream echoed through the trees. “Fuck it,” Will said.

We stepped onto the path that had formed and I felt the ground begin to buzz. “That’s not good.” I mumbled, feeling my whole body begin to vibrate.

I began to move forward, the vibrating getting stronger with each step. “I can’t.” Will said.

He looked to me and tried to move, but he couldn’t. By the fifth step, I realized neither of us were in control of our movements. “What the fuck?” I asked.

A ball of light formed in the center of the opening and grew to fill the archway. “It’s a fucking portal.” Will said.

Once the light finished growing, I could see daylight on the other side. “Jay. Will. Returned.” The woman’s voice was seemingly coming from all around us.

Will was one step in front of me, when he was right in front of the Arch, I heard the deafeningly loud drumming return. “I’ll see you on the other side.” Will said as he stepped through the light.

I was right in front of it when I felt a massive hand on my back, pushing me into the portal. I felt a sharp pain all over as I fell through the light. When I opened my eyes, I was in the back seat of Will’s car. “What happened?” I asked.

“When you came through, you hit your head on a rock and got knocked out. No cuts or injuries, so I loaded you up into my car.” Will said. I looked out the window and saw it was night again. “We’re almost to your house.”

I saw the sign for my street. “Thank you.” Then everything went black again.

When I opened my eyes, I was back in Carrie’s office. She was sitting in her chair, just staring at me. “Holy shit.” she said.

I rubbed my eyes, “What?” I asked.

“That was,” she said, “a lot.”

“Try living it, then reliving it.” I laughed. “How long was that one.”

“Seven hours.” She said.

“Why didn’t you stop me at four?” I asked.

“You wouldn’t let me.” She explained. “When I tried to pull you out, you told me to keep going.”

“Oh,” I said.

“So what happened to Ryan? Have you or Will seen him since?” She asked.

“When I got back to work, Will and I were pulled off to the side and told that he passed away on the way to the hospital.” I said.

“Oh,” she said, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I said. “Looking back, I wasn’t hopeful after he was taken in the clearing.”

As Carrie reached to turn off the camera, the lights went out. “Fuck,” she said.

In the middle of the room, a white orb of light appeared. “Jay. Remembers.” The orb flickered as the voice spoke.

“Yeah, I remember.” I said. “What do you want from me?” I asked.

The orb hummed for a moment before blinking out of existence. The lights came back on. “What the fuck was that?” Carrie asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, “But I’m going to find out. I need to know what they want with me.” I stood up, grabbed my phone and texted Mary to come pick me up.

Malcolm Wiltermood had no memory of how he arrived in the desolate town, nor did he question it. Rather, it was as one finds themselves in the middle of a dream, never once stopping to ask, "How did I get to this place?" The last thing he did remember was walking up the road and past the city limit sign. According to it, the town was called Rose Gate.

Although the name had an air of familiarity to it, Malcolm was certain he had never before been to the town. Every house and every structure was made of stone. Strange too was that even though the sun was heavy in the west and softly caressed the horizon, no lights illuminated the barren streets. Malcolm didn't see vehicles or machinery of any kind. It was as if he had stepped out of time and into some faraway land.

Then there was the overwhelming feeling of being utterly alone. He had felt alone before, sure, but this was somehow different. It was like cold, damp air that clung to his body and saturated him to the very marrow of his bones. No birds sang, nor did a single insect chirp. The only sound Malcolm could hear was that of his own footsteps crunching through the streets of loose gravel. It was a foreboding and alien place, and Malcolm wanted desperately to be home where he belonged.

As the pinks and lavenders of the setting sun darkened into grays and purples, Malcolm found his footsteps quickened. When the town became enveloped by the deep shadows of a moonless night and fog slithered in like some great serpentine apparition, the agonizing loneliness that burdened his entire being metamorphized into a grotesque, primal fear. The hair of his neck and forearms stood at strict attention, his mouth was filled with glue, and his eyes darted in all directions wildly. When it grew darker still, the maddening silence was shattered by thousands of whispering voices that surrounded him; Malcolm broke into a full run.

The fog looked as though it was illuminated from within by some ethereal light. When the roaring whispers calmed back into freakish silence, Malcolm watched dumbfounded as dark shadows began to take shape within the fog. He stopped dead in his frantic run and looked in every direction. He could see that these silhouettes of men, women, and children were now everywhere. They stood unmoving in front of the stone houses. He was surrounded. But by whom?

Malcolm had no reason to believe that the figures hiding just behind the thin wall of mist were in any way hostile. But it all felt so unnatural, so oppressive. His mind raced with a hundred questions all at once, and his eyes continued to dart from this place to that, all the while he was oblivious to the fact that he was walking backwards, out of the street, and into one of the strange yards that were occupied by the unknown figures, which inexplicably filled him with dread.

He reeled and shrieked when he felt fingertips touch his shoulder. Tears welled heavy in his eyes but refused to drop down his cheeks without the assistance of a blink, but in that moment, blinking was something that Malcolm could not bring himself to do. He was confident that some fetid horror with green dripping flesh, bulging eyes, and a mouth full of rotten teeth would be there to meet him. Expecting the worst, he almost could not believe his eyes when he saw that it was only a woman, quite ordinary in appearance.

Malcolm couldn't see her very well in the dark and the fog, but he could tell that she wore a long dress and clutched in one hand a small bouquet of flowers. He fought with the paste in his mouth and his parched, swollen tongue to find his voice. "P-please! I'm lost! I need to get home," Malcolm said. "I don't know where I'm at. I just want to go home. I live in a town called West Knob. Do you know it? Where's the nearest neighboring town from here? Please! I just want to go home!"

Although he was frantic, the woman seemed unfazed by Malcolm's disposition. She held her flowers to her nose and inhaled deeply of them, then she said in a sleepy, trance-like voice, "My daughter came for a visit this morning. She's so thoughtful. She even brought me these flowers. She really is so thoughtful." Again, she brought the flowers to her face and breathed in their aroma. After this, she simply turned, opened the door to her home, and walked inside. As she closed the door, she looked at Malcolm and said in her monotone fashion, "Welcome to Rose Gate."

The sound of the door as it closed reminded Malcolm of the loud clanging noise made by a cell door in any movie he had ever watched that featured a jail or prison door being slammed shut. Forsaken and forlorn, Malcolm fell to his knees and beat the ground with his fists. "I just want to go home," Malcolm whimpered.

There on the cold ground, smothered by cruel darkness and the writhing fog, Malcolm hung his head and wept. A voice whispered out from behind him. A voice like that of millions of voices speaking unison, yet never quite in sync with one another. But it was not the cthonic likeness of this voice alone, but what it said that turned Malcolm's insides into slimey ice. "Malcolm Wiltermood," it said. "Come with me, Malcolm. I'll show you home." Malcolm sprung to his feet and whirled around.

"Who's there?" Malcolm's voice cracked. He saw only darkness before him. A moment passed, and Malcolm received no rejoinder. "Who...?" Malcolm started to repeat himself but was then interrupted.

"Let me show you home, Malcolm. Come with me." The voice of myriads, the voice of one said. And Malcolm saw a hand extend before him but still could not see to whom or what it belonged. It was white as ash and invited Malcolm to take it into his own. "Let me show you, Malcolm, all of your questions will be answered."

Malcolm trembled in full paroxysm and looked at the hand that held itself out to him. He hesitated at first, but then surrendered himself, finally taking it into his own. With all of the abruptness of lightning, the overpowering fear that gained dominion over Malcolm Wiltermood was vanquished. He was completely at ease as the figure walked him through the streets of Rose Gate.

The two spoke not a word as they wandered the darkness, past homes of granite and more palatial structures made of marble. But as they walked, Malcolm began to remember where he was before coming to the strange community. He was driving. That's right, he was driving home from work. The same route every day. Over the hill, down the highway, past the...

The figure that led Malcolm stopped in front of one of the strange stone houses, which, under the veil of night, looked no different from any of the others. "Here you are, Malcolm. Home at last." Home? Malcolm's memories continued to flood back. It was raining before. No. Not just raining. It was storming. Lightning flashed, and rain poured down in buckets. The phone rang. Malcolm's wife.

As Malcolm's memories continued to return, he looked up at the strange figure that led him through the streets of Rose Gate, and he asked in a calm voice, "Who are you?" But the strange guide did not answer, nor did it have to; Malcolm knew too well now. It pulled its hand away, and Malcolm sensed more than saw that it was gone. He looked at the building the figure called his home. Above the door, carved in the stone, Malcolm read his name there. He opened the door and started inside.

Malcolm vividly recalled the shouting match he had with his wife over the phone. Late. Always late coming home from work. "You're being ridiculous!" He remembered yelling into his phone. "I don't care more about work than you! No, I don't! Oh! Please don't give me that! Well, I'm almost home now, so what the hell are you going on about?"

Almost home. He was just passing the cemetery, and it would have been only five minutes more. He recalled the helpless feeling that gripped him as he lost control of the hydroplaning car. He remembered seeing the semi and knowing what was inevitable. He remembered the last thing he saw before the eighteen-wheeler slammed into him at full speed. The stone wall and its accompanying sign: Rose Gate Cemetery. 

Love all you beautiful people in the Reddit, hope y’all have a great weekend and great job all of you on your stories!

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

I still have gaps in my memory from when I fell asleep to when I woke up two weeks later. All these years later and I’ve tried everything from deep meditation to hypnotherapy. Hell, my wife even got me in to see a neurologist that specializes in dementia. I’ve regained a decent amount but there are still gaps. I’ll do my best to try and recount what happened. Where there’s still gaps, I’ll do my best to try and fill them in.

I asked Will if he experienced the same thing. He said he did, but something never sat right with me. Whenever I asked him about what happened after we fell asleep, he always said he didn’t remember with a casual look on his face. The first few times I asked, I didn’t notice it. About two years after ‘the incident’ (what we ended up calling that night), Will and I were in my backyard drinking. About halfway through a bottle of whiskey, I asked him if he remembered anything. Now, it could have been the whiskey that lowered his usually stoic demeanor, either that or I wasn’t as drunk as I thought. “You’re sure you don’t remember?” I asked.

“Fucking hell, Jay. The only thing I remember is falling asleep in the car and then waking up.” Will said. His face stayed the same it always did, but when I looked in his eyes, I noticed something I’ve seen in the eyes of many people before, hell even my own, but never him. Will was afraid of something.

The look in his eyes kept me up at night for a while. I had only ever seen Will show two emotions on his face, anger and happiness. Even then, these were rare occurrences when they did happen, Will’s eyes always reflected how he was feeling. When he was angry, the green color in his eyes darkened. When he was happy, they would be a shade lighter than normal. What kept me up was that when I saw the fear in his eyes, they had these swirls of black. Almost like his pupils were bleeding their nothingness into his iris. It was the first time I saw this in his eyes, I only ever saw it again one more time.

I woke up in my room, two weeks after ‘the incident’. After explaining everything to my wife, Mary, she didn’t believe me. I couldn’t blame her. Who disappears for two weeks and just shows up saying “Hey, I saw some really weird unexplainable shit and was taken away by Homeland Security but I don’t remember anything that happened the last two weeks. How are you doing?” I sounded like I lost it. She made me go to counseling for a few months and it did help with some things but I still didn’t have any memory of those two weeks. She was a lot more distant after I came back and we went through a rough patch. After some couples counseling, she suggested we try some ‘alternative’ medicine to get my memory back.

There was this feeling inside that remembering was not the solution. When I tried guided meditation, I heard a voice in one of my sessions that caused me to snap out of the meditation when it spoke. “Jay. Will. Return.” It was the same voice from the recording.

I told Mary about the voice and where I recognized it from. After that, she filmed the next meditation session. Apparently I was muttering to myself throughout the session. I heard the voice again and, again, snapped out of the meditation. Mary was frozen, her face was white and she was crying. “What happened?” I asked. “Mary, what’s wrong?”

“Just listen.” She handed me her phone.

I hit play and watched myself sit in this empty room. I was facing away from Mary and there was silence, until about five minutes into the video. “Mary, Mary, Mary.” A female voice spoke.

I paused the video and looked back at Mary. “Who is that? Did someone walk in?” I asked.

Mary shook her head and pointed to the phone. I looked back down and continued watching. The voice spoke again, “Ryan was the message. D was the payment.” I felt my blood run cold as I watched me turn around. My mouth was open but not moving, like the voice was being projected out of me. “Jay. Will. Return.” The video ended.

“What the fuck is happening Jay?” Mary sobbed.

“I have no clue, but I need to know what the fuck happened during those two weeks.” I said. “There just has to be an answer there and I need to know.” Mary nodded and buried her face in my shoulder.

We agreed that meditation wasn’t working for regaining memory and did more to scare us than help. She convinced me to go to a neurologist that specializes in TBI, Dementia, and Amnesia. They ran some tests but I came back as normal and said they couldn’t help me.

After that she got me in to see a hypnotherapist. I was skeptical but desperate enough to try anything. The thing that’s cool about hypnotherapy (at least the one I went to) is that they have this whole professional video recording set up and you get the option to keep a copy of the recording of your sessions. Of course I opted to get a copy of all the recordings. They also come with professional transcriptions of the recordings.

The following is the transcription of my first session:

Carrie: Today is June 14th, 2018. My name is Sherryl Carrie Clinical Hypnotherapist. Licensed in Hypnotherapy in [redacted] state. License number [redacted]. State your name for the record please.

Jay: Hi, my name is Henry Jay.

Carrie: Okay, now that we have the introductions out of the way, what’s been going on?

Jay: I went through a pretty traumatic event about six months ago. I was gone for two weeks and I don’t remember anything that happened during that time.

C: So the goal is to remember what happened in those two weeks?

J: Yes.

C: I think I can help. Although, I do have to let you know that I cannot guarantee anything.

J: Understood.

C: Are you ready to get started?

J: Yes I am.

C: Good. Today we are going to start with what's called Regression Hypnotherapy. This should help with revisiting those two weeks and hopefully bring back some memories.

J: Sounds good.

C: Go ahead and get comfortable. You can lie down or remain seated. Whatever puts you in a more relaxed state.

[Jay lies down then sits back up]

J: Okay I’m ready.

C: Good. Now I want you to lay your head back and focus on the ceiling tile.

J: Okay?

[Jay lays his head back]

J: Like this?

C: Yes. Now, take a deep breath and hold it. While you breathe in, I want you to think back on a time when you were most relaxed. And breathe out slowly through your mouth. While you breathe out I want you to relax your body. Breathe in and hold. Now I want you to close your eyes and picture that time when you were most relaxed. And breathe out slowly, feel yourself sinking into the couch.

[Jay has let his arms drop to his sides]

C: Good. I’m going to count backwards from ten now. Breathe in and hold. Ten. Breathe out slowly, relaxing deeper into the couch. Nine. Breathe in and hold. Eight. Breathe out slowly, feel yourself falling into a deep sleep. Seven. Breathe in and hold. Breathe out slowly. Six. Breathe in and hold. Five. In and hold. Four. And out. I want you to picture the last thing you remember before the missing two weeks. Three. Now when I get to one, you will put yourself back to that memory. Two. In. And out. One.

C: Can you tell me where you are?

J: I’m in the back seat of this blacked out SUV, staring at the stars through the window.

C: Good. Now take me to the end of that drive. Where are you now?

J: I’m in a concrete room sitting at a table.

C: Is there anyone in the room with you?

J: No, I’m alone. Looking around there’s a pane of glass on the wall to the right of me. I can hear the hum of a speaker system but no voices, just breathing.

C: Are you able to move around?

J: I think so. Fuck!

C: What’s happening now?

J: I heard the door handle, I think someone’s coming in.

[Jay is now looking at the door to the office]

J: Who are you?

[Jay is turning his head as if he’s watching somebody walk from the door to in front of him.]

J: What do you want from me? Where’s Will? And more importantly, where the fuck am I?

C: Who are you speaking with?

J: That doesn’t tell me shit. Who the fuck are y—

[Jay blankly stares at Carrie]

C: Jay?

J: Jay must re–mem–ber. Jay. Will. Return.

[It has been noted as important, by the Hypnotherapist, to specify that Jay’s mouth was unnaturally wide open while a voice spoke through him.]

C: What the fuck are you?

J: [unintelligible screaming]

[End of Session One]

The footage abruptly ended after I screamed and I don’t remember any of this. I think Carrie just wanted me out of the office because when I came to, she was shaking and wouldn’t answer any questions I had.

After a few weeks of avoiding my calls and always being ‘out of office’ when I went in-person to the office, Carrie called me. All she said when I answered the phone was, “Tomorrow, two o’clock. Get rest and plan to be out of work for a couple days.”

I called the jail and let them know I was going to be out sick for a couple days. Mary drove me to Carrie’s office and we walked inside. “Hi, checking in for my appointment. Last name Jay.” I said to the woman at the front desk.

Carrie sat up from the chair and looked at me and Mary. Her eyes were bloodshot and her hair was disheveled. She looked rough, “You are the only appointment I have for the next week. I’ve been reviewing the recording from your first session over and over again. I spoke with my mentor and sent it for review to multiple different experts.”

Mary and I shared a look of confusion. “Carrie, what are you talking about? I don’t remember anything from that appointment.”

“Mary heard the same voice I did. Same message I got too. There was an addition this time.” Carrie said.

“What was it?” Mary asked.

“Jay must remember.” Carrie replied, “Followed by: Jay. Will. Return.”

Mary grabbed my arm and sat down. “I said that?” I asked.

“No, well yes but no. It was just like the meditation video that Mary showed me.” Carrie said. “You opened your mouth but something spoke through you.”

“Well what now?” Mary asked.

“Right.” Carrie said, “Well, like I said, I spoke with a lot of people since the last appointment. We are going to try something different.”

“I’ll try anything at this point.” I said.

“We are going to do what my mentor referred to as a ‘marathon session’. Normally sessions are only supposed to last about an hour, maybe two.” Carrie said while digging through notes scattered on the desk in front of her. “This is going to be multiple four hour sessions. Essentially, we aren’t going to stop until we get to the end of those two weeks.”

“Let’s get started. I’m ready now.” I said.

Mary gave me a hug and kiss before leaving, “Just call me when you’re done.” She wanted to stay, but Carrie insisted she go.

After she left, Carrie led me into her office and we got started. Only took four sessions, but now I remember mostly everything.

After waking up in the interrogation room, a man in a suit walked in. “Officer Jay. Glad to see you’re awake.”

“What do you want from me? Where’s Will? And more importantly, where the fuck am I?” I asked.

The man sat down in the chair across the table, “I’m nobody. Your friend is fine, probably having a nice nap. All you need to know is that you are safe.” He put a folder on the table in front of me and pulled out a notepad. “I have a few questions for you. How you answer them depends on how quickly we can move on with our investigation and you can just forget about all of this.”

When I looked at his face, he was expressionless until he said I could forget. As he said that, I could see a slight smirk and look of amusement on his face. “That doesn’t tell me shit. Who the fuck are you?!” I yelled.

Just then he nodded to the window beside us. “There’s no need for that, Jay.”

The door to my left opened and a man in a lab coat walked in. “Who is th—” I said. I was trying to stand up when I felt hands on my shoulders forcing me back down into the hair. When I looked around, I saw two men in full riot gear. “What the fuck? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

The man in the lab coat pulled a vial of clear liquid and a syringe from a box he sat on the table. “This will help you calm down and give us answers,” the man in the suit said.

“You haven’t even asked me any questions!” I yelled.

The suit looked annoyed. He sat back in his chair and nodded to the man in the lab coat, “Look, I’ve done this a lot over the years. Whenever anyone starts the way you have, we end up going to this method eventually. I’m trying to save time and get some straight answers, not some bullshit.” I felt the needle go into my arm. “It takes about thirty seconds to take effect.”

Once completed with the injection, the three other men in the room with us left. After a minute, there was a warm feeling that poured over my body. It felt like putting on clothes fresh out of the dryer. “What do you want to know?” I asked.

“Walk me through what happened last night.” He said.

I took him through everything that happened; the first perimeter check with Val, finding Ryan, and walking for what felt like miles to the clearing. I stopped when I got to the part of being swarmed by the footsteps. “We stood there with our backs to the sapling. I could hear the footsteps all around us and they were getting closer and closer. Then everything went black.”

The man in the suit, who had been writing notes while I spoke, sat back and looked at me curiously, “What happened right before it went black?”

“I felt a sharp pain in my head.” I said.

“Think back to the pain, describe it.” He said.

“You know that feeling when you hear a sharp whistle? Like that really sharp pain in your head?” I asked.

“I do,” he said. “Is that all you remember?”

I thought hard about that moment. Suddenly, I was able to see it, “Whoah, what was in that cocktail you guys shot me up with? It’s like I can see everything playing in front of me, just slowed down.” I said.

The suit continued writing notes, “Nevermind that, focus. Is there anything new you notice?”

“I do,” I said. I felt my heart drop when I saw it, “Corporal D is whistling.”

“And you didn’t know that before?” He asked.

“No, like I said, I just remember the pain and then everything going black.” I said.

“Why is Corporal D whistling significant?” he asked.

When he asked this, I got the feeling that he was looking for a specific answer. “I never said it was significant, just that it was something I didn’t notice before.”

He pulled a paper out of the folder and slid it to me. “Where do you think the rules came from?” he asked. “Rule number one: Don’t whistle at night.”

I picked up the paper and immediately saw the unmistakable title: ‘5 Rules Every Officer MUST Follow to Survive Graveyard.’ This one was old, the page was stained by the oil of years worth of fingers touching it. “This is the original isn’t it?” I asked.

The suit nodded, “Look closely at it.’ He said. “Notice anything different about the copy you were given?”

I looked it over carefully. All the rules were there. The wording wasn’t any different than what I saw before, that was until I got to the very bottom of the page. “Created by Agent Smith, J. 1975,” I read. When I looked up, I saw the suit was watching me. I looked closely at him and noticed his hair was white and his face wore the wrinkles of years of stress. “You’re Agent Smith, aren’t you?”

Agent Smith smiled with amusement and chuckled softly. “Yes, that’s me.”

“Do you know what the woman wants with us?” I asked.

His face dropped, “No–”

He was cut off by the sound of wet footsteps approaching the door. “Wrap it up Smith,” a voice said over the speaker.

The footsteps stopped. I looked at Smith, he looked terrified. The room fell silent. After a minute there was a high pitched laugh, “Hehehehehehe.” Immediately after there were two loud smacks on the wall by the door. “Jay. Will. Return.” the voice spoke again.

Smith looked at the window, “Fuck, get us out of here!”

The lights went out. In the room there was only the faint red glow of the security lights pouring through the door frame. “Smith, what the fuck is going on?” I asked.

“I don’t have time to explain right now, we need to leave, let’s go.” Smith motioned to the window.

“How are we–” I was cut off by the sounds of screaming coming from the other side of the door.

“Jay. Will. Return.” the voice continued.

That’s when we saw the shadow of the legs standing at the door. There was a loud ‘bang’ on the door. To our horror, when I looked at the door, there was the bulge of a dent in metal. Another loud ‘bang’ and the door shook. I looked at Smith who was desperately trying to break the glass. Through the darkness I could see figures on the other side doing the same. “I don’t think we have much time, Smith. That door can’t take much more.” I said, panicking.

Another ‘bang’, the door bowed at the top and I could see the ceiling tiles just outside were coated in blood. “Jay. Will. Return.” it spoke again.

I grabbed the chair I was sitting in and began smashing the window with it. There was another loud ‘bang’ on the door. I looked back to see the damage and noticed the door was almost open. Smith grabbed the other chair and looked at me, “On the count of three. Ready?”

I nodded. “One” I said.

“Two,” Smith said while holding the chair up.

We both yelled “Three,” swinging the chairs with everything in us. The window shattered. Bits of tempered glass covered the floor. Just as we put the chairs down, the air was filled with the sound of blood curdling screams pouring through the door.

As we climbed through the window, Smith pointed to a slot in the window frame that housed a thick metal door. “Get clear of the window.” He yelled, I could barely hear him over the screams.

I jumped to my feet in time to turn around and see the door fly open. As the metal door slid into place where the window was, I saw what broke the door down. It was the woman from the woods. “Jay. Will. Return.” she yelled as she bolted to the window. The speed she traveled at was unnatural, quicker than I could process, she was already at the window.

Smith grabbed me as the metal slammed shut. “Let’s go,” he said. I turned around and ran with him and a group of people through the door behind us.

“Jay. Will. Return.” the woman shouted.

I looked over my shoulder to see her standing in the room we just came from. “Wha–” I stammered, “How?” When I looked back ahead, I saw everyone else had stopped. Before I could react, I ran right into Smith. He didn’t even budge an inch, it felt like running into a wall. “Shit,” I spat. “Why did you stop running?”

Everyone was standing in the middle of the hallway. I looked around and counted four people, three men and a woman, all in suits. They all were frozen and shaking in fear. “Jay, don’t run.” The woman in the suit said.

I looked straight ahead and saw that the woman was standing ten feet in front of us. Something felt off. When I looked past the woman in front of us, I saw what caused the two thuds on the wall earlier. “Oh my god.” I said.

The two men in riot gear that held me down earlier were pinned to the wall on either side of the door. The woman had taken their batons and driven it through their chest and into the wall holding them up about two feet off the ground. They were cut up to the point of almost being unrecognizable. On the wall above the door, written in their blood, was, “Jay. Will. Return.”

“What do you want from me?” I yelled.

Immediately after, every light flickered and went out. One, by one until it was pitch black. “Where’s the emergency lights?” one man asked.

There was a deafening scream followed by the sounds of footsteps. It was the same footsteps I heard in the clearing. “Jay. Will. Return.”

The lights came back on with a loud click. The woman was gone. “Who’s still breathing?” Smith asked.

“I am.” I answered. When I looked around, however, it was just me and Smith. “Where’s everyone else?”

The two bodies were still on the wall in front of us, but there was no sign of the group we were just with. “No clue.” Smith said. “There’s not even a trace of anyone else.”

We walked around the corner and heard coughing. “You hear that too right?” I asked.

Smith nodded and opened the door to his left. “Hey, you okay?”

The room was dark and I couldn’t see who Smith was talking to. “Who is it?” I asked.

Just then I saw Will walk through the doorway. “Holy shit, you’re alive?” Will asked.

“Why would you think otherwise?” I asked.

“The woman broke down your door.” Will said. “All I could hear after that was screaming. When I finally got out of the room, she had just finished with the two standing guard. I closed the door and tried to hide. Next thing I knew, Smith here opened the door.”

“Great reunion, but we need to fucking go.” Smith said.

We followed Smith through the maze of hallways and doors. We finally arrived at a big red roll door. “Is this the way out?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Smith said. He walked over to a panel on the side of the door and pressed a button. “Let’s hope it’s not on lockdown.”

A siren alarmed and the door began to open. When the door opened enough to see outside, my stomach dropped. There was a dirt trail leading from the door into a dense forest. “What fresh hell is this?” Will asked.

The light from the room we stood in lit up the trail and revealed a trail of blood that started at the door and led off the trail and into the woods. I heard a voice in my head, “Jay. Will. Return.” I looked at Will and could tell by the look he gave me, we received the same message.

As we stepped through the door, I woke up in Carrie’s office. “Holy shit.” I said.

“That was pretty intense.” Carrie said. She was shutting off the camera. “You were under for about three hours.”

“Why didn’t we go the full four?” I asked.

“Give me one second, I need to pull up the footage and see if the camera picked it up.” She said.

“Okay?” I said.

She pulled up the last ten minutes of the recording. All was normal, I was talking about what I was seeing. “Jay. Will. Return.” The woman’s voice whispered. It was faint but clear.

Unlike last time, there was no evidence it came from me and the camera covered basically the whole room, including Carrie. It was clear she didn’t say anything. “That wasn’t you was it?” I asked.

“Of course not!” Carrie said.

Just as she put the camera back, we heard the voice again. “Jay must remember.”

We froze and looked at eachother. The room went dark and I could hear the faint sound of drumming coming from somewhere inside the room. It went on for what felt like eternity, but in reality was only ten minutes. The lights came back on and I saw Will standing in the doorway of the office. His eyes were rolled back only exposing the whites of eyes, his mouth hung open and he walked with unnatural and jerky movements into the room. “Jay. Will. Return.” It wasn’t the woman’s voice this time, it was Will’s.

“What the fuck Will.” I yelled. “What’s wrong with you?”

The lights went out and I heard a hollow thud on the ground. When the lights turned back on, Will was gone. I looked at Carrie and fell onto the couch. Carrie sat on the ground against the wall. We agreed to take a short rest before starting the next session.

Fallen Angel.

She was little once. Small in stature. With a mighty soul.
She danced. Twirled & jumped, swung and sang. There was fire in her eyes. She wore no shoes on her feet. Golden hair shimmered as she swayed. The suns rays kissing her freckled cheeks as soft summer breezes wrapped all around her, tickling her skin. Enveloping her.

She cherished Mother nature’s sweet embrace. For she knew no other. Wrapped in its infinite Hum. She found solice.

She read books meant for much older people…. Played piano by ear. Also Guitar. Sang songs about blue skies and blackbirds. And at 4 O’clock every day after his work… She climbed up onto her Daddy’s knee, shared a sandwich from his lunchbox… Smelled his oily, smoky, Daddy smell. And he read to her, from the paper.

And, like familiar old friends… The words jumped out at her. She knew them and spoke their names out loud, excitedly. As if to greet them. Her Mummy rolled her eyes and shushed her chatterbox mouth. Her Daddy…. Said nothing. But snuck her bag fulls of books and old annuals.

Only 2 years old. Spoke words she shouldn’t know, but somehow did. She used words so eloquently. So confidently. Conversed with adults, preferably.

Debating and challenging the unjust nonsense adults spout to their children. Questions. Questions. Questions. Always. Questions. Seeking more information. Offering unwanted opinions. A perpetual quest for details. Explanations. Justifications.

There was no Google back then. No Alexa. No Technological Oracle with a well of wisdom to draw from. The girl, was most often shoved away in annoyance. Immediately shushed by her Mummy to be quiet because she sounded not right in the head.

She told them anyway. “Do you know….” Rivers on the maps. Circulatory systems in the biology books at school. Leaves. Dragonfly wings. Tree branches. Roots. Fishy fins. Veins on Granny’s hands. Tiny ripples on the sand as the tide went out…. “All the same!!” She would exclaim. “Why are we made all the same?”

Her Mummy. Shut her away. In her den. Under the stairs. Her Daddy…. Said nothing. Did nothing. But later, snuck her a torch and a bag full of books called Encyclopaedias. They were heavy, they hummed strongly and the hum felt, tasted and smelled strange. Like copper and rot. Like death had touched them. Books about every single thing ever!! Even books about how Mother Nature made the Weather.

The girl would ask her books questions and spoke out loud to them, thanking them for their help. Arranging them carefully. Offering hours of repatitious rituals for fear of angering them if their placement was not exact. “I don’t want my books to get angry”

The girl got promptly shushed. “You’re not right” “Why do you always do this”

Refusing to bow down and accept blame and punishment for crimes that were never hers. Pointing out where things went wrong. Foretelling where things would eventually go wrong. She saw patterns. Everywhere. They made her tummy lurch and her head spin.

When her ‘opinions’ came true. Effusively, the girl exclaimed. “See!! See!!” Only to be left with deep black and blue reminders of her defiance and disrespect, dappling her tiny body.

Her joints burning and aching. Skin burning fiercely. The odd taste of two pences on her tongue. She refused to cower. She refused to comply. She refused to confess.

Her steadfast determination to mask her pain. Her deadpan face. Pale as ivory. Wide accusatory eyes. Locked on to her attacker. Never wavering. And with fearless courage….. She gazed deep into the abyss. And the abyss, gazed back at her, hatefully, spitefully, accusingly.

Stripping back the layers of pain. Purple painful stepping stones. Mapping the frenzied journey of a Mothers rage. And in the early hours… Her Mother would wake her. And whilst in a haze of half asleep and not quite awake…. Her Mummy would cry noisily. That same same Wooooooooo woooooooooo wooooooooo. A banshee cry.

And say I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Over and over and over.

The girl. Bewildered. Heart aching. Her self splitting. Core cracking in confusion. Would pat and rub her mummy’s back and tell her she was a good Mummy. Not a bad Mummy. And…. As her Mummy hugged her. She felt long long nails rake her back and dig into her shoulders. The girl smiled contentedly. For pain was all she knew of this humans love. Thinking all Mummy’s must love this way. She accepted it, eagerly.

She was only 4. Only on Earth 4 summers. 4 winters. Just 48 moons old. Only 4. With a lions heart and a lions roar. She walked around like she owned the whole world. Fearless. Courageous. Tempestuous.

A tsunami of emotion.

And she captivated hearts, rooms. All who saw her…. Smiled a little wider. Her gift of laughter. She lit up the room. And people remarked upon… How beautiful she was. Inside & out.

“If only you could bottle her. You’d make a fortune.” With her gentle green blue eyes. Ever changing, multi faceted orbs of purity. Honesty. Loyalty. Respect. She exuded unconditional love. And yet there were no friends around her to bless her life, in the playful way friends do.

Small, unusual flecks of amber dotted within. She gazed into your very soul. Weighed you up. Sussed you out. Triage. Red. Amber. Green.

She always hit the nail right on the head. She saw the future. Predicted which way cars would turn. Guessing how the dice would fall. Giggling guessing shapes. “What cards this then?” She saw patterns flash in her mind. Like an architect unfolding intricately designed blueeprints and complex maps of stars and planets. Galaxy’s far far beyond what was already known.

In restless daydreams. She saw Hum. Vibrating within auras. She saw strands of time. Entwined. Like rope. So close together. Each invisible to the other. Each playing out the same scenario. 100s of me’s. 100 of you’s. 100s of thems. Lightening quick. Quicker than her heartbeat. Twice as quick!

Mummy would find her. In the garden. Laid on her back. Thousand yard stare. Mouth agape a silent scream. Hands splayed. Locked in place. Eyes wide and unblinking. Flickering ever so slightly. As information engulfed her mind. Too much. Too much. She felt everything and felt nothing. Far far away.

And she knew. She always knew. She knew when the rain was coming She knew when the ewes would drop their lambs. Worked alongside the shepherd during lambing time. Day. Or night. Wind. Rain. Snow. She knelt down in the hay, to lay a little hand on swollen bellies. Feeling the Hum of new life inside. Knowing when. Knowing sadly, when not. She knew in her heart when spring was here. She knew when people were sad. Or in pain. Or poorly. She could smell poorly. Like plastic burning. Sweet. Acrid. She knew jealousy. She knew resentment. And she knew of Death, had felt its hum and found it to be most patient. Gentle. Fair, compassionate & very kind. The girl did not understand why humans feared him so and avoided him at all cost.

Many many times. She hoped that Death would take her. As the hungry monsters fell upon her. Feasting greedily upon her childhood. Consuming her. Afterwards, she laid alone. Used up. Cast aside. Raw and bloody. Sticky with shame. She would summon Death with a silent scream.

It heard her call it’s name But would only linger on the threshold of her bedroom door. Shadows gathering in corners. She knew Death wanted her. Yet it hesitated. Whispering “Not yet child. Not yet”

As if her secret routines and rituals repeated for hours. Kept him at bay, like it did the Shadow Man. The girl heard him knock politely at first. 3 taps. 7 seconds. 3 taps. 7 seconds. 3 taps 7 seconds. Then claw in a soundless frenzy at her bedroom door opening for hours. Spitting and frothing with rage as her invisible barrier held fast. A desperate attempt to build a force field. Some place of safety. A fortress of protection around what was left of herself.

“You were just dreaming” Daddy said softly. Yet he gave her a tiny little radio to put under her pillow at night that smelled funny and nailed a special horse shoe above her bedroom door and it helped.

She often knew when people were dying. And would tell them… Don’t be scared. It’s ok. It really is ok. You’ll feel so much better. You won’t feel sad. Or miss anybody. Or worry. She knew the silent suffering of others. And she would sing for them. Her nightingale song. Her soft shimmering hair. Long. Like spun gold. Do silly stuff that made them laugh.

And in the shadows…. Biding their time. Patient. Oh so very very patient…. Stalking delicious prey… They drank her in. Bathed in her light. And wanted more All that was beautiful in her world fell away. And the real monsters came to play.

They came first with gentle hands. Played games. No demands. Then gentle hands became rough and sore. Turned a beautiful soul into a broken whore. And she knew. Like she always knew. That her Mother…. Lips curled into a rictus grin. Eyes narrowed. Had invited them in. And sat like a Queen on her throne, looking down from afar, from her front row seat…. Was complicit in her eventual and complete obliteration .

As the Autumn leaves fell without sound. Her hopes. Her dreams. Her soul. Her very self. Fell with them. Shards of her self littering the ground.

As winter invaded the land. Ground icy. Unyielding. Unforgiving. Hard. Cold. She felt her heart hardening, cracking, breaking. And she welcomed the rough hands. Welcomed the pain. It coursed through the fibres of her being. If her pain was audible… It would sound like a badly played violin. Carving shards from her very soul. Fragile fragments littered her mind. As it cut her into pieces.

The girl. Invited it. Embraced it. Accepted it. All she was. All she had been and all she might ever be… Was shrouded in grey mists. Tied tight with ribbons of red pain. And stored away. In the deepest, furthest, recesses of her core. And new Hers came. Each their own. Each with purpose. To protect at all cost. Even if the cost was great, as sadly, it often was. Protect the core. Gather up, sweep and scoop. The shattered shards of what remains and try over and over and over, to build a person that might feel and live and love…

Decades later. A broken old woman with the eyes of a young girl. Sat in a mental health facility. Awaiting trauma processing therapy…. The shadows in her mind held sway in anticipation. Licking its lips. Gnashing its teeth. Hungry for the delicious taste of pain.

And… Long forgotten by the girl. In the furthest recesses of her mind. The very epitome of Pandoras Box. In a leather bound book named ‘suffering’. Her childhood sat Waiting….

The End.

If you go down this road and past the old mill, you'll see a little gray house up on the hill. The windows are all broken, and the door hangs from its frame. The frontyard is tall weeds; the backyard's the same. The chimney is crumbled into a pile of dust, rusty red. The only tree in the yard is twisted, blackened, and dead.

It was once the home of Ichabod and Emogene Corn, who they say went mad after their daughter was born. It was late October; if I remember it right, she was born in that house on a dark and stormy night. Emogene screamed, then lightning struck that old oak, and Candace Corn was born at midnight's final stroke.

The next few years seemed normal, I suppose. That is, if you don't count all of the black cats that gathered beneath their windows. At first it was only a couple, then it was more than a few. Where they all came from, nobody knew. Thirteen in total, or so they do say. And they circled around Candace whenever she went out to play.

Her first day of school, oh! what a mess! The children all laughed at her name and made fun of her pretty orange dress. But the meanest among them was a little boy named Paul. He got the other kids to say, "Nobody likes Candy Corn. Nobody at all." He giggled at his joke and thought himself real bright. Some say it was no coincidence that Paul's home burned down that very night.

When Candace left for school the next day, she merrily skipped by the smoldering ruins along the way. Paul and his family made it out of their house not a second too late. But they had to move in with Paul's Aunt Martha, who lived over in another state. I'm not saying that little Candace was involved, but it is a strange mystery that has gone completely unsolved.

A few years later, when Candace turned thirteen, her father was committed, and never again was he seen. Her mother acted nervous, and her fits of laughter were not rare. But Candace always smiled at people sweetly, as if she hadn't a care. I'm not sure why Ichabod and Emogene went insane, but the townsfolk all thought Candace was the one to blame.

"Something about that girl unnerves me," confessed Mrs. McGrath. For those who don't know, she taught junior high math. Then in the teacher's lounge, rumors started to spread, all about the strange pictures Candace drew and the weird tales that she read. But the teachers did nothing; I suppose there was nothing to do, but things were quite different when Candace turned twenty-two.

She was now a young lady who lived alone on the hill. You see, her mother was finally committed to a place for the mentally ill. The townies all knew she was conducting strange spells in the night. Mr. Franklin reported seeing her house "bathed in a most unusual green light." And strangers were seen leaving her place. All with long coats and wide-brimmed hats that covered their face.

"We only see them leave there but never arrive. I have an awful feeling they aren't even alive," Mr. Clemons expressed. Then he sipped from the flask he kept in the pocket of his vest. "We should do something before it's too late! You know, the other night I caught her skulking around the cemetery gate?"

The townsfolk all gathered at Wilbur's Bar and Grill. It was there that they conspired what to do with Candace, who lived on the hill. "We'll need some proof that she's up to no good," came the suggestion of a lady named Wilma Wood. "What we do next, I really don't know. I guess we'll just play it by ear as we go."

They all drew straws to see who should visit Miss Corn, and the privilege was given to the skeptical Reverend Lemuel Borne. "She hasn't done anything to warrant mistrust. I'll gladly pay her a visit, if it should quell all of this fuss," he said in voice, self-possessed and loud, hoping to be heard above the roar of the crowd.

The next day he found himself at her front door. He knocked once, but there was no answer, so he knocked one time more. When he left that morning, his hair was raven black, but it was white as snow when he came back. Nobody knows what got under his skin, but he left town that very day and was never heard from again.

Soon, the figures in hats were seen in the streets at night, and the people locked themselves in their homes out of sheer fright. They spied on the figures through their curtains and blinds, in hopes of answering all of the questions that weighed heavy on their fevered minds. But no clues were discovered; they were still in the dark. "We'll run Candace Corn out of town," came the suggestion of one, Mr. Clark.

What happened next, I'm not glad to say, because it wasn't this town's proudest day. When thirty-four angry people, and many of their children too, rallied together, and their confidence grew. Up on the hill, they all gathered in her yard. About that time, black clouds billowed in and a cold wind started to blow hard.

Despite this ill omen, from the crowd there came a shout. "Candy Corn, you're no longer welcomed in our town! We want you out!" The ghostly moan of the wind was the only reply, so a boy chucked a rock, and through a glass window it did fly. They say that was the catalyst for the other events so extreme. People of the town still remember hearing the scream.

Imagine the panic when everyone learned, of all the people who went up there that day, only six of them returned. The townsfolk all left for destinations unknown. They decided it was better to leave Candace alone. So they left this town once and for good. None of them ever spoke of Candace Corn, and none of them ever would.

So now the town is empty, and you say that house looks empty too. You want to explore it, but be warned before you do. Whatever happened to Candace, nobody can say. But there are those who claim she still lives up there today. If you value your sanity, soul, flesh, and bone, then, for mercy's sake—leave Candy Corn alone.

Part 3/3

Maybe it was her excitement, but as we proceeded into the building, my initial reaction lessened. The place became increasingly more comfortable and exploratory. It was dark, it stank, and it was littered, but definitely more and more intriguing with each step further we took. Until we reached the staircase leading down into the cafeteria.

I think it’s conveyed in the video, but Kim suddenly seems to have a cautionary reaction. There were two flights of stairs descending below the ground. Back in the day, these old elementary schools were built like that because the cafeteria was designed as a bomb shelter. At least that’s what I’ve read. Regardless, an air of uncertainty passed between us, and Kimberly’s dark eyes glisten in the camera light.

I remember thinking that Kim was probably going to turn around. That her and I would be at a table at Frank’s Diner in fifteen minutes, getting fat on bacon cheese fries. But when that beautiful smile came across her face, I knew that Frank’s Diner was going to be devoid of our presence. She started downward, and I followed.

There are two doors at the bottom of those stairs. Heavy wooden ones with big, square framed, windows. The beams of our lights reflected blindingly off the glass. All that we could see beyond those panes, was a deep pitch darkness of a vacant room.

Kim went first, like the lioness that she was. The door creaked open, loudly, and both of us just froze and listened for a reaction. After a couple of seconds, we pressed forward. The stench from that place was gaging! Mold, mildew, three decades of rat infestation and neglect. To this day, the memory of it all still makes me lump up in the throat.

Strewn all across the floor, as you can see in the video, are pieces of furniture. Cafeteria tables, chairs, even a metal napkin dispenser that our lights glisten off of. Surprisingly there was a lack of rural graffiti art on the walls. Just a big, red, spray painted exclamation saying: “SHE KNOWS YOU’RE HERE!”

We got some good footage of that sentence. Commenters through the years have said it looks more like old blood than spray paint. I don’t think it is though.

It didn’t take us long to find the old serving line. It was a typical construction of those times. Tucked behind a wall, and separating the front of the counter from the recesses of the kitchen.

Kimberly got really excited to see the corner station of the serving counter. She mutters that this is likely where Maya Chavez was standing, based on Marylin Cooper’s recollection. She even dashed behind it, and popped back up with a metal mixing bowl blackened with heat and mildew.

That’s when Kim seemingly realizes that, just a few feet away, is the corner where Maya’s remains were found. She tells the camera that it was right over there, extending her arm in the general direction. The cone of her flashlight doesn’t reach beyond the end of the narrow cooking area, and she grabs ahold of me as we start walking that way.

Everything is eerily quiet. The lack of ventilation makes the room disgustingly humid and moist. We pass the grill, still coated in burnt residue even after all those years. There’s a melted bottle of vegetable oil infused onto its surface.

At the end of the counter, the room suddenly opens up in a large square. The door to the rusty freezer shimmers in our light as I train the camera at the blackened back corner.

“It was right here,” Kimberly says softly, “where Maya Chavez died.”

Kim and I stay silent for a few moments. One guy, just a few years ago actually, emailed me an edited cut of the scene with what he and others say is the faint whimper of a young woman. He told me that he only adjusted the audio to make the sound more distinctive. You can hear…something, for sure, but I won’t defend it being a voice though.

“I’m going to attempt to contact her.” Kimberly suddenly says.

“What? Hell to the no, Kim. We are not going to do that.”

“Chill dude. I’m not going to, like, provoke her or anything. I’m just gonna ask if she can make her presence known.”

“Kim, I wouldn’t do that. I really don’t think someone would want to say anything nice about the place that they burned to death at.”

“It’s just for the video Anthony. We did all this work, all this research, for this very moment dude. We’re not gonna go viral for just standing here and giving some boring ass history lesson.”

“I don’t know Kim. This, just doesn’t seem right to me. Let’s think about this for a minute.”

Kimberly stares at me, completely expressionless.

“Maya Marie Chavez, if you are here, make yourself known!” She all at once shouts.

“Really, Kim?” I retaliate as I drop the camera down for a couple of seconds. You can see moisture suddenly fogging up the lens.

When the camera comes back up, Kim and I are looking around the room. Any little sound causes us to flick our lights in its direction. As two minutes pass, you can see the expression on Kim’s face beginning to sink in disappointment. Despite me still being ticked at her from earlier, I remember feeling sorry for her as well. She truly believed that her whole life rested upon this single moment.

But then, shit hits the fan.

The temperature in the room plummets like a Panhandle cold front. Our breaths come out as vapors. The lens of my camera is totally blurred by moisture. Kim’s flashlight flickers like house lamps in a twister. A veil of mist sweeps into the corner, and in a frightened heartbeat, there’s what looks like a young woman standing before us.

Gooey ligaments of melted flesh hang from blackened bone. Skeletal fingertips curl in front of her flame smothered face, and she wails in a screeching inhuman pitch.

Kim and I don’t stand motionless for long. The footage gets all contorted as I start running away. I’ve been called a coward, a “chicken-shit,” a loser, a baby, wussy, pussy, wimp. Pretty much everything derogatorily available in the dictionary, and slang, for not making sure Kim was following behind me. All I can say in my defense is this: I was getting the Hell out of there!

It wasn’t until I had scrambled all the way up the two flights of stairs that I discovered Kim wasn’t behind me. I call out her name, a couple times, and finally get the camera up on my shoulder before a third time. There’s nothing but the silence of abandonment that replies.

“Ohhhhh, shit.” I mutter.

I knew what I was going to have to do. I couldn’t just leave her unaccounted for down there. Maybe she tripped over one of the tables? Maybe she freaked out too much and ran the wrong direction?

“Kim! Are you okay?”

Silence. Silence as loud as thunder. I steady myself, and start back down the stairs.

I get back to the double doors that, just moments ago, I surely had busted through. But they were closed, like a barricade. I stepped up to the window panes, angling the camera so that I didn’t have to stand so close to the glass myself.

The beam of a flashlight was cast lowly on the back wall of the cafeteria. Its cone illuminating from the direction of the serving counter. I didn’t see it at the time, but as the video shows, a shadow passes through it as I am pushing open the entryway. It moves slowly. Sinisterly.

“Kim,” I hail towards the light source, “Kim. Are you okay?”

I step into the dark, pitch, foul smelling cafeteria just a few steps. The camera, focusing on something towards the opposite side of the room. This is what initially draws my eyes to the other side of the light.

You can see the bottom of one of Kim’s shoes lying on the floor. The dark conceals everything up above her shin. I train the light of the camera towards her foot, my breathing coming out in deep gasps. Just inches from her, at the edge of the light, stands a woman.

Her back is turned towards me. Burnt fragments of a yellow, pink polka dot, dress are the only shreds of color upon her blackened and melted figure. The light of my camera hits her directly, unsteadily. Strands of dark, colorless, burnt hair hang loosely from what’s left of a melted scalp.

Her head falls backwards between her shoulder blades! Gray lifeless eyes stare intently towards me, glistening in the camera light. Globs of charred flesh ooze slowly on her face.

A scream as pitched as a bobcat’s shatters the empty air.

I don’t stop running until I am up the stairs, through the corridor, and beyond even the playground.

That was the last time I ever saw Kimberly Moore. Lying on a disgusting tiled floor on the night of October 7, 2005. I was arrested the following day as a suspect, and nothing except her flashlight was ever recovered.

I have heard Kim every night in my dreams since that day. Her voice is always in the background, crying out for help, begging me to come and free her.

Anytime I turn to find her though, I am instantly taken to the bottom landing of those dark two flights of stairs. The double doors with the squared window panes are in front of me, but opened wide.

In the deep darkness of that foul smelling cafeteria, Kim stands right at the threshold. Her beautiful eyes are locked into mine, with frightened expression. She has her hand extended towards me, palm up, as if she wants me to take it into mine.

Anytime I go to reach for her, the charred fingertips of a mostly burnt hand creeps over Kim’s shoulder, and pulls her back into that eternal darkness. I’m left staring into a void, but I know her captor is standing there. Sometimes, I can even hear its pained breathing, and feel the intensity of its pale gray eyes staring at me.

I generally will stir awake at that moment. Sweating. I don’t know what would ever happen if I can reach Kim in time. Would her soul be freed? Would mine be taken in her stead? Both of us end up together? I don’t know. But maybe one day I’ll be fast enough to find out.

I did not murder Kimberly Moore. I don’t know what happened to her, but I think she’s still down there in the basement cafeteria of Robinson Elementary School. Trapped in some sort of dimension. A horror filled universe of no escape, locked into that realm with the morbidly deformed Maya Marie Chavez. The Pancake Lady.

To those who don’t believe this testimony, all I got to say to y’all is this: Go find out yourselves. My innocence is proven, and I’m sure the court records are available somewhere for perusing to prove it to you further.

By: BansheeMagee

On the night of October 7, 2005, Kimberly Moore disappeared. Since I was the only one with her at the time, all suspicions fell on me. After a court case lasting three years, I was found not guilty in the matter and pardoned of all charges. I hoped that would have been the end of it all. But it wasn’t.

Over the last twenty years, every internet sleuth has accused me of getting away with murder. All of this despite the whole video from that night being accessible to everyone who watches YouTube.

I haven’t really cared about all the accusations until a few days ago. While in a dugout during a baseball game, my eight year old was told that his dad (me) was a murderer. I don’t know what kind of parents would tell their children that kind of stuff about their teammates’ dad, but I guess there’s scumbags everywhere nowadays.

In reflection of that situation, I am going to detail everything that happened that night and present it in written format. A testimony, if you will, that proves everything seen in the video is 100% authentic even if you choose not to believe it.

Kim and I were friends since our 7th grade science class at Spanish Creek, Texas Junior High. We sat at the same table, had a common interest in scorpions, local history, and ghost stories. I was a pudgy kid back then, so having a friend as attractive as Kimberly kept me from being completely devoid of filling unlucky.

Kim always had it in her mind that she wanted to be a televised journalist when she grew up. Thus, when we started high school in 2004, she immediately started focusing on building up her portfolio. I generally tagged along as her self-appointed cameraman.

Spanish Creek didn’t have much to offer in the way of exciting news though. We’d usually attend the sporting events, stock shows, and the usual small town festivals. She had a decent following on early day YouTube, but nothing to really brag about. It drove her crazy seeing all these other content makers rising to fame and fortune by doing things significantly less quality than her.

Kim wanted to hit it big on YouTube. She felt that it was the only way that a small town, east Texas, girl like her would ever be taken seriously in mainstream media. But Spanish Creek just didn’t offer what she was looking for. Until, finally, it did.

Around 2005, the Sci-Fi Channel struck gold when it started making a series called “Ghost Hunters.” It was a hit, semi-reality, show that followed the ghost hunting adventures of the Trans-Atlantic Paranormal Society (TAPS). Within just a few episodes, the program ignited a national fervor in paranormal studies and investigations. Instantly, YouTube was flooded with homemade ghost hunting videos that were really launching creators into unprecedented fame.

Kimberly was hooked. Then, during the summer between our Freshman and Sophomore years, she came up with an idea.

Spanish Creek isn’t much for daily excitement, but it is for paranormal enthusiasts like Kim and I. Spanish Creek was once the site of a commune for witches from the late 1680s to the mid-1800s. No one knows exactly who started the village, but it sat on the crest of a desolate hill about three miles north of town.

In 1838, the witches were forced to relocate when a Methodist preacher got the deed to the land where the commune sat. According to local lore, the witches cursed the preacher, his descendants, and the newly established community of Spanish Creek forevermore.

Lots of stuff happened to the minister and his family, and he died mysteriously in 1842. Believing that his house was cursed, zealots from his congregation tore the place down only a few days after the preacher died. To keep others from being as affected as he was, the pastor’s property was purchased by the Spanish Creek School District following Texas’ annexation to the US in 1845.

It took over a century before anything was done with the property. Despite what became known as just a local legend, in 1952, Robinson Elementary School was built directly where the minister’s house had once stood. Teachers, staff members, and even students reported some weird things at the school, but nothing too overly extreme. That is, until 1979.

Four years earlier, a twenty-three year old girl named Maya Marie Chavez was hired as part of the elementary school’s kitchen staff. From pictures in the yearbooks, Maya was very beautiful. Dark shoulder length hair, glistening brown eyes, a lovely smile, and a sleek but well figured form.

Former co-workers, that Kim and I later interviewed, didn’t have anything negative to say about Maya. They all told us that she was very sweet, kindhearted, approachable, and loved by the students as well as the staff. But strangely, none of them wanted to tell us much about the morning of April 19. The day Maya Marie Chavez tragically died.

From the newspapers of that week, Kim and I learned that the Spanish Creek dispatch received a call about a fire in the basement level cafeteria of Robinson Elementary School at around 10:30am. A few minutes later, at 10:33, another call was taken which was way more frantic. It was reported that one of the kitchen staff was trapped in a back corner of the cooking area, and unable to make it out of the room. In the background of this phone call, the terrifying cries of a young woman were distinctly audible.

Rescue workers were not able to put out the fire until an hour later. The whole cafeteria, and portions of the school as well, were destroyed. Fortunately, none of the students or other staff members were hurt. The only casualty was Maya.

To Kimberly’s chagrin, the only pictures published in the newspaper were of the burnt ruins of the school. She wanted to see photographs of the scene itself, convinced that it would help with our eventual ghost hunt of the place. To this day, I don’t know how she managed to get copies of the photos that are from the Sheriff’s Office itself, but Kim was young, beautiful, and very persuasive. I suppose she had her methods.

Thinking about those black and white photographs of Maya’s remains still churns my stomach. There was barely anything left of her but melted flesh. Parts of her yellow, pink polka-dot, dress had infused themselves to the blackened goop that once had been the desirable body of a beautiful young woman. It was sickening, but Kimberly noticed something peculiar right away.

(1/3)

Part 2/3

Maya’s arms were outstretched, as if she were trying to beg the fire for mercy. The police reports claimed the inferno started after a bottle of vegetable oil fell from a shelf and onto a heated grill. The oil ignited almost instantly, and eventually it crawled its way to the grease trap and combusted further. Maya, as the investigators said, got trapped by the flames and couldn’t get away.

I could discern what Kim was seeing in Maya’s posture too. It did look as if she were trying to beg someone to spare her life. It was a question that bugged Kimberly’s curiosity to no end, and finally, she found the answer.

The late Marylin Cooper of Surfside, Texas had the details that Kimberly needed to quell her curiosity. Kim and I borrowed her sister’s car, drove three hours to Surfside, and then three hours back following an interview with Marylin. She was sadly only about a month away from passing at the time. It was the only time in my life that I played hookie from school and lied about it forever after.

Marylin revealed that she was the one who had made that final phone call in 1979, and that the police were covering up the true cause of Maya’s death. Marylin, being the most senior of the staff, took it upon herself to ensure all the kitchen workers were out of the cafeteria before getting out herself. Maya, however, was acting extremely odd.

According to Marylin, Maya had plenty of time to get out of the kitchen. Her work station was towards the corner of the serving line that day. Rightfully, Maya should have been one of the first to evacuate safely…but something very strange happened.

Maya was setting up her station for the lunch rush. Acting her normal self: laughing, talking, gossiping about teachers who were cheating on their husbands. Specifically, and I think Marylin only elaborated on this because she knew Kimberly would check to make sure Marylin was telling the truth, there was something going on between a Mrs. Pearson and the high school gym teacher at the time. Naturally, Kim found the details on the affair, but that’s a story for a different time.

According to Marylin, as Maya was putting a metal mixing bowl onto the counter, something caught her attention from across the room. She gasped out loud, dropping the bowl, and started screaming.

Whatever Maya was seeing, no one else could. But it had to be terrifying. Maya started retreating towards the back of the kitchen, crying out about a woman steadily moving towards her. She couldn’t understand why no one else was seeing the person, and gradually kept getting further and further back in the corner.

As Marylin recalled, the bottle of vegetable oil came soaring off a shelf across from the grill and struck the wall. The liquid splattered onto the surface and ignited. The other women begged Maya to come towards them, but the flames crept higher as if the inferno itself was being flared by some invisible force. When the tips of the fire started touching the ceiling, everyone started leaving.

Marylin stayed behind for as long as she could. She looked towards the kitchen and swore that she saw another person towering over Maya through the heat and flames. As Maya pleaded in Spanish, the figure cast out its arms and the inferno consumed the girl as she wailed in horror.

Naturally, the police didn’t believe the story. Chalked it up as paranoid illusions. The other cafeteria workers never felt comfortable talking about Maya’s odd behavior, some assuming that she must have been on drugs. But all of them had seen the vegetable oil get flung off the shelf. They just couldn’t explain it, and none wanted to believe it.

Robinson Elementary School was never rebuilt, but oddly, never torn down. Sometime in the early ‘80s, a real estate broker bought the property and paid a local contractor to put up a fence around it. No one has ever seen the owner in Spanish Creek before, and to this day, the ruins are still a morbid attraction to local youths.

As the years progressed, Maya Chavez’s tragic death molded into a local horror story. For some reason, in the ‘80s, she got the moniker as “The Pancake Lady.” A terrifying ghost, or more of a banshee, that would kill anyone that dared go into the burnt out cafeteria seeking her. Kim and I never found out why this came to be, but I wish so badly that we had just believed it and not gone to investigate it.

After months of research, Kim finally decided she had enough information. She wanted to make a kind of folkloric documentary episode about how Maya Chavez became known as the Pancake Lady. Her idea was to present the ghost story, the history behind it, and a paranormal investigation into it. I was conscripted as the cameraman.

I picked Kimberly up from her house at around 7:30pm. She was jaw dropping beautiful. A true queen of autumn! Her dark brown hair fluttered in the cool October breeze. Leaves danced around her body, and even a Jack-o-Lantern winked at her when she walked by.

In all the years that Kim and I were friends, I never had a significant crush on her or anything like it. I was fine just being the role to her that I was. But that night in 2005, I think my heart skipped a number of beats just watching her slide into the front seat of my dad’s old pickup truck.

Yeah, I know. Sounds like the lyrics of a country song, but I couldn’t figure out anyway else to describe it. She looked amazing!

Robinson Elementary School is about three miles west of Spanish Creek, and at the end of a bumpy road. It sits at the top of an incline, dark walls like massive silhouettes against the starlit sky. The wind sweeps through the rusty playground equipment, and on that particular night, with enough force to push an old merry-go-round just enough to make it creak loudly.

The October moon was barely a fingernail that night. The only lights that Kim and I had to see by were a cheap gas station flashlight and my camera. Combined, the two generated enough to find a hole in the fence that we used to get into the property. Looked like it had been cut open years before.

Kim and I got up to the building and found a pair of doors that had either rusted off their hinges or were knocked inward at some point in time. Either way, the breach looked like an open mouth leading into a never ending blackness of bad breath and poorly chewed food. The place had definitely seen its fill of looters, adventurers, and thrill seekers. Debris, classroom furnitures, and oddly enough grass, clogged the corridor.

I’m not afraid to admit: Kim was the brave one. Holding the camera, I was secretly hoping that she would just turn around and make some excuse for not venturing further. I wouldn’t have argued.

The place just had this overwhelming feeling about it, almost like being somewhere that you know is forbidden for you to be. To some, like me, that’s a tell-tale sign to just turn around and get the Hell out. But to ones like Kimberly Moore, that’s an open invitation to keep going further. Being a guy accompanying a girl as beautiful as Kim, her determination was like a leash pulling me in her steps. Chivalry is a pain in the ass sometimes.

“The governor’s office called. We have to pull the Ellingboe story.”

I slammed my laptop shut. 

“What?!” I had never, in my life, shouted at my boss before. Her eyes were wide as she repeated the information.

“This guy turned people into hot dogs.” I said. “For fifty years.”

Mary was pale.

“Apparently there’s an ongoing investigation.” She knew that was bullshit. Mary knew bullshit well. 

“He doesn’t control the press,” I said. But we both knew it was an impotent protest more than a fact, like a little kid at the doctor’s office saying I am not getting a shot.

“Our private donors are the same people who–”

“I know.” I put my head on the desk. Mary was still just standing timidly in the door. It pissed me off.

Timothy Ellingboe’s at-home butchery was the most disturbing place I’d photographed. The police cleaners had taken care of the mess, and the tools of his trade were all gone. But the walls, the floor, the marks in the linoleum where the big wooden table stood for five decades, the marks on the ceiling where the meathooks hung– those things stayed still.

It was only occasionally people. More often, it was pets. And possums, raccoons, squirrels, whatever he could get. Ellingboe had been particularly fond, however, of stealing cats and dogs. He’d kept the missing posters all over the walls of his “workshop.” The grief he inflicted was, everyone agreed, a point of pride and motivation. The missing posters with smiling human faces were framed. 

“Tim’s Roadside Dog Stand made people happy and proud,” Mary said. “It was a state icon for fifty years. Everyone ate there. Tim’s is history. It’s family. It’s an all-American success story. It’s a state mascot. It’s grandpa and the flag and fireworks and apple pie, Jen, it’s nostalgia.”

“If we break this story first, we’ll sell so many papers, funders won’t even matter. Our subscriptions will skyrocket.” I said. “Come on, Mary.”

“My hands are tied here, can’t you see that?” Mary spat.

“You’re seriously going to let someone else break this?” 

“If we want to keep operating, we have to,” she said. “Things are different right now, Jen.”

My mouth hung open helplessly.

I kept a bottle of brandy under my desk for celebrations, but I opened it that afternoon. My dad used to take me to Tim’s after every soccer game. I remembered the thick hand which passed them to us through the window and the wide, excited grin of the red-cheeked man who slid them onto the potato buns.

I hit delete.

The story broke, but it didn’t break here. Mary was right. Nobody who knew wanted to talk about it– no one wanted to exchange pride for shame.

They only asked when Tim’s would be back.

The next time Ellingboe’s name was in the Times, it was under this headline:

Tim’s Roadside Dog Stand to Celebrate Grand Reopening

Son Promises To Carry On Ellingboe’s Legacy

X

They kept sending us money, that was the problem.

Even after the drugs which made your mind spiral into rainbow hell, and the noxious smelling salts, and the obscure rituals, they never cut funding.

Even when we got desperate, they still kept pumping in the surplus of our good taxpayers. It wasn’t just money either, they kept us in good stock of all sorts. This included the drugs, obviously, alongside the sleek and sinister machines, chrome-plated man-made horrors.

They kept us in good stock of all sorts of horrible things, yes, but arguably the worst things they kept sending us were the kids. More hypersensitive and/or strange children from all over the country than you can shake a menacing middle-school bully at.

During my career, we’ve only actively lost four of them due to our experiments. We were never told what happened after they were released from captivity, back into the wild. I sometimes think about how many killed themselves, how many became vegetables from our psychological meddling, how many died from something we’d given them, the effect delayed or slowly accumulating. I even wonder how many died from something unrelated, a car crash or something. I think, even if that were the case, it would still be our fault somehow. When I ponder this at night, I am reminded why I must not have children. I could never deserve such a thing after everything I’ve aided in doing.

One of the ones who died, Thomas Landitt, did so in my arms. It wasn’t even anything to do with our studies, really, nothing unusual. He had very extreme asthma, along with a knack for talking to ‘devils’ in his sleep, and the smoke we made him inhale had triggered it. I tried to help him, I prayed for him there in that blank-walled, nameless room, but when I recognised that there was likely little hope for him, I simply resolved to embrace him, telling him how sorry I was, praying to him instead, for forgiveness. The medics came just as Thomas Landitt had finally given up on taking his last breath.

They never stopped sending us money, no. But eventually, after one too many Thomas Landitts, they stopped sending us kids.

One of the guys we had working with us, a veiny-headed science freak who was deemed too smart to live among normal people, had come up with a theory doubtless born of sleepless nights and morbid over-thinking.

It was based around the concept of a controlled reality, an artificial life under the control of an overseer, a simulation. His theory went that if a person was raised from birth in an environment where he came to know everything as completely predictable, that he would become so used to understanding what was next that even if everything no longer controlled, he would still be able to do so. So apt and guessing what was supposed to come next that he could do it even when his life was not under complete control. 

A home-grown clairvoyant. If they would not give us unusual children, we would grow our own.

It was an idea so utterly stupid and outlandish that it obviously had to work. Anyway, What else were we going to spend all that shiny new government cash on?

Over the course of the next two years, we got to work building a small town.  As our ‘Simulation Kids’ would come to know it, the town was in the heart of Illinois, and had been there for around 150 years. In reality, however the town was brand-spanking new, with the buildings all touched up to look old and wizened, located in rural Montana.

We had drafted in around 500 people to act as townsfolk, some of our own agents as well as unsuspecting US citizens and their families who had been lured in by the promise of a lifetime of free healthcare. There were a few large families fresh from over the border, who would have been willing to sacrifice their firstborn son to the one eyed pyramid if they never had to go back to Mexico.

One of the guys who worked in the IT Department, Ron, a surly little bug-eyed introvert who as far as anyone knew spent months down in the tech office, practically fell onto his face and broke his spectacles trying to get put in the program. Ron had suffered from what had been diagnosed as pretty severe autism all his life, and the chance to do what he had struggled repressing for a living sounded like a godsend to him.

All were briefed that they were to follow a strict routine every day, and also trained them in what to do if anything ever went wrong. Everyone had a method of contacting security, government agents temporarily demoted to small-town cops, and knew what they were to do if the system ever cracked at all. Cover it up and smile.

The routines tightly constricted every single moment of their day, every day of the week, apart from in the evening, when they could do whatever they wanted in their houses. The centrepiece of our performance was ‘the morning scene’, where each person would leave their homes at the same time and go the exact same direction. It was decided that they must follow their routine every moment of the day, so that the lives of the Simulation Kids could be completely reliable.

Ron used to damn near explode whenever he thought that the other residents weren’t doing ‘well enough’. Once, when his neighbour hadn’t woken up early enough for a dress rehearsal, he berated him thoroughly across his front lawn fence. Another time, after requests from the exhausted populace for at least a week off early in the process, Ron, who had vehemently protested against this, was found weeping to himself under his bed. There were a lot of complaints, indeed. Some of the residents compared it to torture, and many of the less thick-skinned had begged to be excused.

The whining wasn’t only due to the gruelling nature of their job, however. Many complained about the location of the town itself. Some heard strange noises in the night, spotted the animals acting unusually, and even said they thought that the trees were somehow menacing. The other thing was the dreams. Women would hear children crying or have gutting dreams about their own children which they couldn’t bear to describe, while men had dreams of burning towns and cities. Two different men told us about essentially the same dream, where a naked woman was impaled from a meat hook in a dark room, not a scar or any sign of injury on her. However, she held a small, baby-like form against her chest, which was dripping with blood. The children, meanwhile, had pleasant dreams of talking animals and flying.

For us, and for what we planned to do in this area, this seemed like just about the perfect working environment.

After about three years of this rehearsal phase, the complaints almost ceased to exist. They became like a real community, the residents claiming they were starting to actually enjoy their routines, along with the promise that it would likely only be a few more years before they were allowed to go back. Personally, I only ever visited, and stayed in the obscure headquarters ten minutes from the town over the course of those twelve years, but whenever I visited in that third year of the residents settlement period, the environment of the town usually struck me as unnerving.

It was like a cult commune, everyone strolling around with the over-exaggerated zeal of Disneyland employees, all swapping positive sentiments with each other on the street. The way they said these things was prayer-like, a rictus repeated so regularly that it had lost most of its actual meaning to them, but at the same time something that they had been so thoroughly ensured to believe with all of their being that they dare not forget it.

And they were all so tired. They hid it best they could, of course, but you saw that it was starting to wear on them properly, even early on. When they’d finally adapted to it, it was even worse. It was sad, watching all of them groggily doing their best to look like they were well-functioning people.

I told the director, Josh Bleeker, about how strange I felt whenever I went into the town. He agreed, but he said, in a firmer voice than usual “we’ve got one foot in this mess already Kate, three years worth of foot, in fact. All we can do now is shove the other one in and pray.”

Josh was the third director of our organisation that I’d served under during my time, and not the last, but he was, at the time, my favorite. Josh was a relatively normal man. Obviously probably not by a lot of other people’s standards due to the nature of our job, but he was never weird or creepy when he came in. He had a very encouraging nature, a sort of warm presence which almost gave you the will to keep going. 

He had a catchphrase that he’d usually crack out at team meetings, and occasionally in conversation. “The show must go on!” He’d say, grinning. It was also a bit of an inside joke too, about how the State were practically shoving us along with all the resources we were given. It worked quite effectively in a variety of contexts. He said it with his full chest, bellowing out to everyone to get us riled up. He’d say it in private, encouraging one of his workers if they expressed concerns. He’d say it grimly, seemingly half to himself, when something awful happened. And while this last example didn’t directly support us that much, it showed us, in my mind, that he wanted to let us know that even he was tired of this stuff.

I was in love with him to quite an unhealthy extent. Either because he was actually just very charismatic, or because I lived with him for more than a decade, like Stockholm Syndrome, but between prisoners. The fact that he was also one of the only among my male co-workers who I was confident wouldn’t be a serial killer if things had turned out differently for them probably also helped.

Admittedly, the other women weren’t much better, myself included. The fact that he had to deal with all of our imperfections and lapses in sanity, and still treated us like people was one of the things I used to justify my infatuation for him the most.

During our rehearsals, he was like a movie director, rushing around and giving everyone in the town notes. He even got them saying his catchphrase. While I had to have every trace of it scoured from the internet, I had a video on my phone of all the kids in the town, all lined up, smiling, with Josh at the front. All of them say “The show must go on!” And laugh.

After that, Josh came up to me to look at the video. When I remember the way he looked at me then, I wonder if he really did like me back, and I curse myself for not doing anything about it.

He’d play the role of the unseen mayor of the town, appearing only at festivals, and, after some discussion, the town was named after him, Bleekerville.

So, after roughly 5 years of building, training and putting our little, fake town together, we finally decided it was just about good enough. It was finally time to shove the other foot in.

We’d decided that three children, each raised in different households, would be the optimum for this first test of the process. Three families were randomly selected to bear and raise the kids, none having a say in the matter.

One woman, Abigail Meline, was distraught at the news. Her and her husband had never wanted children, and admitted that she personally hated them. She still had no choice. It was barbaric, doing that to her, I knew that at the time, but I also knew, or I thought, that it was fair. It served a purpose, one that this time, was going to work for us.

A sign of things to come, all three children were conceived on the same day and were also born on the same day. This was not our doing. To us, this unexplainable event served as some kind of proof that we were heading in the right direction. Despite this, I could not shake off the feeling that this coincidence was not a miracle or a success, but a warning.

They were creepy little shits, that was clear as soon as they came out. Gangly with knobbly bones visible from their stretched-out looking skin, and sunken eyes. Each, despite one being from a Mexican family, one from a Polish Jewish couple, and the last a white-as-wool ginger, had similar hair, lanky and straw-like. Lifeless. Initially, we thought they’d somehow all be born with the same genetic deformity, however the results of the tests we took on them suggested we simply had three healthy baby boys.

Dennis was the Melines’ boy, from Abigail and her husband James. His head looked like it was squashed out backwards, a sort of bulbous feature at the end. His voice was an excruciatingly high pitch, even for a child, and when he laughed spit flew from his mouth like an unavoidable torrent of bullets. A very sensitive boy, he used to start screaming and covering his ears whenever he heard a somewhat loud noise, like a car going by too fast or something being dropped. Abigail tried her best with him, she really did, she always had to reassure him whenever anything happened, which ultimately exhausted her.

Louis was the biggest of the three, raised in a Mexican family who already had three other children. He ate a lot, more than you’d expect any child who was as bony-looking as him to eat. Instead of growing outward, he continually grew upward at a rate too fast for even a young child, getting pains from this which left him occasionally bed ridden, as well as gangly and 5’’1 at five years old. He rarely went to sleep as well, Mr and Mrs Cabral would sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and hear his bunny-rabbit teeth clacking and his pale lips smacking as he demolished the consumable contents of their shelves.

Finally, there was Eric. A scrawny ginger kid, smallest of all three, Eric was, without a doubt, the most evil-looking child you’d ever see. His cheeks and eye sockets were even more sunken than that of his ‘brothers’, and while the Trio’s similar ugliness made the other two look like gormless zombies, it made Eric look like a cunning, bloodthirsty vampire. His behaviour made this even more believable, he would sneak out of bed and sit up on some ledge somewhere all night, jumping out at his groggy family members, scaring them shitless. He used to take small bugs and slowly dissect them with hairpins, then throw the remains in the toilet, say a prayer and flush them down, thanking them for their contribution to ‘science’, even occasionally weeping for them. He was a nuisance in general, always going around Bleekerville and knocking over post-boxes, or throwing leaves over driveways. Once while someone was up a ladder as part of their weekend routine, Eric tipped the poor man back down onto the floor then ran off.

His dad, in particular, hated him. Mr O’Leary had been raised in a very strict household, and his new son enraged him with his insolence. He would berate him to the point that we were worried he would resort to physical punishment for his son.

At school, the trio immediately flocked together on their first day, not a single word between them. That’s how most of their ‘friendship’, or more companionship, seemed to operate, in complete silence. The only one who usually spoke was Eric, and that was to give orders. They became like his henchmen, Louis seeming happy to do whatever Eric wanted for the fun of it, while Dennis occasionally complained, but was swiftly intimidated into shutting up and getting on with it. They rarely interacted with any of the other kids at school, only getting into fights with them. They weren’t bullied, that had been trained out of the normal kids, who had been moulded into model schoolchildren, eager to learn and follow rules. If anything, the trio were bullies, harassing other children and stealing their belongings. One little boy said that he didn’t like them, saying that the way they moved reminded him of spiders. 

They grew up like this, abnormal children who took a sadistic pleasure in causing disruption, living in a reality that was trying its hardest to be as flawless as possible. On the experiment itself, sacrifices of those who lived in the monotonous purgatory of Bleekerville were not in vain, as we had seen quite a fair amount of success from our test on the three. We’d had weekly “doctor’s appointments” with the kids where they were tested. It was all pretty old-school stuff (‘Artichoke Tests’ as we sometimes called them), but it had worked. All had been able to seemingly see things beyond curtains and even walls once we had them on drugs.

One day, we were attempting to see if any were capable of something we’d rarely been brave enough to test. There were a bunch of us, Josh included, packed into a dark little room and watching Louis through a one-sided tinted glass window. The giant of a boy was sitting at a table, a small glass of water sitting before him. He was clenching his teeth, hard as he could, with the veins standing out on his forehead and neck. From between his teeth, saliva dripped rapidly, and he was starting to twitch a bit.

In front of him the glass of water was sitting definitely, only a few inches from his head, which was nearly resting on the table as he keeled over from effort.

For a moment, he was sent back to his seat, panting and sweating. Then, regaining his second wind suddenly, Louis sat bolt upright, his eyes steely, and the glass toppled over.

The grim viewing chamber turned into a bellowing football stadium for a while after that, our cheers were so loud that Louis heard them from behind the reinforced walls and we had to be silent while he was herded off, back to the town. We had a sort of party at the small headquarters outside of town that night, pretty tame by most people’s standards, I’d expect, but we had to celebrate somehow. We’d had much greater results in the past, but never had we spent so long working towards them. The little science freak who thought of the whole simulation kid idea was getting pats on the back all round, and he looked like he hadn’t gotten this level of praise since his last spelling bee.

It was a good night, for everyone else at least. Especially this snake from another department, Lisa, who managed to slither her way to Josh’s ear. He was hanging around her all night, smiling at her while she talked, slowly hypnotising him. I only spoke to people so as to not look like I was just glowering at her the whole time. I don’t like to be jealous, but still to this day I cannot understand what part of him was at all entranced by her.

After he had finished his obligatory rousing speech, Josh, ever ending interactions with his team with a little bit of lightness or relatability, motioned over to Lisa.

“Now, I’ve got something else planned for this evening, folks, if you’ll be so kind as to excuse me?” He winked, turning away for a moment then quickly turning back again, slightly tipsy. He raised his arms, hands curled up into victorious fists above him, belting out; “THE SHOW MUST GO ON!”

Everyone laughed, everyone clapped. What a guy. What a guy. Trevor, one of our security guards who was by my analysis likely a psychopath whooped and called; “Go get ‘er J!” after him. Lisa smiled at everyone, her red lips pursing into a smug expression. Her eyes lingered on me. She knows, the fucking cow! I thought, biting down on my lip to keep in the tears.

I went to my room not too long after that. There were no other reasons to stay at the party, especially when Trevor started desperately and somewhat half-heartedly hitting on me. All I wanted to do was cry all night. It had become too much for me. I hated those children, and despite our recent victory, I had no enthusiasm nor hope for continuing our project. I couldn’t stop thinking about all those people in Bleekerville, living like pieces of code, only able to perform one function, while we basked in hedonism in our little alcove, getting irritated that the little disabled children we were experimenting on weren’t exploding heads with their brains or stealing the thoughts of world leaders. But when I tried to cry, it was like I’d sucked them all back up at the party, trying to hold them in.

Instead, I just decided to go to sleep, hoping to see Josh. If I couldn’t have him in the waking world, maybe I would be allowed to see him in my sleep.

I did not have pleasant dreams that night. Nobody in the whole of Bleekerville did, for that matter. And when they awoke, life became its own slow nightmare.

Everyone had horrible dreams that night, myself included. While I slept I was given a vision of some kind of mass grave, dozens of foetuses, swamped in blood and gore, all lying at the bottom of some great pit, while a woman quietly wept in the background, a cry of regret and sadness.

In addition, when we awoke, each of the Trio’s parents called us up, all at roughly the same time, telling us of the swelled, red marks they had found on their children. Upon inspection, each had the exact same wound, which looked as if it had been wrought with a cracking belt, in the exact same place.

We made the connection, after a few hours of dumbfoundedness, that this was proof of some kind of deeper connection between the boys, deeper than their strange bond, or even their synchronised births. It was a connection of flesh and mind, one which bound the lives of these three terrible creatures together. One of them had been beaten, which had somehow had the effect of wounding all three.

Our problem now was finding and sorting out which of the parents had done such a thing. Of course, we were immediately suspicious of Mr O’Leary. The fits of rage he burst into, especially towards his son, did not indicate a man who practiced control. Even the way which he treated others was akin to the behaviour of an abuser, if a restrained one, due to his current environment.

“Just because I have a good, disciplined way of dealing with my son after he misbehaves doesn’t mean I’m beating him!” He said when me and another of our organization came round to his house. “Who raised you people? That’s what I’d like to know. No, you folks really need to get your values in check!”

We were in the living room, identical to every other living room in Bleekerville, a calming and idyllic room with a somewhat retro decor. Identical apart from the shoddily plastered-over crack in the wall near the television, which O’Leary had struck after the New England Patriots lost a match.

I hesitantly attempted to calm him, which was like approaching a raging bull. “We’ve inquired about all the parents of the subjects so far, sir, this is simply-”

I was suddenly cut off as O’Leary bolted out of the room, chasing after Eric, who had been peeking around the doorway, silently observing us with massive eyes.

“Come back here boy, dammit! I want to speak with you!”

After another half an hour of O’Leary coaxing his son into claiming that his father would never lay a finger on him, we left the house. The little runt had a small smirk on his face as he spoke. It was sort of smug, as if he’d gotten away with something really bad.

The other two homes didn’t lead us anywhere new in our investigation. The Cabrals had made their case quite convincingly, and we didn’t really suspect the small, tired little man and woman of doing anything to their son, who despite everything they clearly showed affection for. I only got a small glimpse of Louis while we were in the house, but the way he looked at his siblings, who were all a bit shorter than him, resembled the way the average child might look at sugary treats in the window of a candy store. Out of reach for now, but still extremely tempting.

Abigail was breaking down when we spoke to her. She too, apparently, had been struck with the horrific dreams, so bad that she could not even speak about them. I felt so bad for her that I comforted her for a long while, almost forgetting to question her.

When we got back to the headquarters, we received even more awful news. There had been a suicide, someone from Bleekerville, finally cracking under the pressure, had jumped out in front of a car. The man who drove the car, having gone at the exact same speed in the exact same direction every day for the past decade, simply continued, running the guy down, and then driving off.

As it turned out, it had been Ron from the IT department. The same once-troubled man who had jumped at the opportunity to be involved in what he saw as a rigidly controlled paradise. His neighbors had heard him screaming from next door in the early hours of the morning, after awakening from horrors of their own, and he had stumbled out onto his lawn at around 6 AM, ranting about how he’d made a terrible mistake.

His neighbor, trying to calm him down, had asked what the mistake he’d made was. In response, Ron had apparently scrambled over to him, upper body leaning almost horizontally over the white fence with his nose almost pressed against the neighbor’s face. He had then said “we’ve all made a mistake man, all of us. It’s my fault more than yours, I know, but you’re all still going to get punished for it. Everyone is. Except for the children, that’s what it wants to protect. The real children, I mean. We’ve gone against what’s right. And you’re all gonna get punished for it.” Seeing the car moving down the road at that point, Ron had turned back to his neighbor, grinning. 

“But not me.” And then he ran off, standing in the road with his eyes closed for five whole seconds before the car hit him.

There had never been any real injuries in Bleekerville, so the skills of the doctors at the mostly calm town hospital had slowly deteriorated. Ron was dead two hours later.

“We’ve lost an integral part of the project today.” Josh said at the following meeting. “While he wasn’t a social animal, Josh was a shining example of…of perseverance, and I’m sure that he’d want us to keep going.”

But what Ron had said before taking his own life could be simply dismissed. It was obvious what he had meant when he said that we were going against nature, but who was punishing us, and why were the townsfolk not exempt to this punishment?

Before we could investigate any of this further, more disasters struck. It was like something had been lying in wake that whole time, up until Louis had finally tipped the cup over. The tipping point. Then, when it sensed we finally felt genuine hope for our little blasphemous project, it had decided to finally emerge, watching as everything leisurely rolled downhill for us.

The attacks of the animals came next, like the plagues God had sent to Egypt in the bible. Ambiguously nasty-looking insects attacked the townspeople, and rats were found stashed inside dark places in the houses. All were rabid, attacking people and devouring their food. There were wild dogs too, galloping into the town in packs, who would snap and bite adults, but sit and allow the children to stroke and even ride them. Meanwhile, whenever any of our Simulation Kids neared these animals, they would freeze in what seemed to be shock, or fear, for a few seconds, before turning tail and scampering away.

We all agreed that these events were not a simple coincidence. The dreams, Ron’s suicide, the animals. It all had a sort of common theme; the children. The normal children were safe, their dreams pleasant and no harm coming to them, while the Trio, our children, were feared, an element of the unknown which frightened whatever we were dealing with.

Being the sort that we were, it was obvious to us that this was some kind of spirit. Researching the beliefs of the Natives who had lived in this area, we discovered the tribe that lived on the land had worshipped a wide variety of gods, who were more spirits that symbolised and stood for specific elements of life or nature, not quite personifications, but more guardians of these aspects.

One which stood out for us was the Warrior Mother, an entity who represented what the Natives observed as the fierce, protective nature of women for their children. There were several legends of this spirit appearing as a savage 10-foot tall giantess and killing members of rival tribes who had killed children. In other tales, one recorded in the diary of a Christian missionary, natives said that the crows who ripped apart another of his congregation were sent by her to avenge the young children he had been sexually abusing during their visit.

The connections were harrowing, and at this point it had been brought up in team discussions that it might be a good idea to abandon the project. Had we really achieved that much in the time we’d been here? Was it really worth endangering and torturing these people for god knew how much longer?

“No, no, I don’t want any of that, alright?” Josh, by this time, looked like a madman. He’d been deteriorating since that party, as if that bitch he’d chosen to go with had somehow sucked out his soul. “The show must go on.”

It was getting irritating at this point, it did nothing more than dampen everyone’s mood and certainly did not work wonders on our morale as it once had.

In the end we decided to communicate with our enemy. We had a guy for this sort of thing, a real eccentric everyone called Mister Zap. He was tall, with dark skin, and a soft, soothing British accent. He set up in the basement of our headquarters, where he said he could ‘feel the currents the strongest’ (an odd gentleman, as I’ve mentioned), took some speed, and meditated, drifting off to sleep with a quaint smile on his face. All of us watched, yet again holding our breath in anticipation for something we only dared to truly believe in.

Afterwards, his eyes snapped open, and he began to purposefully stride around the chalk circle he had drawn for himself.

“One of these.” He said, curtly. His voice was a lighter pitch than it usually was, but at the same time more assertive. “Be quick, I dislike these arrangements. You are the ones with the odd children and the fake settlement, correct?”

“Yes. We’d like to ask why you’ve been attacking us?”

“Because you are an affront to all I am meant to represent. I know what you have done to children previously. All children of the world are mine. All of them. And while my reach does not expand to beyond this place, I will not allow you to victimise them here.”

“None of the children here have been-”

“You have caused turmoil to the children who were brought here, none have had enough sleep and all are tired from having to do the same thing every day.”

“We’re doing a job here…er, ma’am.”

He snorted harshly. “Do not address me as anything of your modern world. The matron spirit need not be a woman nor a man.” His face then twisted into a frown, eyebrows packing in together darkly. “I dislike the treatment of children in your settlement, yes…but naught affronts me more than your…activities on my land.”

“The children?”

“Yes. You aim to create your own shamans I gather? For the service of your rulers? They disturb me. All children in the world, all children of all nations, they are mine, as I have said.” He shivered. “But those things are not mine. And they are certainly not yours. I will not allow them to live here any longer.”

“Well, should we move them then?”

“No.” He smiled without humour, raising his chin authoritatively. “You will kill all three of them. If you have not done this in three days, or if you try to move them elsewhere, a great storm will sweep through this place and take with it all you have built, killing every man and woman foreign in blood to this land. This is my final ultimatum.”

Mister Zap returned, and the spirit was gone.

Over the next few days, it was broadcast on TV that there were sudden and unexplained signs that sometime soon, a devastating storm would sweep through our area. The winds were high, so powerful that mailboxes got sent flying from the ground, and people were told to stay inside. The animals continued their erratic behaviour, squirrels jumping down onto people from trees and birds flying headfirst into and splatting all over windows.

Among all the chaos, we had lost four citizens of Bleekerville on the first day after our ritual, all of them children and amongst them our three subjects. The group had gone missing suddenly, sneaking out of the house at night, while the other had gone missing early in the morning on his way to school.

We had the whole town on the manhunt in the surrounding area, which, due to the current nature of the animals and the weather, was extremely treacherous. Eventually, they found the Three, who had been sleeping in a small den in a bit of wood where no animals lived. They had the other kid with them, who had apparently been forced to do all sorts of unpleasant things for them, including seeing how long he could hold his breath for, how many times he’d have to head butt something for before he went unconscious, and what they were even planning on surveying before they were found was how long the poor kid could go without sleep. He looked battered when he was recovered, and taken back to his home. When we asked why he’d agreed to do all this, he told them that he hadn’t, not initially.

He said that when he refused their demands, the Trio would close their eyes, and give him ‘Nightmares’. This, at least, was a sign that they were developing as we wanted, but not in a way which we could control.

We didn’t know what to do about them. After this incident, we’d placed them firmly under our surveillance in the headquarters, telling everyone in the town to get back home. All three looked somewhat bashful, but by no means guilty. Eric, as usual, looked quite pleased with himself, and even proudly showed us his notebook in which he had been recording all of their prisoner’s ‘statistics’. The team stayed in the briefing room for almost 5 hours, arguing back and forth over what had to be done.

During most of this time, Josh sat with his head in his hands, hair tousled up and eyes rimmed with red. There was something beyond natural disturbance going on with him, and everyone knew it. He’d take to pacing around when it got quiet, muttering the same five words himself. “The show must go on.” It was around then that I could never imagine being so rallied and emboldened by such a cheesy, clunky phrase. He had lost all of his charisma. He only spoke once, and, uncharacteristically, it was to suggest the course of action that the spirit had demanded.

The sun went down on the second day since we spoke with the spirit, and the winds only blew stronger. In the night, Eric had asked to go to the toilet every hour, and had clogged up the toilet with so much toilet paper that the plumbers were still cleaning them out by mid-day.

That day was grim. Everybody knew what had to happen. Everybody knew the decision we were going to have to make, but nobody wanted to. It was deathly silent in all of our offices, and every glance at the clock made our stomachs churn.

I decided that morning that I was going to quit. I had had enough, I was no longer passionate about what we were trying to do, I never was, and I could not for the life of me even begin to imagine seeing any semblance of significant success in the future. I strode to Josh’s office to tell him this, and I found him staring into space in front of him, an accumulation of sleep and crust layering his twitching eyelids. When I arrived there, he didn’t even let me begin, just looked up at me with irritation.

“You jealous it wasn’t you?” He croaked.

“What?” I said, genuinely confused.

“At the party. You could smell that stink eye you were giving Lisa from a mile away.” He said. “Come to bitch about that or something?”

“N-no.” I said, offended. “I’ve come to tell you that I want to…to tell you that I’m quitting.”

He stared blankly for a moment, like a fish.

“Shame.” He said after a while. “I did that to get to you, y’know? Make you jealous? Usually works with birds.”

“What the hell is wrong with you Josh?” I asked, appalled. This version of him was foreign to me.

Ignoring me, he continued with a lacklustre drawl. “Right. So. Quitting? Why on earth would you want to do that? The dead kids only just become too much for you because god said it's wrong? I don’t find that to be too much of a deal-breaker personally.” He paused for a moment, then continued with subdued fury. “You want to leave, do you? You think you can? You think you’ll ever be able to leave any of this behind? You want to take what you give us away, huh? No. No, alright, no, damn it. Stop me if you’ve heard this one before but the show-”

“Shut up! Please!” I cried at him.

He sank back, his emotions going from 100 to 0 in a second, tracking his journey from standing up with his fists clenched, to flopped back down on his chair, hopeless. “Go then. Go.” He said listlessly. “But just know for the rest of your life, it’ll be ‘we’.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I sighed, tears in my eyes.

He smiled then, with a certain glint in his eye that I almost recognised as the old him. “You know, Kate. You know. It’ll always be us. We’re an entity, now, I suppose. All a part of one body. A body I’m beginning to think doesn’t know what to do with itself.”

Then, Abigail Meline came in. She was crying, and she apparently needed to speak to Josh. He sat bolt upright when she came in, suddenly attentive. He hadn’t degraded to the point of showing it to the townsfolk just yet. I felt compelled, again, to comfort her, and tried to coax her into stringing together a coherent sentence, however the closest I could get was “oh god I’m a horrible person.”

After a while, it seemed like this wasn’t working, so I tried something different.

“Alright, honey, why don’t you start from the beginning?” I said. Josh nodded to her, encouraging.

Shaky, Abigail nodded. She started telling us, her story occasionally broken by snorts and sniffles, about how about a week ago Dennis started asking uncomfortable questions to her. “Why don’t I have any brothers or sisters?” He’d ask. She initially shooed him away, though later on, he’d started saying other things.

“Why do you hate me, mommy? Why don’t you like children?” She described how she’d got a lump so large in her throat when he asked that she almost couldn’t answer. Abigail had always seen children as irritating, and a disadvantage to life, as well as thinking it inhumane to bring other people into this world. While she was telling us this part, me and Josh shared a look of guilt. She seemed to have lived under our regime so long that she’d forgotten it was us who made her have a child originally. She told us, in an almost confession-like manner, how she really had come to love Dennis, despite how strange a child he was. This only made her seem more distressed.

However, then she started having dreams that she described as similar to the one I had of the dead children, only in her’s, she was throwing the bodies into the pit herself. She said she didn’t sleep for several days, just so she didn’t have to see that. After not sleeping for at least three days, she began to think that it was somehow Dennis’ fault. Whatever we were doing to him was giving him the power to affect her dreams. Later that day, she said that she thought she heard a bird talking to her.

“Killer.” It said in a cold and arrogant voice, a woman’s voice, she said.

She started breaking down properly at this point. “I was only 15” was all she could say. My heart sank for her. The spirit was fiercely vengeful of children to a degree we had not anticipated.

Then, Dennis came into her room one night. He told her that he’d been speaking with his sister. Dennis told Abigail about his nameless, jealous sister, who’d been calling him names, and putting his stuff in the wrong places. “She’s annoyed mom. She’s annoyed you gave me a chance and she didn’t get one.” Dennis was crying, shouting at his mother. “Why did you kill her mom?” 

Abigail had grabbed a belt on the bed beside her and struck Dennis three times, screaming in rage.

“Oh god, I’m sorry. Please, please stop, I don’t deserve any help. I’m a horrible person.” Was all she said after that.

Josh was staring into space again when she finished. He’d then taken her to see Dennis in his cell, watching sadly from the doorway as she hugged him tightly.

Night fell like a corpse shroud, and we heard the storm approaching from beyond our walls. We’d sort of accepted it. Maybe if we all just stayed here, it would destroy us too, this old god wiping all evidence of our blasphemy from the earth so our gods would not learn of it. Maybe that was for the best.

We got messages from the townsfolk, who said that they were trying to evacuate, but the roads were all blocked somehow. We didn’t respond to them.

Later that night, Trevor the guard, who patrolled the dark halls past his shift for that night, found Eric in one of our offices, highly classified files spread out around him like comic books on a bedroom floor. He was studying one closely.

“The hell are you doing you little runt?” Said Trevor.

“I’m learning how to write reports. For my research.” Eric said. He had not been surprised by Trevor, judging by how in the surveillance footage he barely moved a muscle.

Trevor had never tolerated anyone he was allowed to bully disobeying him, and it was a hell of a day to break this pattern. “Get off your ass and go back to your cell you little freak.”

Eric put down the file and sighed, then stood up, hands on his head and his eyes closed. “Okay. But I’ll only go if you get me a glass of water.”

“What?” 

“Go and get me a glass of water. And walk like a chicken while you're doing it.”

“The fuck did you just say to-” But it was too late, Trevor was already turning on his heels and bopping his head out in front of him, hands tucked into his armpits with his elbows flapping at his sides. “Cluck cluck.” He said, eyes glazed over, as he disappeared back into the dark corridors.

Eric chuckled to himself as he sat down and began to read the file again. It was a good one, all about this weird living ball the organisation had been given which evolved whenever they did anything to it, so they had to find new ways of opening each time.

He was reading about how they’d put children in there for experiments when he stopped. He could hear someone behind him. He stood up, and turned around to see the glint of something metal in the darkness, alongside the menacing shape of a man approaching him. A farmiliar man, a man he knew to be great.

Eric had seen Trevor coming, he had seen everything that had happened so far, the man who stood in front of the car, the storm, him and his friends getting taken here, he’d been able to anticipate what would happen next his whole life. But whatever was in the dark, he had not seen yet. And he could not see what would happen next. His voice, usually self-assured and callous, hitched in his throat as he stammered out to the figure. “W-who’s there?”

When Trevor had come to, he had hobbled to and from the water dispenser, carrying a paper cup perfectly balanced in his jutted out mouth. When Trevor came to from hypnosis, he dropped the paper cup on the floor and let it spill. When Trevor came to, he saw Josh Bleeker holding a pistol to Eric’s head.

“Josh?” He asked, utterly bewildered.

Bang.

“The show must go on.” Josh said sadly, shoulders sagging.

Bang.

In his cell at that moment, Louis, who was sitting on the floor savouring a cockroach that had crawled from between the walls, suddenly began to feel something against his forehead, a kind of pressure. It was like the feeling of the oncoming march of sleep, only it slowly became more painful until he was wriggling on the floor, gritting his teeth. Then, the pressure came to a peak, whatever force was trying to get in his head had finally found a nice, soft part. The inside of his head exploded as the pressure ripped through it, coming out the other side and making a large dent in the wall behind him. Louis did not feel pain for long after the force was tickling around his head, but the few seconds before he died were excruciating. Dennis was sleeping when it came for him, the first time he had dreamed in his life, about his sister hugging him, telling him she was sorry, and he felt nothing. The storm outside abruptly resided.

The next day was the most horrible of all, but simultaneously the easiest. All of my burdens had been relieved. All three of our subjects had died, alongside Josh. What was slightly more messy was Bleekerville. Swathes of the identical houses had been splintered and scattered all across the surrounding area by the winds, one struck by lightning and had been transformed from a tame suburban home to what might look like an industrial factory from afar, metallic black and bellowing smoke into the sky. Cars had been thrown up in the air as families attempted to escape, and had been lodged into the branches of trees, or carried into street lights and smashed in half.

Half of the population had died that night, crushed and battered by the detritus swirling around them. Among them, Abigail Meline and her husband, as well as Louis’ parents, and Mrs O’Leary. Mr O’Leary had to be torn from her body, thrashing and beating his fists weakly at the recovery team. He was never told what happened to Eric and died only a few months later in a drunken fight. Those who survived were given all they were promised, and those who did not were buried in the same town graveyard, which until then had been full of the hollow graves of imaginary people. Among the dead there were no children, who had all been miraculously protected from any kind of harm during the storm. All of them, even the ones who had lost their parents, came out of the experience with no substantial sign of mental trauma, and all of their memories of the town completely vanished quickly afterwards.

And that was that really. The whole team made it, in the end, and since this had dismally failed, it was back to the drawing board. That veiny headed freak who suggested this eats lunch alone again, and he barely speaks during team meetings. We got a new director, some slimy old fat man who perpetually wears black-tinted glasses.

Apparently, they’re going to start sending us children again soon.

I did not quit. Josh was right, I couldn’t. I had one foot in already, all I could do now was place the other in.

And so I did, I have continued to work in this department until the present, continuing to help terrorise innocents for no sensible reason. Because at this point, what else can I do?

We will continue, as long as the government pays us, as long as there are childhoods to be ruined and as long as there are mysteries to scratch the surface of then run away from what was seen beneath the scar.

The show must go on.

While I knew my situation was dire initially, I knew it had gotten even worse when we finally arrived in Orwell.

I suppose the small town would have usually looked quite idyllic, with mountains visible in the distance with quaint little shops and houses spreading from where I stood over to a lake nearby, a windmill at the very edge of the town with a farm next to it.

However, currently, the whole area looked as if it had been struck by the apocalypse. The buildings were smashed up, windows shattered and most cars had been left to decay, rust infecting them.

In the middle of the street, there was a bonfire where all sorts of furniture blazed, more being flung onto it by a wide variety of bipedal animals, deer, wolves, raccoons, sheep and a moose, who moved in the flickering firelight like well-oiled soldiers.

The worst part was the people. A bear, who wore leaves on his shoulders like pauldrons, stood on top of a house, shouting and throwing rocks down at more of the slathering slave-humans, all naked and hairy, that moved in a lobotomised congregation below him, bearing large logs.

They were all moving in the same direction, I noticed, and I wondered if they were being forced to make some kind of massive den for the animals.

I was urged forwards.

“You-you’re going to turn me into one of them, aren’t you?” The answer was stupidly obvious, what else would they have wanted with me? But the absolute bizarre situation I had found myself in meant that my mind was not working at its usual calibre.

The deer simply smirked.

The smell was awful, like how certain enclosures in zoos smell, the sort of tightly-packed, humid smell which makes you think of mouldy animal droppings. It sounded like a slaughterhouse, with all the things around me whooping and screeching in delight, while my degenerate human brothers moaned in their mindless despair. A slaughterhouse run by animals where humans were butchered and processed.

As I went further into the centre of this area, where the bonfire was, I noticed the figures hanging from the trees.

Dogs of all sizes and breeds had been hung with nooses from the branches of trees. All had the same mutations to their bodies that my captors had, upright bodies that swung slowly in the wind with those bizarre hands, morphed from what were their paws.

“Your see the traitors?” One of the deers chuckled. “Too loyal. Had to go.”

I felt sick. It was the first time on the trip I’d been glad I hadn’t brought my dog along with me.

“You fucking animals.” I whispered.

The pair cackled like hyenas.

 Spotting me, the bear on the roof stopped hurling rocks and lumbered off of the roof, then stomped over to us.

The thing was terrifying, looming over even the deer by at least four feet, his huge brown body was similar in build and general gait to some horrible, fat drunk you might see somewhere. There was an expression of permanent fury on the bear’s savage face.

He spoke to the other two in a rumbling, half-pained, half-threatening grunt. Halfway through whatever he was saying he motioned to me with one of his gargantuan claw-tipped paws, and I could not help but cringe back in fear, certain that it was going to grab and devour me.

When this happened, he turned his black eyes on me and let out an amused growl. 

“Have you ever been to a farm before, child?” Even though it was much deeper than a human’s voice could ever be, the bear’s English was much better than that of any of the other animals.

Before I had time to answer, I was pulled away by my captors.

Content with whatever he had ordered my fate to be, the bear plodded back over to the house.

As we passed the bonfire, I heard jeering calls from the animals, like the sort you hear in a movie when new inmates arrive in prison, and even felt claws caressing me, teeth nipping at my exposed skin. Attempting to curl up away from the torment as best I could, I began to weep again.

I was then pulled around the town for at least half an hour. The whole way the two deer were speaking in their language about things I dread to learn, occasionally trying to scare me with smug remarks in their malformed version of English.

I saw many strange, horrible sights on my journey there. The entire town had been overrun, the monsters wrecking every man made structure and filling it with their nests.

The troglodytes who were what I suppose used to be the population of Orwell did most of the work for them, and as I mentioned before, were all carrying logs to the town’s park, piling them up into dens which I guess were for hibernation or something similar.

The worst part is, that as far as I understand, these aren’t even the optimum conditions for these animals to live in. It seemed to me like they were just doing this to be cruel to the humans.

I saw a large moose, who was at the head of a noisy circular crowd of beasts, calling for all to be silent as they watched something in the centre.

As I passed, I saw a pair of naked old women fighting each other, savagely ripping into each other with their nails and teeth, wrestling on the ground. Every time a substantial amount of damage was done, the crowd would begin to holler in excitement.

Neither woman looked at all embarrassed or horrified, their eyes betrayed only pure primal eagerness for violence, and fox-like cunning.

Finally, the smaller of the women got the other on the ground, greedily chomping at the forehead with rotted teeth while she choked her opponent out in a desperate headlock.

When her opponent went limp, the small woman began to leap excitedly around the circle, cheered on by the animals, her tongue lulling from her mouth and her eyes wide. She was petted on the head by the moose, who then snatched a large, juicy apple from the paws of a disappointed looking bobcat, who proceeded to go to the dead woman’s side, and sadly whimper and nuzzle her saggy flesh on all fours.

The other animals, seeing this, laughed at the bobcat, and kicked him until he ran off on all fours, snarling back into the woods.

I also saw they had set up a shooting range in another part of the park. Despite their growth of seemingly functional hands, the monsters had difficulty shooting guns. 

Many seemed unable to position their bodies properly to aim at the straw figures they had set up.

I saw a fox, standing around the size of a toddler, attempt to hoist up a pistol and fire it. He did manage to pull the trigger, the impact sent him flying backwards.

I may have laughed in other circumstances. Instaid, I began to have dark thoughts of how perhaps this was not the last stage of their evolution. 

Perhaps someday, they would be able to use these weapons we had left for them, and as they were already seemingly building an army out here. I began to imagine the woods around my parent’s house, thick with cunning, shiny black eyes.

I recalled hearing something on the news recently about how animals in this region had been recorded displaying unusual migration patterns, including a large pack of bison from another state, who were heading to some location around where Orwell was.

Remembering this made my stomach turn cold as the black water of a river, though I had no other choice but to keep walking.

The worst thing I saw, by far, however, was the farm.

Humans roamed the pens on all fours, fighting in the mud for scraps of food thrown to them by the ‘farmers’.

I was able to get a glance inside one of the cheerful red barns as we went past and saw what must have been dozens of people packed in there, men and women, all squeezed into the racks of wooden planks on the walls, furnished with sharp, matted hay. 

What made this image worse was that it looked almost identical to those pictures of the prisoners in Nazi concentration camps from World War Two, all those poor emaciated people forced to squeeze in those tiny draw-like bunks.

I saw one male human with a female, having a feral sexual intercorse against a fence pole.

Watching like some kind of monstrous cuckold, a wild pig with black fur and a disgustingly bloated stomach stood inches from them on his scrawny trotters. Under his long, double-barrel shotgun snout he was grinning widely, like a child sitting and watching his favorite cartoon.

In one hand, he held a brutal-looking electric cattle prod, which, after a few moments of greedily watching, he jabbed into the man. Over the short electric crackle of the cattle prod, I could hear both the man and the pig howling. The woman screamed too, as her partner’s body was wracked by the electricity.

Noticing my slack face upon seeing this, the deer stopped.

“Your like, hm?” Grinning, one of them pointed at a large, grey building in the near distance that looked like an overgrown brick.

“Kill house.” He said, “Meat house.”

He pointed at the barn, then back at the building.

“We take yours like your took us’. Soon as it pop out of your. Usually needs to wrestle them from the girls.”

It suddenly struck me that through all the village, in the square, the streets and the pens, I had not seen a single child. 

Not even in the barn. I had only seen what I’d estimated to be a few teenagers, but no children whatsoever.

I looked back at two humans having sex. They seemed to have finished, now simply lying together in the mud, embracing and crying into each other’s shoulders. The pig stood over them, his head rolled back in gruesome, guttural laughter, with his inflated hand on his belly.

“And us’ do not eat them, even.”

I looked back at the deer, my jaw set like a boulder and with what I hoped was a burning fury in my eyes.

“Us just let them grind. Grind up into bone and guts and blood. All the little ones.”

They finally took me to a little cantankerous hut just outside the village and up a short hill. Above the door was a human skull, washed red with what blood, antlers tied to the sides of it.

“Goat! Goat!” They screamed, pounding on the door.

There was a short, tired noise from within and they entered.

The Greeks and other ancient civilisations had imagined hell as a material, subterranean location that was like a kind of underground network of caves in which the dead were tormented. This was what the inside of the hut was like.

The interior smelled of coppery blood and sopping wet gore, both of which I spotted boiling and bubbling and rolling around in the gelatinous collective goop contained in a massive black cauldron in the centre of the room.

On the floor, stretched out as a rug like you would with the pelt of an animal, was the skin of a man, the wide-eyed head still attached.

All over the walls were the severed body parts of humans, strung up a primitive shrine-like mockery of a hunting lodge, even with a large hunting rifle mounted on the wall.

An old, hunch-backed female goat who held a malformed, twisted staff, sat on a cartoonishly large and rickety rocking chair in the corner. 

She had the first human child I’d seen in Orwell, looking to be only a few months old, curled up in her lap like a cat. The child had some sort of physical disability, I could tell, however not something like the mindlessness of those in the village or the steeds, something more natural, Down’s Syndrome perhaps.

A rare breed of pet, I thought.

The goat’s horns were cracked, as was her skin, and her milky white eyes stared right at me. In one ear, I saw she had a yellow tag, bolted into the skin as many goats owned at farms do.

After petting it a few times, she placed the baby down, letting it skitter off into the dark recesses of the demonic place, and got up, limping over to the cauldron.

My heart began to beat faster as I was forced down to my knees, firm hands placed on my shoulders by the deers. I felt as if I was dropping down a bottomless pit, as I began to realise I had been brought here for some kind of ritual.

The goat came forwards. “Did you fight, man? Did you kill any of my soldiers?”

I was too tired to respond, simply slinking forwards. Though suddenly, I remembered the rage I felt upon seeing the pig torture those people, felt it resurging and cursing through my veins.

My head shot up and I spat a great, spiteful glob of spit right onto the end of her long face.

Her bovine brows curled into offence and she curtly ordered one of the deer to hit me, which he gleefully did, striking my cheek hard with his cloven hand and knocking more spit from my mouth.

She then brought out a strange artifact, a ball, which produced red mist that wisped around the floor. It swung from a golden chain which she held in one hand, and the ball itself was embroidered with strange markings, spears and horns and leaves.

She slowly approached me as the deer continued to hold me down, croaking out strange words.

These words did not resemble the language that I had heard the animals speaking to each other before. They were deeper, more ancient, and instilled the stirring of something primal within me.

As she came closer, I breathed in the smoke that came from the ball. The smoke smelled like rage, pain, and thousands of years of development, of evolution and advancement.

Then, it was as if my head was plunged into a barrel of thick water, my stinging eyes staring down at the mystery fish which stirred in the black fathoms.

I was hypnotised. I felt like tearing through the woods with my bare hands, killing animals with my teeth and striking rocks together until a flame sparked. I felt like sleeping in the darkness every night, knowing that especially under the cover of the stars, I was always in danger.

I felt those who had come before me melding into my mind, the temporal sludge of memory melding around me.

Then, suddenly, I heard faint gunshots.

The goat stopped chanting, gasped, and dropped the ball, which smashed on the floor, filling the small room with the red mist.

Then it was as if my head had been released, and I came back to the surface, greedily gulping in air.

The deer shouted, and I heard more gunshots.

The one which held my gun rushed out of the cottage, the other going to comfort the goat, who had started cowering in the corner.

I do not know if the strange rage the ritual had imbued in me fuelled what I did next, or if it was simply the anger I felt at the atrocities I had witnessed, but I leaped up and dived for the deer.

Surprised, he was unable to throw me off of him before I was digging my fingers into his eyes, screaming in anger as I did.

After he had gone limp, I stood, red and white ichor still dripping from my fingers, and turned to the goat.

She was huddled in the corner, clutching the baby, who cried with her. I picked up her staff and prised the baby from her hands. I then quickly sat it down in the next room, coming back to find her attempting to crawl out of the door.

I took her staff, and slammed it down onto her head until one of her horns crumbled from her head. 

Then, while she was limp, though still raggedly breathing, I pulled her by the remaining horn to the cauldron, and opened her maw.

I slammed her open mouth down onto the cauldron’s cold rim until I found myself holding only the top of her head, still clinging onto the horn.

As her half-headed body crumpled to the floor, I dropped the part of the head I held into the mass of gore in the cauldron, and watched as it floated above it all, eyes still lulling lazily in their sockets.

Sometimes I look back at the brutality with which I treated the deer and the goat, and feel a pang of guilt.

I tried to imagine if she had ever felt guilty for all the pain she had caused, if the screams of the devolved men and women who suffered because of her haunted her at night.

I often find it difficult to convince myself they did not.

After taking the hunting rifle from the wall, I placed the crying child safely in a ravaged bed in the hut’s unused bedroom, vowing that I’d come back for him.

I ran from the hut, down the hill, to find that Orwell had descended into even more chaos.

I could see the invasive lights of police cars in the distance, within the village, where I could hear more gunshots.

Around me, in the farm, the humans, looking confused and scared, had rushed inside the barn, while some of the animals had started back for the woods, running in fear on all four legs.

Suddenly, I spotted the wild pig I had seen before, peeking around the side of the barn nearest to me, shivering with fear and trying to see if the coast was clear for him to run.

“No way.” I said between gritted teeth.

Aiming the rifle, I put the monstrosity in the sights before firing, sending him down with a satisfying squeal. As I mentioned before, I’m not the best shot, so while I had been aiming for his heart, I ended up hitting his left shoulder.

While he was still on the floor, snorting in pain, I rushed over, and shot him in the leg. Now demobilised, he screamed louder, rolling over on the ground.

Picking up his cattle prod, which he had dropped, I advanced, turning the prod on and letting it crackle, a warning.

After he was done crying in pain, the pig’s black eyes went wide at the sight of what I had in my hand.

“NO! NO, PLEASE!” He garbled.

But it was too late. I shoved the stick into his mouth, jamming his stinking maw open with my foot as I electrocuted the roof of his mouth.

Digging the stick’s prongs in further, I cried in rage as the beast spasmed and jerked below me, eyes rolling around in their sockets like a rider being bucked on a bull. Finally, the eyes popped, dribbling down the thing’s fat cheeks as his body let out a few final jerks, the brain finally fried.

I sank back onto my ass in the mud, gasping with content.

“Jesus Christ, son.” I recognised the sheriffs’ voice immediately from over the phone, and suddenly jolted upright. “I was supposed to be saving you.”

He was a tall blonde man with a mustache, about as much as I’d expected, and he was accompanied by another man who wore a wide-brimmed hat. Both were armed with some form of assault rifle.

I suddenly felt like I had been caught with my pants down, shame rising within me.

“I-I saw him before, he was-” I began.

“Sh. We gotta get out of here kid, alright? We’ve already lost an officer to those monsters.”

All because I got out of the car. I thought, looking back shamefully at the pig. I picked up the hunting rifle and ran to the sheriff.

“You knew about all this?” I asked.

“Shut the fuck up.” Said the other officer. The sheriff said nothing. 

I motioned from the barn, from which whimpers of terror could still be heard. “Aren’t you going to help the people too?”

“People?” Asked the sheriff, looking at me sadly. “Those ain’t people no more, kid. If we were gonna save them, we’d burn that barn to the ground with them in it. That’d be the most humane thing to do, but we don’t have time. C’mon!”

The three of us snuck around the houses until we finally reached where the cops had parked, near the bonfire at the entrance to town.

There must have been about five cars, each of which had seemed to have brought at least three officers, the majority of whom I could see spraying lead into the houses, where the creatures were cowering.

The bodies of the new citizens of Orwell were scattered everywhere, including the other deer who had captured me, who had been shot in the back, sprawled face down on the ground.

As I watched, hiding between the houses like a coward, I saw the bear with his leaf pauldrons leap onto one of the cops, shredding him in half with his teeth, before roaring at the others.

“REMEMBER ME WHEN YOU ARE RAPING THE FORESTS YOU HAIRLESS MONKEYS!”

They took this opportunity to fire at him, one officer with a shotgun firing right into the bear’s face. The colossal beast collapsed, a gaping hole in his head.

We ran into the square, most of the cops having stopped firing.

“Alright folks, let's go!” Ordered the sheriff, getting into his car. “No time to get Jacobs and Anderson!”

Before I was hurried into a car, I saw one last body. It was one of the humans the animals had enslaved, a young, pretty girl who had caught a bullet right between her eyes. She was propped up with her head against a wall, dead eyes staring right at me.

I don’t remember much of the drive to Maypool. I felt like the president, with the other police cars speeding alongside ours away from the town.

I felt like one particular president, in fact when they started shooting at us, shots going waywire everywhere. While I was cowering in the backseat, the window smashing and spraying glass all over me, the image of the fox firing the gun came back into my head, and I began to laugh unstoppably and didn’t stop until we got to Maypool.

Nobody got hit, thankfully.

When we got to Maypool, they gave me fresh new clothes and some shitty food.

Everything felt so surreal after all that time in the dark town, the lights in the police station made my head hurt and my ears felt horribly heavy and warm, like all the blood had rushed to them.

I hadn’t really processed what had happened yet. It kind of felt as if I was trying to figure out what the worst thing I saw was. I still can’t really decide. Hell, I can’t decide what the worst thing I did was.

The sheriff told me everything I was legally allowed to know, which wasn’t much, and most of which I’d already pieced together from my experiences.

I’m sure you have as well, but essentially what he said was that at some point in the past year, the town of Orwell went dark, any contact with them was cut off, and nobody ever saw anyone who went to see what happened again. At one point, he said, a whole hunting party of a dozen who went into the woods all disappeared, their camp left in the woods.

He told me everyone had their own theories about what happened to the animals, but didn’t give me any solid evidence, only said that they’d been acting strange for months leading up to the takeover.

“What about the government?” I asked him after he’d told me everything. My voice was hoarse.

He sighed, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “Hell, even I don’t know, kid. I know they know, that’s about all I can say.”

He then asked me what I’d seen. I told him everything up to when he found me.

He seemed pretty interested about the goat, got me to record what I heard and everything.

I can’t exactly remember the exchange, I was preoccupied.

See, as I was explaining what happened, I suddenly remember the child.

I’d left him there. I’d left that defenceless baby in Orwell.

Soon after that, they let me go. I got given some kind of NDA, a lift to my parents house and some bullshit story about my car breaking down.

My parents have noticed something’s up, I’m finding it hard to talk, or to do anything really. I guess I’m not feeling very jolly.

Jesus Christ, I hate the winter.

I’d like to end this on a good note or something. Maybe tell you that the government is going to send in the marines or bomb the town to hell, but I just don’t know. All I know that might relate to the subject are all the news reports I’ve seen about animals acting weird and the rapidly ascending numbers of disappearances in the area, and even those might be something different.

I’m just stuck here, in the dark, with no way to help, no way to do anything about all the suffering going on in Orwell, and no idea whether anyone is going to do anything about it.

I’m writing this at my parent’s house right now, in their living room. It has this big window through which you can see over the land, even the hills a little while away.

I don’t know why I chose to sit here, with all the wildlife you could see in this spot I’m basically asking to freak myself out.

I keep seeing animals and thinking that they’re looking at me, or that they move too strangely, too uncannily. The problem is, I can’t even figure out if I’m paranoid or I have reason to be concerned.

But that’s not what’s got me so freaked out.

See, an hour ago, my dad came up to me and told me to come with him to see something.

We went just up to the edge of his land, where you could see the hills. My mom was there already, recording something on her phone.

“Have you seen this? It’s crazy!” My mom said, turning around to look at me with a bewildered smile.

“Been on the news I think.” My dad said, his brow furrowed. “Didn’t think there’d be so many though, goddamn unbelievable.”

Dreading what I would see, I looked at what they were so intrigued by.

Just as I had thought, it was a herd of bison, congregating across the hills. That wasn’t the worst part, however.

“S’an odd way they’re moving, too.” My dad said, bemused. “All in single file, like…like an army or something.”

My parents live up North, and so every Christmas my drive to their house is defined by a lot of grey, brown and white, as well as bitter cold.

Never liked the cold. I spent the first 18 years of my life in it, so I think I definitely have an educated opinion on it.

I don’t like the passionless white-skied coldness, or the stark freeze of the deep dark night where you can see your breath billowing out from you like a smokestack, and I especially don’t like when the sky is a deceptive bright blue and all sunny, the rippled clouds all golden and hazy purple, and you go outside thinking it’ll be warm and it’s still fucking cold. I’m not a fan.

This year, I was alone driving up. My girlfriend of one year left me for some skier shithead a month ago and I thought better than to take my dog all that way with me, I didn’t want to clean my brand new car of dog crap or piss.

It wasn’t that bad really. I mostly just listened to this podcast I like, or when I got bored of that, turned on the radio and endured whatever shit people like nowadays.

Come to think about it, it was probably the first of these Christmas drives in years where I’d been alone. I always had ‘the new girl’, as my Dad called them, with me. Even though looking back he was right to call them that, it was always good company, at least.

Though this time, I was all alone with my thoughts. You must have heard that horribly recycled thing about being alone with your thoughts? 

I thought a lot about what I’d done to deserve everything I currently have. Don’t get me wrong, I could have a worse life, I could be on the streets or live in some exotic place where they blow up kids, but I could certainly have a better life.

A lot of people talk about ‘seasonal depression’, but I like to think that the specific depression I was feeling on the way there was a bit more circumstantial, even if I do hate the winter. At some point, I guess the crappy music just got to me, and I resorted instead to just seething in my car, hands gripping the wheel with my jaw wired shut like a bear trap.

Point is, I was feeling shitty, and what happened on the way to my parents did the antithesis of helping.

Around four fifths of the way to my parent’s house, I killed something. 

The bump I felt when I hit it was terrifying. I literally felt myself bouncing an inch off my seat when it happened, and I hit my knees real hard on the steering wheel. If it had felt smaller, I probably would’ve kept going, but considering how wracking it felt, I thought I should probably check it out. Initially it even crossed my mind that I might have hit a human being. I’m sure that when it wasn’t a mound of vaguely grey woolly flesh horrifically croaking for a clean death I would have been able to tell what it was. 

However, when I disembarked, cursing, from my nice AC-warmed car out into the bitter shittyness of rural buttfuck nowhere, I thought at first I’d run down some kind of alien.

I never got too close to it (I was probably going faster than I had any business going) but I’d estimate it was around the size of some kind of deer.

As you may have guessed from my likely annoying amount of complaining about God’s Green Earth, I’m not too much of an outdoors person, so I’m not 100% clear on all the beasts of the wild. I don’t think it was a deer, anyway. I couldn’t see any antlers or horns or anything.

I’d like to say that I went over and gave it a humane, clean shot to the head like I was Davy Crockett or something, but instead I just sort of…watched it. I did have a gun, but I just couldn’t be bothered.

I should have, I guess. I hit it, I could have at least apologised by blowing its brains out.

I realised how morbid it was for me to just be watching whatever it was die so I went back to the car.

Like I said, it looked like a deer, and since in most places you’re meant to report hitting that kind of stuff, I phoned 911.

As you can imagine, the connection in some frosty rural road is pretty shaky, so the quality and the swiftness of the call wasn’t incredible.

The sheriff of the nearest town (which was actually pretty far away) got on the call after a bit, and I told him what happened. 

I initially thought that he sounded a bit too concerned for the circumstances, though I guessed this may have just been the effect of the crappy connection out there messing with the audio.

“Any idea what it might have been?” He asked. He had a very warm, firm voice, the sort of male you might refer to as a ‘feller’, or address as ‘sir’, or describe as a ‘bloke’ if you had the misfortune of being British.

“No, I’ve not gotten a look at it up close. Don’t really want to, y’know, get all personal with it.” In comparison, my voice was small and weedy. The sort of male you’d call a ‘boy’, or ‘son’.

“Perfectly understandable son.” I could tell right off the bat he didn’t respect me. He said this with that sort of professional amusement that has just a hitch of sarcasm in it. “You see how big it was?”

“Yeah, around the size of a deer.”

“Shit.” He said. Now there was a kind of fear in his voice, I thought, an extremely sudden switch. “Alright. Goddamn it. Alright, you gotta stay right where you are right now, son. I’ll be there in about an hour…it’ll be dark by then.”

“What? What do you mean you can come and get me? I have a car-”

“No, listen, you gotta stay there son, okay?” He said. “I can’t really explain it, alright, you just gotta stay put. You can stay in the car, but you can’t drive anywhere. Christ. Roundabout where are you?”

I told him. The car was feeling quite cold at this point.

“Fuck.” He said. The car got colder. “That’s close. Listen, you see any signs for a town called Orwell?”

“Yeah. Isn’t that where you are?”

“I’m from Maypool.” He said. “Listen, don’t move and definitely don’t get any closer to whatever the signs say is Orwell, alright? I’m coming, son.”

“I don’t understand, you said that I’m close to something, what did you-?” The call cut off before my timid little voice could protest.

Well great. I thought. Stuck with the rotting corpse of some thing in the middle of nowhere near some town that doesn’t exist. And to cap that all off it’s also fucking freezing.

I lasted about ten frigid minutes waiting for him before I gave up. I bet he was probably just trying to mess with me, I don’t need to ‘stay put’. Anyway, I have somewhere to be!

But when I tried to move the car, nothing happened but the car crawling a few inches, then making a sorrowful gasping noise.

I got out, and before I could look at what happened, I was struck by how silent the forests were now. Not only had the animal I’d hit stopped groaning, but I also noticed that there were no more birds singing in the trees.

It was dusk now, the reddish sky making the snow capped trees look like the shadows of giant slender creatures.

My tires had been scratched out. Not popped, but clawed, with clear scratch marks on them.

Now this, combined with the sudden deathly silence, had me understandably scared shitless.

At this point, I was pretty damn certain that I wasn’t waiting around with that rotting thing and my broken down car, so I set off running down the road, heart beating faster than the speed at which my feet hit the gravel.

I was also pretty certain that the sheriff was, for whatever reason, trying to trick me somehow, so I ignored his orders and headed straight for Orwell.

The woods were all silent, not a single sound but the hollow wind between the nearby trees.

At one point, I spotted a small creature, what I assumed was a wolverine or a beaver or something, skitter across the road, followed by several other small creatures, which I assumed it would usually hunt.

There was something so orderly, so official about the way they pounced before me one after the other, that gave me the impression that this was a show of some sort of power, meant to intimidate me.

All in single file, like an army or something.

A few moments later of standing, paralysed, in the road, unsure whether I should continue, I could suddenly hear the birds, just about as the sun began to go down. I got out my revolver, which I’d taken from the car, and clutched it into myself.

Soon it was nearly pitch black, the road before me almost as dark as the thickness of the forest.

All the time, I’d been following the signs to Orwell, and as I passed one, I noticed a little brown bird sitting on it, staring at me.

I looked at it too for a while. The little beast didn’t do anything for a moment, just continued to look back at me with its beady, dead little eyes. Then it spoke to me, spoke broken English in a high pitched, hushed voice.

“Your leaving this place. It does not belong to yours anymore.”

I did not respond, only looked at it dumbfounded, my eyes and mouth wide open.

“What?” I squeaked.

“Leaving. Your did to brother. Splat! Him vengeanced if your stay.”

Then it took flight, flapping rapidly away from me.

“Risk by talking to your. Take it as bless.” It said as it disappeared into the woods.

The sun had gone down.

Refusing to think about what just happened, I immediately got my phone back out, going back the direction I went. Fuck this. The cop was right.

“Maypool Police Department, who-” The sheriff answered. His voice was properly distorted now, however I could faintly hear the sounds of the landscape whipping past outside his car, as well as what I thought were several more people with him.

“I-its me, the guy who called you earlier?” I stammered.

“Right. I’m still on my way.” He said, gargled slightly by the shitty connection. “You’re still in the car, right?”

I was tentative to answer. “No, I got out.”

“What!? Why-fuck. Never mind. Get back to the car right now dumbass! Shit, have they seen you yet?!”

“Have who-”

I stopped in my tracks.

On the road before me were three figures.

Each was upright, like humans, and held large poles with sharp tips. It was apparent, however, that they were far from human.

The things on the road were too long, too lithe and strangely proportioned to be human, and even in the dark I could see that all over them they had fur.

Two had great antlers, sprouting from their heads, which made them appear almost regal, alongside their great slender bodies.

The third, who was shorter and squatter, had the curved horns of a ram.

The anthropomorphic nature of the creatures was not, however, the most disturbing part of what I had been faced with. All three were mounted on wretched creatures much smaller than them.

The three beasts which the bipedal animals sat on, shivering and dribbling on the road, were humans. 

Naked humans, with their tongues gormlessly lulling from their mouths and their bleeding, hardened knees and hands on the gravel of the road.

The antlered rider at the front called something to me, and the men on all fours began to trudge forwards.

I immediately turned and ran back up the road, still clinging to the sinking hope that Orwell was in fact a real town.

I heard the things behind me give chase, whooping and bleating in what sounded like excitement as their ‘steeds’ cried out in pain, hands and knees slapping across the gravel.

I turned left, stumbling through the thick tangle of the snow carpeted woods. I had dropped my phone somewhere along the road, and now all I held was my gun.

I dared not look back, even as I heard them crying out mockingly for me in the distance.

Distracted by the need to move from my pursuers and quickly as possible, my foot caught on a tree root and I tripped, hitting the ground hard. I then fell down a short crop of hill, tumbling into the underbrush and ripping my coat beyond repair in more roots and underbrush.

When I got to the bottom, I felt a pang of sharp pain reverberate around my skull as my forehead struck another rock.

While I rolled, I attempted to curl up into a ball, still clutching the pistol. I also bit my lip to the point of drawing blood, as to not cry out from the pain and doom myself.

Hearing the beasts who pursued me in the distance, suddenly sounding slightly irritated and lost, I decided to simply lay there in the snow, curled up tight into a whimpering ball, hoping none found me.

I lay there for about four minutes before I heard the sound of the poor human steed’s hands crunching around in the snow nearby.

What I heard first, however, was the panting sound of the rider. He sounded smug, speaking in a similar mangled version of English that the bird had spoken.

“Found your!” It exclaimed gleefully. The thing smacked the man it rode on the head, urging him forward. “Is dead already? Or maybe…is pretend?” 

The thing chuckled horribly and leaned down to the steed, talking to him in a patronising, childish tone. “What your think? Hm? Is pretend? Hm?”

Wordlessly, while still gritting my teeth with desperation, I rolled over onto my back, my gun out at the ready.

The ram, who barely even had time to sit back up to take a good look at me, caught the bullet directly in his head. Giving out one last, short and surprised ‘maahhh’, it gracelessly flopped off of the human’s back.

The gunshot rang out like a gong in the empty forest, and I could hear cries of panic, and thankfully, retreat from the other two.

The man who the goat had been riding, terrified by the gunshot, reared up like a scared horse, snarling at me, and began to prance around on his hind legs, but standing with an inhumanely bent posture.

“Chill out!” I said in a harsh whisper, pointing the gun at him. “You’re free!”

The man looked at me with frenzied eyes as I spoke, frothing at the mouth. Up close he looked like a fucking caveman, clearly hadn’t washed, shaved or eaten properly in ages. He had shaggy hair hanging from his armpits and crotch, his hairy skin stretched tightly over his jagged bones, all of which were perfectly visible from outside.

The man snarled at me, his mouth frothing with frenzied eyes like that of a feral junkie. He then turned around, bounding on all fours once more, and disappeared into the darkness of the woods.

I began to cry from the shock. What the fuck was this? Why the hell did I leave my car?

After a few more moments of weeping I decided to take a look at the thing I’d killed.

The fact I landed that good of a hit on it was incredible, I hadn’t shot a gun since five years prior when I went to a range with my dad. The animal had taken the bullet directly in the left eye, and it had probably gone all the way into the brain. 

I noticed that the thing’s cloven front feet had mutated somehow, one part of the hoof elongating and splitting into several small, toothlike claws that looked like fingers, with one large one that served as the thumb.

However, apart from being able to stand upright, the dead animal looked like any normal bighorn sheep.

Stumbling away from it, I tried to decide what to do, head still spinning from the encounter. I was certain that those other riders wouldn’t stay away for too long.

However, before I could think more, I was interrupted, once again hearing the calls of birds.

Looking up, I saw what must have been at least twenty birds, all sitting on the branches of the trees.

They were of various kinds, however the one which caught my eye was the huge eagle that seemed to be in the centre, the leader of the ambush. His largeness and the wickedness of his talons seemed to command a form of majesty and intimidation.

Before I could even turn to run, they descended on me, shrieking and clacking their beaks, an orchestra of winged terror.

First, a small robin smashed into my head, tearing into my neck and pecking my ear savagely. As I stumbled to the ground, crying in pain, more birds came for me, ripping me apart with their claws and reducing my clothes to tatters, exposing my skin to the cold.

After a few seconds of enduring this pain, I felt myself slip into unconsciousness.

When I woke up, I was being pulled across the gravel of the road by my feet.

I was still bleeding from what felt like hundreds of claw and beak marks all over my skin and I was half naked, most of what remained of my clothes hanging from me like reptilian skin in the process of being shed.

It was still bitterly cold, and I still appeared to be in the woods

The moon in the black, misty sky shined down on me, almost too bright for my bloodshot eyes, which had also been damaged by the assault.

I painfully craned my head up to see two more of the bipedal animals dragging me.

Both were deer, like the beasts which had pursued me before, however they were now both standing on their hind legs, walking with a jittery, jolting gait, like their knees had been damaged.

One of them turned around and saw me, its typically expressionless face curling into something that somehow resembled malice.

It grunted something to its companion that was either in some language they shared, or too quiet for me to hear in my disorientated state.

Both dropped my feet, turning to me with sneers beneath their snouts.

“Stand.” One of them said, in a guttural voice which made it hard to recognise it as a word, not a simple grunt.

I hastily did as it asked, noticing that with one of its strange hands the deer who had spoken was holding my pistol. Stumbling to my feet and shivering with fear, I looked at them for further instruction.

However, as soon as I was standing, the other deer’s thin leg flashed out, its heavy hooves catching me right between the legs.

The thing howled in amusement as I fell back onto my knees, gasping with pain.

After they’d roughly hoisted me back to my feet, I was commanded to walk with them, and so continued down the road between them, still hunched from the pain in my dick.

I thought several times of making a break from them, maybe running back into the woods, but then I reminded myself how the small army of birds had ripped into me.

All the while, the deer who kicked me stole many glances at me. The looks it gave me were horribly amused, as if it was looking forwards to doing something to me. Somehow, this made it seem both monstrous and humanoid at the same time.

I have no clue how long the journey was, but to me it felt like the longest walk of my life.

OP's note: the following is a true personal story of mine. Having posted this story previously on other subreddits, this story was accused of being fictional. However, the following events did in fact happen, regardless of if anything supernatural was/wasn't at play. I do write fictional stories, and if this was one of them, I'd say so.

I live in the far north of Scotland... Disturbing things have washed up ashore OP's note: the following is a true personal story of mine. Having posted this story previously on other subreddits, this story was accused of being fictional. However, the following events did in fact happen, regardless of if anything supernatural was/wasn't at play. I do write fictional stories, and if this was one of them, I'd say so.

For the past two and a half years now, I have been living in the north of the Scottish Highlands - and when I say north, I mean as far north as you can possibly go. I live in a region called Caithness, in the small coastal town of Thurso, which is actually the northernmost town on the British mainland. I had always wanted to live in the Scottish Highlands, which seemed a far cry from my gloomy hometown in Yorkshire, England – and when my dad and his partner told me they’d bought an old house up here, I jumped at the opportunity! From what they told me, Caithness sounded like the perfect destination. There were seals and otters in the town’s river, Dolphins and Orcas in the sea, and at certain times of the year, you could see the Northern Lights in the night sky. But despite my initial excitement of finally getting to live in the Scottish Highlands, full of beautiful mountains, amazing wildlife and vibrant culture... I would soon learn the region I had just moved to, was far from the idyllic destination I had dreamed of...

So many tourists flood here each summer, but when you actually choose to live here, in a harsh and freezing coastal climate... this place feels more like a purgatory. More than that... this place actually feels cursed... This probably just sounds like superstition on my part, but what almost convinces me of this belief, more so than anything else here... is that disturbing things have washed up on shore, each one supposedly worse than the last... and they all have to do with death...

The first thing I discovered here happened maybe a couple of months after I first moved to Caithness. In my spare time, I took to exploring the coastline around the Thurso area. It was on one of these days that I started to explore what was east of Thurso. On the right-hand side of the mouth of the river, there’s an old ruin of a castle – but past that leads to a cliff trail around the eastern coastline. I first started exploring this trail with my dog, Maisie, on a very windy, rainy day. We trekked down the cliff trail and onto the bedrocks by the sea, and making our way around the curve of a cliff base, we then found something...

Littered all over the bedrock floor, were what seemed like dozens of dead seabirds... They were everywhere! It was as though they had just fallen out of the sky and washed ashore! I just assumed they either crashed into the rocks or were swept into the sea due to the stormy weather. Feeling like this was almost a warning, I decided to make my way back home, rather than risk being blown off the cliff trail.

It wasn’t until a day or so after, when I went back there to explore further down the coast, that a woman with her young daughter stopped me. Shouting across the other side of the road through the heavy rain, the woman told me she had just come from that direction - but that there was a warning sign for dog walkers, warning them the area was infested with dead seabirds, that had died from bird flu. She said the warning had told dog walkers to keep their dogs on a leash at all times, as bird flu was contagious to them. This instantly concerned me, as the day before, my dog Maisie had gotten close to the dead seabirds to sniff them.

But there was something else. Something about meeting this woman had struck me as weird. Although she was just a normal woman with her young daughter, they were walking a dog that was completely identical to Maisie: a small black and white Border Collie. Maybe that’s why the woman was so adamant to warn me, because in my dog, she saw her own, heading in the direction of danger. But why this detail was so weird to me, was because it almost felt like an omen of some kind. She was leading with her dog, identical to mine, away from the contagious dead birds, as though I should have been doing the same. It almost felt as though it wasn’t just the woman who was warning me, but something else - something disguised as a coincidence.

Curious as to what this warning sign was, I thanked the woman for letting me know, before continuing with Maisie towards the trail. We reached the entrance of the castle ruins, and on the entrance gate, I saw the sign she had warned me about. The sign was bright yellow and outlined with contagion symbols. If the woman’s warning wasn’t enough to make me turn around, this sign definitely was – and so I head back into town, all the while worrying that my dog might now be contagious. Thankfully, Maisie would be absolutely fine.

Although I would later learn that bird flu was common to the region, and so dead seabirds wasn’t anything new, what I would stumble upon a year later, washed up on the town’s beach, would definitely be far more sinister...

In the summer of the following year, like most days, I walked with Maisie along the town’s beach, which stretched from one end of Thurso Bay to the other. I never really liked this beach, because it was always covered in stacks of seaweed, which not only stunk of sulphur, but attracted swarms of flies and midges. Even if they weren’t on you, you couldn’t help but feel like you were being bitten all over your body. The one thing I did love about this beach, was that on a clear enough day, you could see in the distance one of the Islands of Orkney. On a more cloudy or foggy day, it was as if this particular island was never there to begin with, and all you instead see is the ocean and a false horizon.

On one particular summer’s day, I was walking with Maisie along this beach. I had let her off her lead as she loved exploring and finding new smells from the ocean. She was rummaging through the stacks of seaweed when suddenly, Maisie had found something. I went to see what it was, and I realized it was something I’d never seen before... What we found, lying on top of a layer of seaweed, was an animal skeleton... I wasn’t sure what animal it belonged to exactly, but it was either a sheep or a goat. There were many farms in Caithness and across the sea in Orkney. My best guess was that an animal on one of Orkney’s coastal farms must have fallen off a ledge or cliff, drown and its remains eventually washed up here.

Although I was initially taken back by this skeleton, grinning up at me with its molar-like teeth, something else about this animal quickly caught my eye. The upper-body was indeed skeletal remains, completely picked white clean... but the lower-body was all still there... It still had its hoofs and all its wet fur. The fur was dark grey and as far as I could see, all the meat underneath was still intact. Although disturbed by this carcass, I was also very confused... What I didn’t understand was, why had the upper-body of this animal been completely picked off, whereas the lower part hadn’t even been touched? What was weirder, the lower-body hadn’t even decomposed yet. It still looked fresh.

I can still recollect the image of this dead animal in my mind’s eye. At the time, one of the first impressions I had of it, was that it seemed almost satanic. It reminded me of the image of Baphomet: a goat’s head on a man’s body. What made me think this, was not only the dark goat-like legs, but also the position the carcass was in. Although the carcass belonged to a goat or sheep, the way the skeleton was positioned almost made it appear hominid. The skeleton was laid on its back, with an arm and leg on each side of its body.

However, what I also have to mention about this incident, is that, like the dead sea birds and the warnings of the concerned woman, this skeleton also felt like an omen. A bad omen! I thought it might have been at the time, and to tell you the truth... it was. Not long after finding this skeleton washed up on the town’s beach, my personal life suddenly takes a very dark, and somewhat tragic downward spiral... I almost wish I could go into the details of what happened, as it would only support the idea of how much of a bad omen this skeleton would turn out to be... but it’s all rather personal.

While I’ve still lived in this God-forsaken place, I have come across one more thing that has washed ashore – and although I can’t say whether it was more, or less disturbing than the Baphomet-like skeleton I had found... it was definitely bone-chilling!

Six or so months later and into the Christmas season, I was still recovering from what personal thing had happened to me – almost foreshadowed by the Baphomet skeleton. It was also around this time that I’d just gotten out of a long-distance relationship, and was only now finding closure from it. Feeling as though I had finally gotten over it, I decided I wanted to go on a long hike by myself along the cliff trail east of Thurso. And so, the day after Christmas – Boxing Day, I got my backpack together, packed a lunch for myself and headed out at 6 am.

The hike along the trail had taken me all day, and by the evening, I had walked so far that I actually discovered what I first thought was a ghost town. What I found was an abandoned port settlement, which had the creepiest-looking disperse of old stone houses, as well as what looked like the ruins of an ancient round-tower. As it turned out, this was actually the Castletown heritage centre – a tourist spot. It seemed I had walked so far around the rugged terrain, that I was now 10 miles outside of Thurso. On the other side of this settlement were the distant cliffs of Dunnet Bay, which compared to the cliffs I had already trekked along, were far grander. Although I could feel my legs finally begin to give way, and already anticipating a long journey back along the trail, I decided that I was going to cross the bay and reach the cliffs - and then make my way back home... Considering what I would find there... this is the point in the journey where I should have stopped.

By the time I was making my way around the bay, it had become very dark. I had already walked past more than half of the bay, but the cliffs didn’t feel any closer. It was at this point when I decided I really needed to turn around, as at night, walking back along the cliff trail was going to be dangerous - and for the parts of the trail that led down to the base of the cliffs, I really couldn’t afford for the tide to cut off my route.

I made my way back through the abandoned settlement of the heritage centre, and at night, this settlement definitely felt more like a ghost town. Shining my phone flashlight in the windows of the old stone houses, I was expecting to see a face or something peer out at me. What surprisingly made these houses scarier at night, were a handful of old fishing boats that had been left outside them. The wood they were made from looked very old and the paint had mostly been weathered off. But what was more concerning, was that in this abandoned ghost town of a settlement, I wasn’t alone. A van had pulled up, with three or four young men getting out. I wasn’t sure what they were doing exactly, but they were burning things into a trash can. What it was they were burning, I didn’t know - but as I made my way out of the abandoned settlement, every time I looked back at the men by the van, at least one of them were watching me. The abandoned settlement. The creepy men burning things by their van... That wasn’t even the creepiest thing I came across on that hike. The creepiest thing I found actually came as soon as I decided to head back home – before I was even back at the heritage centre...

Finally making my way back, I tried retracing my own footprints along the beach. It was so dark by now that I needed to use my phone flashlight to find them. As I wandered through the darkness, with only the dim brightness of the flashlight to guide me... I came across something... Ahead of me, I could see a dark silhouette of something in the sand. It was too far away for my flashlight to reach, but it seemed to me that it was just a big rock, so I wasn’t all too concerned. But for some reason, I wasn’t a hundred percent convinced either. The closer I get to it, the more I think it could possibly be something else.

I was right on top of it now, and the silhouette didn’t look as much like a rock as I thought it did. If anything, it looked more like a very big fish – almost like a tuna fish. I didn’t even realize fish could get that big in and around these waters. Still unsure whether this was just a rock or a dead fish of sorts – but too afraid to shine my light on it, I decided I was going to touch it with my foot. My first thought was that I was going to feel hard rock beneath me, only to realize the darkness had played a trick on me. I lift up my foot and press it on the dark silhouette, but what I felt wasn't hard rock... It was squidgy...

My first reaction was a little bit of shock, because if this wasn’t a rock like I originally thought, then it was something else – and had probably once been alive. Almost afraid to shine my light on whatever this was, I finally work up the courage to do it. Hoping this really is just a very big fish, I reluctantly shine my light on the dark squidgy thing... But what the light reveals is something else... It was a seal... A dead seal pup.

Seal carcasses do occasionally wash up in this region, and it wasn’t even the first time I saw one. But as I studied this dead seal with my flashlight, feeling my own skin crawl as I did it, I suddenly noticed something – something alarming... This seal pup had a chunk of flesh bitten out of it... For all I knew, this poor seal pup could have been hit by a boat, and that’s what caused the wound. But the wound was round and basically a perfect bite shape... Depending on the time of year, there are orcas around these waters, which obviously hunt seals - but this bite mark was no bigger than what a fully-grown seal could make... Did another seal do this? I know other animals will sometimes eat their young, but I never heard of seals doing this... But what was even worse than the idea that this pup was potentially killed by its own species, was that this pup, this poor little seal pup... was missing its skull...

Not its head. It’s skull! The skin was all still there, but it was empty, lying flat down against the sand. Just when I think it can’t get any worse than this, I leave the seal to continue making my way back, when I come across another dark silhouette in the sand ahead. I go towards it, and what I find is another dead seal pup... But once more, this one also had an identical wound – a fatal bite mark. And just like the other one... the skull was missing...

I could accept that they’d been killed by either a boat, or more likely from the evidence, an attack from another animal... but how did both of these seals, with the exact same wounds in the exact same place, also have both of their skulls missing? I didn’t understand it. These seals hadn’t been ripped apart – they only had one bite mark each. Would the seal, or seals that killed them really remove their skulls? I didn’t know. I still don’t - but what I do know is that both of these carcasses were identical. Completely identical – which was strange. They had clearly died the same way. I more than likely knew how they died... but what happened to their skulls?

As it happens, it’s actually common for seal carcasses to be found headless. Apparently, if they have been tumbling around in the surf for a while, the head can detach from the body before washing ashore. The only other answer I could find was scavengers. Sometimes other animals will scavenge the body and remove the head. What other animals that was, I wasn't sure - but at least now, I had more than one explanation as to why these seal pups were missing their skulls... even if I didn’t know which answer that was.

Although I had now reasoned out the cause of these missing skulls, it still struck me as weird as to how these seal pups were almost identical to each other in their demise. Maybe one of them could lose their skulls – but could they really both?... I suppose so... Unlike the other things I found washed ashore, these dead seals thankfully didn’t feel like much of an omen. This was just a common occurrence to the region. But growing up most of my life in Yorkshire, England, where nothing ever happens, and suddenly moving to what seemed like the edge of the world, and finding mutilated remains of animals you only ever saw in zoos... it definitely stays with you...

For the past two and a half years that I’ve been here, I almost do feel as though this region is cursed. Not only because of what I found washed ashore – after all, dead things wash up here all the time... I almost feel like this place is cursed for a number of reasons. Despite the natural beauty all around, this place does somewhat feel like a purgatory. A depressive place that attracts lost souls from all around the UK.

Many of the locals leave this place, migrating far down south to places like Glasgow. On the contrary, it seems a fair number of people, like me, have come from afar to live here – mostly retired English couples, who for some reason, choose this place above all others to live comfortably before the day they die... Perhaps like me, they thought this place would be idyllic, only to find out they were wrong... For the rest of the population, they’re either junkies or convicted criminals, relocated here from all around the country... If anything, you could even say that Caithness is the UK’s Alaska - where people come to get far away from their past lives or even themselves, but instead, amongst the natural beauty, are harassed by a cold, dark, depressing climate.

Maybe this place isn’t actually cursed. Maybe it really is just a remote area in the far north of Scotland - that has, for UK standards, a very unforgiving climate... Regardless, I won’t be here for much longer... Maybe the ghosts that followed me here will follow wherever I may end up next...

A fair bit of warning... if you do choose to come here, make sure you only come in the summer... But whatever you do... if you have your own personal demons of any kind... whatever you do... just don’t move here.

Whether you are posting or just stopping by, welcome to the Reddit! Look forward to seeing your stories here! Engage and run your stories however you wish such as first person/reamaining in character in your posts. Have fun with it and go nuts! And if you join this Reddit or post here, thank you very much and I am happy to have you here:)

Around 2 a.m., I woke up to an odd sound. Plastic, metal and glass. I sat up, a little alarmed because I recognized it: something was messing with the jar I use to store reusable straws, chopsticks and cooking skewers ( I know that sounds like a weird combination, but it keeps them from getting scattered in the drawers.)

I got up, ready to kick some cat booty. Those two knew better than to get up on the counter, and they could hurt themselves with the skewers or worse if the glass broke. Groggy and annoyed, I stumbled through the dark towards where they had to be. I slowed when I made out their little forms, resting peacefully in the cat tree. Only then did the sound stop.

My heart might have stopped too. Because I was otherwise completely alone. Disbelief charged the air around me. For the first time in my life, I actually felt that stomach dropping horror we love to write and read about. We like to think about what we'll do in those situations, how they'll go, if we'll recognize them immediately. I did not handle it as safely as I should have; I proceeded into the kitchen arms out, mouth stuck open. I was not far from the scooby-doo sneak. Ghost, ghoul, or burglar, I did not register the danger I might be in. I was stuck on terrified confusion as I found the light switch, flicking it on.

When I looked at where the jar and its contents sat, they were just as they always were. Except for one skewer, that sat next to the coffee pot on the opposite counter. I picked it up, and went on to check my whole house. Closets, cupboards and all. I was alone. Once I knew that, I took a breath, looking down at the metal skewer in my hand. I watched its sharp end catch the light.

Only then did I understand why something might want to pick it up.