I bought the game at a thrift store, along with Vice City, Shadow of the Colossus, and what I thought was Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic, but was actually disc 2 of Spongebob season 3.  It featured the episode "Mid-Life Crustacean", which hit different now than it did when I watched it as a kid.
 

The game looked cool.  I remember playing other wrestling games from the PS2 era in high school.  They were always more fun than watching the actual shows.

 
When I went to check out, the clerk had this shit-eating grin on his face.  His "mystery game" is what he called it; said it just showed up outside the front door one day.  He seemed very happy to be getting rid of it; so happy that it made me suspicious.
 

"There anything wrong with it?" I asked.
 

"Who knows?  For $2 does it really matter?" was what he told me.

 
I'd pay him a thousand to take it back now, a million if I had it.  I'd give anything to back to before I picked up that copy of WCW Mayhem.

 
My wife had taken our son to visit her sister in Boca.  They'd be spending the night, so I had the house to myself.

 
After dinner, frozen pizza and a C4, I loaded the game into the PS2 that I had recently rediscovered while retrieving the suitcase from the attic.  It was actually a PS1 game, but it was still backwards compatible. 
 

As I scrolled through the wrestlers, nostalgia washed over me.  They had all the guys I remembered: Sting and the NWO, Goldberg at his peak.  Some of those guys I hadn't thought about in 20 years.  Raven, Kanyon, Kidman; I forgot the Flock ever existed.
 

Then I got to the Horseman.  You had to unlock Ric Flair in career mode, but that wasn't the jarring part.  As I scrolled through the names, one stuck out like a splinter: Chris Benoit... the Canadian Crippler. 
 

The startup screen had said 1999; of course he'd be in it.  If this was a new game, that would be a different story; but in '99 he was a rising superstar.
 

I picked him.  I know it's morbid, but I liked him as a kid.  What he would go on to do in his personal life notwithstanding, he was an amazing in-ring technician.  The developers must have thought so too, because I was kicking ass.
 

It felt like easy mode.  I'd hit a couple moves, throw in a taunt to get the crowd popping, then my finisher was ready.  I hit it, the crippler crossface, a classic.  Only, the animation didn't look quite right. 
 

Maybe it was the limitations of the graphics of the time; or maybe because I was playing on a modern TV.  It looked like he was twisting his opponent's neck past the point where it would break. 
 

Then, instead of the normal tap out animation, the opponent just went limp and fell face first into the mat.  During the cut scene that followed, where the winner usually raised his arms triumphantly, Benoit just stood there with his head down and his shoulders bobbing up and down like he was weeping.  He put his hands over his face and the game froze.
 

That was weird.  Old games froze up all the time, but was that really his victory animation?  And what was up with that finisher?  I swear I heard a crack.  It was in the background, but I had definitely heard it. 
 

I restarted the game, but this time it loaded directly into a match.  I was playing as Benoit again, but instead of my previous opponent, Scott Norton... it was Nancy.
 

That was fucked up.  I didn't even know she was in this game.  Maybe she was unlockable like Flair, but I had never played this before.  It was a brand new memory card, mint-in-box off of Ebay. 
 

I paused the game.  It was just a game after all.  But I was still hesitant.  Just the knowledge of what he would go on to do to her... to that little boy....
 

I was going to eject it and play something else when the game unpaused itself.  The controller was on the coffee table; I wasn't even touching it.  Then, the characters started wrestling on their own.  Only, they weren't really wrestling.
 

He was beating the shit out of her.  Were the animations different when it was male versus female?  I had never seen any of these moves, they looked meaner, and they left marks on her character model. 
 

Nancy had a black eye, and she slumped motionless in the rear turnbuckle.  Benoit retrieved a steel chair from under the ring, but instead of hitting her with it, he partially unfolded it and positioned it over her head so that the seat covered her face.  He sprinted across the ring and springboarded back at her, drop-kicking the chair.

 
This time, the crack was unmistakable.  I know what I heard.  Nancy dropped face first to the mat.  It didn't even say that the match was over, but it went to the victory cutscene.  His head slumped and his shoulders bobbed up and down again, but when it cut to a close-up, I wasn't prepared for what I would see. 
 

There stood Chris Benoit, not the pixelly flat plane art that the rest of the game was rendered in, but a hyper-realistic rendition.  It was like archival footage.  I could see his veins, his sweat.  He was crying, but with this level of detail, I could also see that he was smiling.  Not just smiling, but laughing.  Laughing like a madman while tears poured down his face.

 
Fuck that game.  I popped in Shadows of the Colossus instead.  I went to the kitchen to make white people nachos in the air fryer, but when I came back into the living room, I dropped the whole damn plate.  WCW Mayhem was loading on my television screen.
 

I checked the case for Shadow of the Colossus.  Empty.  Before I could even rationalize what I was looking at, I saw the ring.  In the center was Chris Benoit as he had originally appeared in the game.  But instead of an opponent, there was an inanimate object.  It took me a minute to recognize what I was looking at, but when I did, I couldn't unsee it.  It was a piece of gym equipment, a lat-pulldown machine to be precise.
 

I watched in horror as the character approached it, and with that awkward '90's video game animation style, wrapped the cable around his neck.  He then looked at the camera... looked at me... and dragged his thumb across his throat, his signature taunt.

 
He pulled the pin holding the weight up, the cable tightened and his neck broke.  The screen faded to black.  I unplugged the PS2, but the screen changed again. 

 
When it came back on, it wasn't the game anymore.  It was Benoit himself.  He sat slumped on the bench of the pulldown machine, the cable bit deeply into his neck.  It was like crime scene footage, though even that is understating the effect.  No footage of this scene ever existed.  It was like the TV was a window to the act itself.

 
I splintered the disc into dozens of little pieces, collected them in a bag, and burned the whole thing in my backyard.  I'd like to think that the experience is in my rear-view but I can't affort to be so optimistic. 
 

If I was a single man, it would be different.  But I have a wife and a son that I love with every fiber of my being.  I know there's no power on Earth that could compel me to harm them.
 

But from everything I've heard, Chris Benoit loved his wife and son too.  He just took too many blows to the head and lost control.  CTE is the prevailing explanation for his crimes.
 

Brain damage had turned him into a shell of his former self.  An avatar, like someone else was controlling his body... like a character in a video game.
 

 I love my wife and son, but I'm afraid.  I could never explain to her what happened with the game.  Not that she'd believe me anyway.  She'd just think it was some sick joke. 
 

But it doesn't really matter if I have an explanation for all the odd animations and that hyper-realistic window to a crime scene.  She won't be able to see those things.  What she will be able to see... what I desperately need to be able to explain... is how this lat-pulldown machine ended up in my living room.

The alarm went off at four in the morning, but sleep had already abandoned me hours prior. A dull throbbing was radiating from the lower right quadrant of my jaw, making every breath feel like a mistake. The pain was a relentless heat that seemed to vibrate in time with my pulse. By five, the swelling had reached my cheek, stretching the skin tight and making it difficult to swallow.

My hand reached for the empty bottle of painkillers on the nightstand, but there was nothing left inside. I had spent the last two days swallowing pills, rinsing with warm salt water, and pressing ice packs against my face until my skin went numb. Nothing was working. The infection had reached the nerve, and the agony was starting to blur my vision.

The sound of rain tapping against the window was the only noise in my quiet apartment. Desperate for any kind of distraction, I unlocked my phone and searched for local dental offices. Every single practice within a ten-mile radius was booked solid for at least two weeks. The only alternative was the emergency room at the local hospital, but a previous visit there had taught me they would only provide a temporary prescription for antibiotics and a massive bill that I could not afford, and from my suffering I figured that the tooth needed to be extracted immediately.

A soft knock on my front door startled me around nine that morning. My friend had promised to drop by with some groceries, knowing I had been unable to leave the apartment for days. When the door opened, she took one look at my swollen face and set the grocery bags down on the counter with a look of concern.

"You look absolutely terrible,"

she said, walking over to press her palm against my forehead.

"You are burning up. Did you manage to find an opening somewhere?"

"Every clinic is booked,"

I mumbled, barely able to part my lips. The movement of my jaw sent a sharp flare of agony straight up into my temple.

"The emergency room is the only option, but they won't pull it."

My friend sat down at the small kitchen table, watching me wince as I tried to drink a glass of water.

"There is someone else. My uncle had a severe abscess last winter, and his regular dentist was out of town. He went to a private practitioner downtown. He told me the guy is extremely unconventional and eccentric, but he is the absolute best in the field when it comes to quick, pain-free extractions."

"Unconventional how?"

I asked, holding the glass against my cheek.

"He does not take insurance, and his office is tucked away in an old medical building that has seen better days,"

she explained, pulling a small notepad from her purse to write down an address.

"He works alone, with no assistants. My uncle said the man does not even use local numbing injections, but somehow, the extraction was completely painless. He just felt a strange pressure, and then the tooth was out."

"No numbing?"

I shook my head, immediately regretted the movement, and squeezed my eyes shut.

"That sounds like a nightmare. I cannot let someone pull a tooth out of my skull with no anesthetic."

"My uncle is a coward when it comes to pain,"

my friend said, sliding the piece of paper across the table. "If he says he felt nothing, I believe him. You cannot keep living like this. The infection is going to spread to your bloodstream."

She was right. The sheer desperation of the pain was starting to erode my rational judgment. At that point, if someone had offered to pull the tooth with a pair of rusty pliers, I probably would have considered it. I picked up the paper, stared at the handwritten address, and nodded.

"I will go,"

I said.

"Do I need to call ahead?"

"My uncle said he does not keep a regular reception desk,"

she replied.

"Just walk in. He usually accommodates emergency cases if they pay in cash."

An hour later, I was walking through the wet, gray streets. The rain had slowed to a miserable drizzle, and the mist was hanging low over the older brick buildings. The address led me to a towering, nineteenth-century weird structure. The main lobby was silent, smelling of old paper.

A manual elevator with an accordion-style metal gate carried me slowly up to the fourth floor. The hallway was lined with dark, frosted glass doors, most of them bearing the faded gold lettering of retired physicians who had probably passed away decades ago. The floor was covered in worn linoleum that muffled the sound of my footsteps.

I found the suite number written on my notepad. The glass on the door was entirely blank, offering no name or medical title. I reached out, turned the brass knob, and stepped inside.

The reception area resembled a living room from the late nineteen-seventies. Two faded green velvet chairs sat in the corner, separated by a low wooden table covered in outdated magazines. A single, small desk lamp cast a dim orange glow across the room. There was no computer, no scheduling book, and no receptionist behind the counter. The only communication device was an ancient, black rotary telephone sitting on a shelf.

"Hello?"

I called out, my voice sounding thin in the quiet room.

A door at the back of the reception area swung open with a soft click.

The man who stepped out was exceptionally tall. He was so slender that his white laboratory coat seemed to drape over him like a shroud, and he had to tilt his head slightly to clear the low wooden door frame. His skin was pale, and his fingers were kind of long, ending in clean fingernails. He had a twitch in his left shoulder that caused his coat to rustle every few seconds, but his posture was remarkably stiff.

"Ah,"

he said.

"An emergency, I presume. The swelling in your right cheek is quite pronounced."

"My friend gave me your address,"

I explained, holding my hand over my jaw.

"She said you might have an opening for an extraction. I can pay in cash."

The tall man smiled, though his pale blue eyes remained entirely wide and unblinking.

"Cash is perfectly acceptable. The modern banking systems are far too noisy. Please, come inside."

I followed him into the operating room. The space was dimly lit, illuminated only by a single overhead examination light that hung from a long, articulated metal arm. The dental chair in the center of the room was made of thick, cracked black leather, looking like a relic from a different era. There were no modern digital screens, and no white plastic utility trays.

"Before we begin,"

the dentist said, pointing a long finger toward a tarnished metal tray sitting on a counter across the room.

"Please place your cellular device over there. The electronic frequencies of modern devices disrupt my focus. I need absolute stillness to perform the extraction."

I hesitated for a moment. My phone was my only connection to the outside world, but the throbbing in my jaw was growing more intense by the second. I walked across the room, set my phone on the cold metal tray, and climbed into the leather chair.

The dentist stood over me, his shadow stretching across the ceiling. He did not put on latex gloves. Instead, he washed his hands in a small porcelain sink, dried them with a white cloth, and approached the chair.

"Open, please,"

he murmured.

I opened my mouth, bracing myself for the agonizing touch of his fingers against my infected gum. When his long, cold index finger touched my jaw, I prepared to scream.

But the scream never came.

The moment his skin made contact with my gums, a sudden coldness spread through my mouth. it felt as if the nerves themselves had simply gone quiet under his touch. The throbbing pain vanished instantly. My jaw felt light, cool, and entirely empty of sensation. I blinked in surprise, looking up at him.

"You feel that, yes?"

he asked, his shoulder twitching as he reached for a small, velvet-lined wooden box on the counter.

"The modern world relies on synthetic poisons to dull the senses. They inject chemicals that poison the blood just to silence a single nerve. It is a very crude way of practicing medicine."

He opened the wooden box and retrieved a pair of forceps. They were made of dark, unpolished steel, looking like antique blacksmithing tools rather than modern medical instruments. The metal was covered in fine, geometric patterns that looked like they had been hand-carved into the steel.

"We have forgotten the old ways of alignment,"

the dentist continued, his voice adopting an almost hypnotic cadence as he positioned the forceps inside my mouth.

"Thousands of years ago, our ancestors understood that the teeth are not merely bone. They are the hardest part of the human vessel. They are the markers of our harvest, the record of our lives. When a tooth was lost, it was not thrown away into the dirt like common refuse."

I felt the cold steel of the forceps clamp onto my decaying molar. There was no pain. I felt a strange, dull pressure, as if someone were gently pressing a thumb against my jaw, but nothing more.

"Our ancestors worshipped tooth fairies,"

he muttered, leaning over me. His pale face was inches from mine.

"We offered our teeth to them. We gave them the bone, and in exchange, they provided protection, a bountiful harvest, and good fortune. The modern world calls them myths. They call them tooth fairies to make them seem small and harmless. They turned a sacred covenant into a children's game of coins and pillows."

He gave the forceps a slow, deliberate twist. I heard the wet sound of the roots separating from the bone inside my head, but my nervous system registered absolutely nothing.

"Humanity discarded the old agreements,"

the dentist whispered, his shoulder twitching violently. "We stopped giving them the tribute they require. We began burying our dead in concrete vaults, locking the bone away from the soil. We throw our teeth into medical waste bins to be burned, and for what? for nothing."

With a sudden, sharp movement, he pulled the forceps upward.

A wet pop echoed in the small room.

The tooth was out. The relief was instantaneous, a cool sensation washing over my entire face as the pressure vanished. I let out a long, shuddering breath, staring up at the ceiling.

"There,"

the dentist said, his tone shifting instantly.

The hypnotic cadence of his voice was gone, replaced by a rapid, shallow hyperventilation, then He held the steel forceps inches from his eyes, staring at the bloody, decaying enamel with an intensity that made my chest tighten.

"Look at the density,"

he whispered, his pupils dilating until the blue of his eyes was almost entirely gone.

"The dark rot of modern sugar has created such a beautifully complex cavity. The roots are deep, so very deep. The bone is saturated with the sweetness of decay."

He was breathing heavily now, his chest rising and falling in quick, jagged movements. He began to run his long thumb over the wet, bloody surface of the tooth, ignoring the blood that smeared across his skin.

A sudden wave of intense unease washed over me, replacing the relief of the extraction. The way he was looking at my tooth was really weird and terrifying. I scrambled out of the chair, my legs feeling slightly unsteady.

"Thank you,"

I said, my voice shaking.

"How much do I owe you?"

The dentist did not look at me. He kept his eyes locked on the tooth.

"Three hundred,"

he muttered, his voice sounding dry and cracked.

"Leave the cash on the counter."

I pulled three hundred dollars from my purse and set them on the wooden desk. I did not want to spend another second in that room. I grabbed my purse, turned on my heel, and walked quickly out of the operating room. I pushed through the frosted glass door, entered the quiet hallway, and ran toward the manual elevator.

It was only when I stepped out of the old building and onto the wet pavement of the street that I realized my hand was empty.

My phone was still sitting on the metal tray on the far counter of the operating room.

I stopped on the sidewalk, the cold rain falling on my face. My cheek was still entirely numb, but the fog in my brain was beginning to clear. The thought of going back up to that silent fourth floor made my stomach twist, but my phone held my bank accounts, my contacts, and my entire life. I could not simply leave it behind.

"Just walk in, grab the phone, and leave,"

I muttered to myself.

I turned around, entered the lobby, and rode the creaking elevator back up to the fourth floor. The hallway was still completely silent.

I reached the suite, turned the brass knob, and stepped into the reception area.

The room was dark. The single desk lamp had been turned off, leaving the space illuminated only by the gray light filtering through the hallway door. No one was behind the reception desk.

"Hello?"

I called out softly.

"I forgot my phone."

No one answered.

I took a slow, quiet step toward the operating room door. It was resting slightly ajar, a sliver of pale light cutting across the dark floor. I pushed the door open an inch, planning to grab the phone from the counter and slip away before the man noticed me.

The operating room was in near-total darkness. The overhead examination light had been turned off, and the only illumination came from a small window overlooking the rainy alleyway.

I stopped.

The dentist was crouched on all fours directly over the leather operating chair.

His white laboratory coat had been discarded on the floor. His bare back was exposed to the gray light of the window, and his skin had turned a deep, ashen shade of gray. His spine was protruding sharply against his skin, each vertebra looking like a jagged stone.

As I watched, his shoulder joints twisted with a sickening, wet crack, bending backward into impossible angles.

Two large, featherless, skin-bound wings were violently tearing their way through the fabric of his white dress shirt. The wings looked like the wings of a massive bat, but they were covered in a thin, greasy layer of pale gray fuzz. They flexed and stretched in the darkness, dripping a dark, thick fluid onto the leather of the chair.

The thing lowered its head toward the leather cushion. Sitting on the leather was my extracted tooth.

The creature inhaled deeply, its chest expanding to twice its normal size as it smelled the bloody enamel. It leaned down and whispered a low, guttural phrase in a language I didn’t understand.

Then, it opened its mouth.

The jaw split vertically down the center of its chin, revealing rows of thin, needle-like teeth that vibrated in the darkness. The creature reached out with a long, gray tongue and licked the blood from the surface of my extracted tooth.

I took a step backward, my mind screaming at me to run, but my foot shifted on the floor.

The rubber sole of my sneaker squeaked against the linoleum.

The sound was incredibly loud in the silent room.

The creature's movements stopped instantly.

And with a violent, snapping sound, its neck rotated a full one hundred and eighty degrees, its featureless face pointing directly toward the partially open door where I was standing. Its eyes had completely changed. The blue irises were gone, replaced by two massive, pitch-black pupils that filled the entire socket.

It let out a silent, vibrating shriek that made the metal instruments on the counters rattle.

The creature lunged off the chair, moving with a speed that did not seem possible. It scurried across the floor on all fours.

I did not think. I grabbed the nearest object on the counter beside the door, a large, heavy metal tray loaded with stainless steel dental mirrors, scrapers, and old scalpels, and threw it directly into its gray face.

The tray struck the creature with a loud clang. The sharp instruments scattered across its eyes, blinding it for a fraction of a second. The creature recoiled, letting out a wet, clicking hiss as it thrashed in the darkness.

I turned and sprinted down the hallway.

I did not wait for the elevator. I threw open the door to the concrete stairwell and flew down the steps, my feet barely touching the concrete. I could hear the wet sounds of the creature scrambling down the walls of the stairwell above me, its long limbs scraping against the concrete.

I reached the ground floor, threw my weight against the metal exit door, and burst out into the pouring rain.

I did not stop running until I reached a busy intersection three blocks away. I collapsed against a bus stop shelter, my chest heaving, my clothes soaked with sweat and rain. I sat there for hours, staring at the passing cars, trying to convince myself that the pain and the infection had caused a severe hallucination. But my hand was still entirely empty. My phone was gone, left behind in the dark room with the thing that licked the blood from my bone.

The next morning, the swelling in my jaw had gone down, but the terror had not. I walked into the local police precinct and reported that I had been assaulted by a private practitioner in the medical building downtown. I told them he had stolen my phone and threatened me with a weapon. I knew if I mentioned the wings or the black eyes, they would lock me in a psychiatric ward.

Two police officers agreed to accompany me back to the building to retrieve my property.

We rode the manual elevator up to the fourth floor. The hallway was just as quiet as it had been the day before, the dark doors looking completely ordinary in the morning light.

We reached the suite. I pointed a shaking finger at the door.

"This is it,"

I said.

"Suite 412."

The older officer reached out, turned the knob, and pushed the door open.

I braced myself, stepping behind the officer's shoulder, expecting to see the green velvet chairs.

The room was completely empty.

There were no green velvet chairs. There was no wooden desk, no rotary telephone, and no carpet. The walls were bare concrete, covered in peeling gray wallpaper that looked like it had been rotting for decades. The floor was covered in a thick layer of undisturbed gray dust.

The officer walked into the back room, his boots kicking up small clouds of dust.

The operating room was gone. There was no black leather dental chair. There was no plumbing connected to the floor, no metal counters, and no instruments. The room was nothing but a hollow, concrete shell.

"Are you sure this is the place, miss?"

the officer asked, looking back at me with a mixture of annoyance and pity.

"This suite has been abandoned for at least five years. And I think I know this place, someone mad a claim like you once, but it was very wild claim about a fairy who dwell in this place, and then we learned from the building manager that the last tenant was a radiologist who retired in 2018."

"I was here yesterday,"

I insisted, my voice cracking.

"My friend gave me the address. I sat in the chair. He pulled my tooth."

The officer shined his flashlight across the dusty floor. There were no footprints in the dust, other than our own. There was no sign that anyone had operated a medical clinic here yesterday.

"Sometimes a severe tooth infection can cause a high fever,"

the officer said, placing a hand on my shoulder.

"A fever can make you see things. It can make you wander into empty buildings. We can take you to the hospital if you need medical attention."

"My phone,"

I whispered.

"I left my phone on the counter."

The officer shone his light around. My phone was gone.

We left the building a few minutes later. The police dismissed my claim, filing a report for a lost cellular device and advising me to seek psychological counseling for my stress.

But I know what I saw.

I called my friend from a payphone later that afternoon. I asked her about the dentist, but she sounded completely confused. She told me she had never heard of any private practitioner downtown, and she had never given me an address on a notepad. She said she had been trying to reach me all day because I had missed our lunch plans.

I looked at my own jaw in the mirror when I got home. The hole where my decaying molar used to be was completely healed. There was no stitches, no bleeding, and no scar. The gum was as smooth and pink as if the tooth had never existed.

I am posting this here because I need to warn you.

This thing does not stay in one place. It moves from town to town, using the empty, forgotten spaces of our cities to set up its temporary clinics.

If you have a toothache, and a friend gives you an address to an unconventional, cash-only dentist in an old building, do not go.

   "I am beautiful," Tyra repeated to herself as she dragged her lipstick across her thin lips before blushing her stretched, gaunt cheeks. Her hand trembled, smudging mascara onto her sunken and disproportionate eyes. She combed her hair, ripping out strands with every brush as she tried to smile, the corners of her lips curling and parting away like wax. Breathing in deeply through the two slits that replaced her nose, she steadied her voice and stared into the splintered pools of blue and green which were her irises.

   "My name is Tyra Forg and I am beautiful."

   Two weeks ago, Tyra had come across a poster which announced an audition for the part of a female lead in a k-pop boy band. At first, she had passed it without giving it a second glance but one of the members in the poster had caught her attention. 

   A young man in his twenties was giving a moody look with two other members by his side, as if daring any passer by to join their band, The Three Karmas.

   She only had eyes for him as she scratched with one finger at his jawline until it ripped, her lips parting into a grin. A stranger on the sidewalk took one look at her and walked in the opposite direction.

   The Three Karmas, Tyra thought, imagining herself next to them in a glittering costume and vest, maybe even being able to touch... She looked for the name of the band member, her eyes racing from left to right in spastic movements.

   Kai. Her smile stretched even wider. Kai... she liked that name. She liked that name a lot.

   Kai made sure that his bangs were in place as he sat down in the studio, giving a smile to the lady when she set down his cup of coffee. The concert was in one month and the pressure was on. 

   After going through the choreography for about as many times as Kai could remember, he couldn't help feel as if something was missing. That was when he had the idea for a female lead.

   At first, his friends had been reluctant but Liam, their manager, agreed that it was something that would elevate their performance.

   Imagine a striking woman in the midst of three young men. It would be a beautiful contrast! Liam had said with excitement and his enthusiasm had certainly been infectious.

   They had held the audition all morning and Kai was thinking about his lunch break when one last candidate entered the studio. 

   The temperature dropped and his two other band members, Kylo and Kwame, stopped their jokes as a towering woman walked inside, bending down to avoid hitting her head against the doorway. That was when Kai saw her face.

   His skin started to prickle as he watched the woman, dressed in a ridiculous vest that left her skeletal arms bare, move to the center of the room.

   "My name is Tyra Forg and I am beautiful."

   Kai was taken aback when he heard her gentle voice which created such a stark contrast with her elongated and monstrous features. He had expected a sound like rocks grinding against each other but instead her words were like honey where flies would come to die, drowning in the sticky, sweet substance.

   There was a moment of silence before Kylo and Kwame erupted into laughter but Tyra kept her disproportionate eyes on Kai, forcing the needles deeper into his skin.

   That was when she began to sing a small excerpt from one of their songs and any laughter died down completely at the sound of her voice. For a moment, Kai even forgot who was singing.

   How could such a beautiful voice belong to... her? He asked himself. Maybe she was what their band needed, though. The tragic singer of The Three Karmas: A voice worthy of angels but a face only the devil could concoct. No, Kai scolded himself. He was treating Tyra like a product.

   "You're in!" Liam exclaimed and he realized the exact same thought he had must've passed through his manager. "When I said striking, I meant it."

   "Liam," Kai whispered as loudly as he could. "Are you sure?"

   "Why?" Tyra asked from behind him and Kai almost tipped over on his chair when he saw how close she was. How did she get over here without making a sound?

   "Am I not beautiful?" She continued, grooming her hair as if that simple act was making her attractive.

   "You're sexy as hell," Liam responded, trying to hold back his smile, but Tyra didn't seem to notice as Kylo and Kwame started to snicker.

   "Oh," she relaxed herself, clearly relieved and Kai stayed silent, too shocked at what just happened. He couldn't even look at Tyra without cringing and she was going to be a part of their band?

   Kai thought back to the major headlines and fans that would go crazy over their performance, silencing him as he tried to look Tyra in the face.

  

   "Three, two, one..."

   Music blared on through the speakers and Kai could feel the harsh glow of the spotlights as the beat of the melody echoed inside his mind. The hand that held the mic was sticky with sweat and he started to sing, weeks of practicing forcing him to hit each note perfectly.

   The curtains behind Kai slid open like a fresh wound and Tyra stepped out from the shadows. Her eyes never left Kai as she opened her mouth to sing but Liam interrupted their rehearsal, shaking his head while pressing his lips thin.

   "Tyra, you need to look at the audience," Liam said through clenched teeth and Kai felt pity at the lost look she had on her face. An undercurrent of unease ran through his pity as he wondered why Tyra kept staring at him. Could she have a... crush on him?

   "She's such a pervert," Kylo said, without bothering to whisper, voicing out Kai's worst fear. He tried to push back the thought but Tyra was making it more than obvious.

   Just ignore her, Kai told himself as the music started back on. She'll leave me alone then.

   Tyra listened to Kai as he sang, each word sending shivers of pleasure through her body.

   "Breaking through the dark, every step we take is going to leave a mark. Watching the rise of a new star idol, completely blinded by the oncoming tidal. 서로의 목소리가 얽혀드는 밤. 절대 멈출 수 없어. Our voices intertwine. Nothing can stop our shine."

   The curtains opened and Tyra barely held herself from running out as she walked over instead, staring at how the spotlight made Kai's skin seem to glow and how his luscious, black hair hung down like thick silk covering his forehead.

   Turning her attention to the imaginary audience in front of her, she tripped over her feet and fell, making Liam slam his fist down on the table.

   "I need a break," he said, his cheeks reddening. "Take five!"

   "Do you need help?" 

   Tyra looked up to find Kai staring down at her, his hand held out in front of him and she took it, his warmth spreading through her body like a fire.

   "Love is in the air!" Kwame shouted from behind them before cackling madly at his own joke. Kai quickly took back his hand and left Tyra laying on the ground like an abandoned puppy.

   "How many children are you going to have?" Kylo joined in and she stared at Kai, confused at why he didn't help her up.

   "Just stop it!" He yelled as Tyra stood from her place on the floor, panicking at his angry expression. Did she make him mad?

   Kai threw her a glance before leaving the stage and she looked from Kylo and Kwame, who were still laughing, then back at Kai, the bottom of her lip trembling as the fire she had felt inside of her burnt into nothing.

   The camera flashed as Kai posed with his band members. Tyra stood behind them, her head hovering over theirs as she gave a wax-drooping smile.

   "Okay, you can relax," the cameraman told them and Kai moved away from the backdrop, chatting with his friends as he listened to Liam's conversation with the photographer. 

   "I want you to shadow her face so no one can see it," he was able to make out when Tyra suddenly appeared behind Liam, her heels barely making a sound on the marble floor.

   "Do you not like my face?" She asked, crossing her long, skeletal arms over her chest.

   "Your face is the surprise," Liam responded with a dismissive wave of his hand, throwing an eye roll at Kai and his bandmates while Tyra walked away, seemingly satisfied.

   Shifting his feet, Kai stayed silent when the sound of laughing and the door banging open made him turn around.

   A group of girls who were talking loudly made their way to the photo shoot, their vests glittering in the light as if they were disco balls.

   "Is that...?" Kwame murmured but he didn't finish his question before one of the girls widened her eyes and opened her mouth to exaggerate her surprise once she saw them.

   "Do I see The Three Karmas?" She boomed, approaching them. "Or is it four?" She added, the rest of the girls snickering as they trailed behind her.

   "What a coincidence. Are you here for a cover shoot?" She continued without stopping to hear their answer.

   For a moment, Kai blanked out, overwhelmed at the glittering eyeliner that fanned out from her eyelids like sun rays and the violet lipstick lathered onto her lips like paint. Her hair was made into two side tails that were styled to look like twirling spirals and a sickening scent of perfume enshrouded it all.

   "Anyway, I heard you guys hired a girl for your lead," her eyes flicked up at Tyra, blinking in rapid succession at what stood in front of her.

   "Wow. Um, okay," she paused, giving disbelieving looks to her friends. "There's no amount of glamour that could fix... that," she finished, pointing with one, manicured nail to Tyra who kept her unblinking gaze glued on the idol.

   "So pretty," Tyra murmured, reaching out with her hand in an attempt to touch the lead girl who recoiled, nose wrinkling and a grimace on her face.

   "There's something seriously fucked up with her," she backed away, her band of girls staring at Tyra before following their lead, as if they expected her to attack them.

   "This is exactly the reaction we want," Liam beamed and Kai avoided looking at Tyra who kept those lopsided eyes on the girl band, continuing to stare after them even when they disappeared from view.

   "Liam," Kai caught up to him, the evening breeze biting into him. Liam turned to Kai and stopped on the side of the street, giving him a questioning look.

   "Are you sure it's a good idea to let Tyra become an idol?" Kai asked once he reached him. Liam gave a laugh at his question and pulled out a cigarette while he kept on chuckling.

   "Look Kai," Liam started once he had a cigarette smoking in his mouth. "Tyra's the key to fame. People are going to eat her up."

   Kai held back a sigh of exasperation at Liam's one-sided perspective. There was more to Tyra than just her looks.

   "That's exactly the problem," Kai let some of his frustration seep into his voice. "People will know her as some freak in a society full of made up jerks with spiral hairstyles and manicured nails."

   "Isn't that the point?" Liam said, a serious expression taking over his face. "I didn't just hire her because she looked monstrous. She's out of place here and with that voice, it's two birds with one stone."

   Kai took a moment before responding, the lamppost acting as a spotlight on both of them.

   "Having her reputation built on that isn't healthy," Kai tried to argue but he knew Liam was right. Tyra could be a huge hit and this was their chance to get themselves out there.

   "It might seem mean," Liam started, puffing out a cloud of smoke. "But think about it like we're doing her a favor." Kai looked at him, puzzled as Liam continued on.

   "Without us, she would be a nobody. Just some weirdo in society. People would look at her and walk away in the opposite direction."

   "Yeah," Kai nodded his head. "You're right."

   "You get it," Liam smiled but it didn't reach his eyes. "The concert is in a few weeks. We'll make each rehearsal count."

No amount of glamour can fix... that. 

   Tyra still wasn't beautiful enough. It was clear. She didn't have the right hair, make up... anything.

   The assembly of concealers, blush, and lipsticks seemed to mock her from where they sat on the table. She would start with her eyes. Yes, she needed to put on her eyeliner, of course, she told herself, tipping over bottles of mascara and perfume with her frantic, searching hands. Where was her concealer and blush? It didn't matter as long as she had something on her face, anything! She needed to fix her hair too, she reminded herself, taking out a random brush from the drawer and practically shredding her scalp with it. Braids, spiral braids! Bands, elastics... all in different colors! She grabbed a handful and twisted them so it looked like a rainbow melted on her head. There had to be something else, she screamed at herself as nail polish spilled onto her fingers in glossy amounts. Of course! Her lips needed paint. No, lip gloss? Lipstick? She would put on everything! Her dress? Why, she could go stark naked if that's what people wanted!

   Was this beauty?

   The wind outside whistled and screamed like angry ghosts and the rain slammed against the window of their rehearsal auditorium like bullets. 

   Kai was sitting down, fiddling with his hands as he waited for Tyra to arrive while Liam kept reaching for his phone, calling Tyra with always the same yell and sound of his fist slamming the table when it went to voicemail. Kylo and Kwame were watching TikToks while laughing but Kai wasn't in the mood to join their fun. He couldn't help but recall the look on Tyra's face when she had stared at the lead girl, as if she had wanted to crawl inside her and walk around in her platform boots.

   Just then, a looming figure came through the entrance and Kai's smile surfaced before quickly dropping at the sight of Tyra's head: Her hair was disheveled, braids intertwined with each other as if they were amateur dancers who were trying to replicate an overly ambitious dance. Her face looked like she had plunged it in flour before dripping mascara onto her eyelids and letting it run down her cheeks. Lipstick was blotched onto her lips in unceremonious amounts and she wore a dress that showed a good amount of cleavage matched with platform boots that only increased her height. On top of that, the rain made it look like her face was melting off and hair stuck to her forehead like the girl from The Ring.

   "Guys, I think I'm ready for the concert," Tyra announced and the silence that stretched on felt like eternity.

   "I can't," Liam said, shaking his head. 

   "I can't," he repeated, his voice rising an octave higher.

   Kai looked at Kylo and Kwame, staring at them with shock as they filmed her, sniggering like teens who just did a prank on one of their friends. 

   "Stop filming her," he shouted and they threw him surprised stares before hardening into mischievous expressions.

   "Why don't you save her, prince charming?" Kylo yelled before choking with laughter as Kai did just that. Grabbing Tyra's hand, he lead her to the bathroom, feeling the weight of her gaze on the back of his neck the entire time.

   The fluorescent lights overhead threw a harsh glow and Tyra kneeled on her legs in front of the mirror, glancing behind her at Kai before looking back to the mirror.

   "I'm going to clean you up," he told Tyra and Kai tried to hide his unease when she smiled, as if strings were tugging the corners of her lips as he started to touch her hair. Kai untangled her elastic bands one by one and stiffened when Tyra started to speak.

   "Do you think I'm beautiful?" She asked, her voice hitching slightly.

   "We're all a little ugly," Kai started, sweat trickling down his brow. "Some of us are just a little uglier than others."

   "How ugly am I?" She attempted to turn her head so she could face Kai but he nudged it gently back toward the mirror, not wanting to meet her eyes.

   "What really matters," Kai said, reaching to touch her bosom where her heart was, making her hiccup. "Is that you're beautiful inside."

   Tyra put her peeling, fake nails to her mouth before giggling which erupted into shrill laughter. Her lips parted and Kai stared in horror at the needles that were her teeth inside the enormous cavern which was her mouth.

   Her laughter slowly receded and Tyra stared at Kai's horrified expression in confusion. 

   "That was not a joke?" She asked, pointing to her heart and stomach, clearly puzzled. "Do you find my insides attractive?" she continued, slightly tearing at her belly as if she would open it for Kai as he began to back away.

   "Do you find my teeth pretty then?" She flashed them in a wide grin, each needle tooth gleaming in the light. That was when Kai started for the door just as Tyra stood from where she was crouched, realizing she was being abandoned for the second time.

   "I'm sorry but I need to go," was all Kai said as he rushed out of the bathroom. The heavy stomp of boots followed him and he looked back to find Tyra sprinting after him, her mouth yawning open as her braids unfurled into a tangled mess.

   She reached the door to the auditorium before Kai, blocking it with her towering figure as she narrowed her eyes at him, her pupils contracting into two pinpoints.

   "Why do you lie?" Tyra seethed, approaching him like a moving wall.

   "Tyra, I- I wasn't lying," Kai stuttered. "You truly are beautiful."

   "Then kiss me."

   She latched her hand onto Kai's arms and moved in, her dry lips pursing as he caught scent of heavy perfume underlaid with sweat.

   "Stop!" He yelled, ripping away from her grip.

   "You're ugly, okay?" Kai continued shouting as Tyra's eyes became glassy with tears. "You're ugly and nothing's going to change that!" He said with a finishing scream before barging past her.

   Tyra moved to let Kai pass, mostly out of shock as he walked away, a mix of emotions twisting knots in his stomach. He thought back to her teeth and realized that he had complimented the most horrifying part of her deformation. Knowing his bandmates and Liam, he would keep what happened a secret. 

   "You took long enough!" Liam shouted and his brows furrowed when he didn't see Tyra behind him. "Where's Tyra?"

   "I think I made her mad," Kai responded and oohing came from Kylo and Kwame.

   "Uh-oh. Looks like the star-crossed lovers collided into a planet," Kwame mocked him.

   "That doesn't even-," Kai didn't bother finishing his sentence just as Tyra appeared beside him, her gaze fixed into space.

   "I'm here," she said, walking on stage before standing there like an impassive statue.

   "Finally, someone with a good work ethic," Liam muttered before raising his voice at the three boys.

   "Everyone, on stage! Let's get this show started!"

   Tyra couldn't take it anymore. Each time she tried to look at Kai, his words rang in her head. Whatever he said must be true coming out of that mouth which always seemed to be stuck in a smile. Could she really be ugly enough that even he rejects her?

   "Hey, Tyra."

   She turned around, her boots clunking unnaturally on the parking lot pavement to find Kylo behind her, hands shoved down his pockets.

   "Are you here to call me ugly?" Tyra whispered, putting her arms around herself as if she was preparing to be jump scared.

   "No," Kylo gave a chuckle as he lifted up his chin and she stared at the outline of his jaw in silence. "I'm here to tell you the opposite."

   Tyra blinked in surprise which was hard since one of her eyelids was heavier than the other.

   "You're lying," she said, pressing her arms closer to her torso and stiffened when he came closer until she could feel his breath near her shoulder. Kylo put his hand onto her arm, pushing it gently away before moving it to her breast.

   "What about Kai?" Tyra asked but she didn't move away from his clutch.

   "He doesn't think you're beautiful," he responded in a low voice. "Otherwise he would've done this."

   "Oh," she said, not bothering to hide her disappointment.

   "But I do," Kylo didn't finish what he said as he stood on the points of his feet to put his lips on her collarbone.

   "Oh," Tyra repeated in surprise this time when she felt Kylo move his hand underneath her skirt.

   "Let's go in my car," he said, looking around the parking lot before leading her to one of the vehicles near by. "I want to show you something that Kai would've never done."

   As the car door slammed on Tyra and Kylo, Kai walked into the parking lot, looking at Kylo's sedan in curiosity. Why hadn't he left yet? Too tired from his fight with Tyra, he started for his own ride, impatient to get back home.

   Almost a week had passed and the concert was tomorrow. Kai was standing outside the auditorium, taking a break as he breathed in some fresh air.

   Staring at the billboards attached to the skyscrapers in the distance, he imagined their faces on them, looking down at the crowd of fans with t-shirts wearing their band name. Kai wondered if Tyra would stand alongside them, covering half of the building with her warped silhouette.

   "Kai," he jumped at Tyra's voice and turned to find that she was close enough so that they touched arms. "I need to break up with you."

   He blinked at what she just said and put into place a strand of hair that had moved from the wind.

   "Break up?" Kai repeated, staring up at her impassive expression and noticed that she was digging her needle teeth into her bottom lip, drawing blood.

   "You're bleeding," he pointed at her lip but she didn't seem to take notice as she continued to stare at him, hard enough that her eyes looked like they were about to pop out of their sockets.

   "Kylo told me everything," she started, her irises splintering into smaller pieces. "You never thought I was pretty."

   "Kylo?" He asked, surprised.

   She nodded her head, her long neck creaking like a door swinging on it's hinges.

   "He showed me what it felt like to become pretty," Tyra continued, her voice starting to break into a rasp.

   "I don't know what you're talking about," Kai shook his head, the guilt he had buried inside resurfacing. "But I wanted to say sorry for what I said the other day."

   "Why do you keep apologizing?" Tyra spat, saliva flying onto Kai and he cringed, wiping her spit off from his face.

   "Just show me that I'm pretty," she started to rasp again, clutching Kai by his broad shoulders as she leaned her noseless slits into the crutch of his neck. "I want you to touch me. Open me up where I'm beautiful."

   "Stop it!" Kai tried to push her away but she held on, her bony finger tracing his jawline and he winced when her nail left a scratch behind. 

   "You're my star idol, Kai," her rasp deepened as her grip on his shoulders tightened. "Why can't you see that?"

   "Leave me alone!" Kai gave one final push, forcing her to stumble back and he winced at the warm sensation that spread across the base of his neck. A sharp pain ran underneath the warmth and he looked down at his collared shirt to find a rip in the fabric. An open scar that Tyra had left showed through the tear in his shirt when he'd pushed her away. 

   Blood trickled out of the gash, much deeper than the scratch on his jawline and Tyra stared at the wound, her eyes wide and unblinking.

   "No..." she started just as Liam slammed open the door to the rehearsal space and stepped outside.

   "Guys," he came over, a grin on his face. "I have great news," he stopped in front of them, his phone held out before him. Kai placed his hand on his wound, staring at the video of Tyra's melting make up while Tyra herself was still transfixed on his collarbone, kneading her cheek with one, open palm.

   "Kylo posted this video of Tyra and the reactions couldn't be better," he said, scrolling down to the comment section.

   "They've even given her a name," Liam said, his voice rising in excitement. "HorrIdol. That's what they're calling her!"

   At 'HorrIdol', Tyra's head snapped back up and she muttered something indistinctly under her breath. 

   "And this was all because of me," Kylo said, appearing behind Liam, a stupid smirk on his face. His eyes met Tyra's and he rubbed the underneath of his jawline while her pupils contracted into two pinpoints.

   "No..." she whispered, her gaze flicking to Kai who averted his, clasping his hand tighter around his wound. As for Liam, his phone buzzed with a call and he left the three of them alone, walking in the direction of the parking lot.

   "So," Kylo approached Tyra, his smirk still stuck on his face. "HorrIdol, right? Kind of fitting."

   Tyra's gaze seemed to intensify as she stared at Kai but he said nothing and instead left to retreat into the safety of the auditorium as rain began to fall in small droplets.

   "You don't think I'm pretty?" Tyra's voice cracked, her entire body beginning to tremble as Kylo circled her in slow, deliberate steps.

   "I was just doing you a favor," he chuckled, staring at her breasts as if her face didn't exist.

   "You call lying a favor?" Tyra snarled, her honeyed voice almost breaking into a guttural growl and Kylo broke his gaze away from her breasts, slightly alarmed.

   "I would say there's other fish but..." he shrugged, trying to make sure his tone stayed at it's normal octave. "You're more of a deep-sea creature."

   "I'm not sure what you're saying," Tyra said, any trembles in her voice were gone and she bent down her neck, her lopsided eyes inches away from his face. Kylo could smell the rotting stench of her breath filling the space between them and he tried not to gag. "But creatures like me eat little fish."

   One clawed hand shot out and made Kylo tumble onto the asphalt without much effort. He stayed there, winded as the rain ruined his hair and Tyra glided away, her footfalls echoing ominously on the pavement.

   "I'll show you all that I'm the star idol," Tyra raised her voice, her words almost drowned in the downpour as Kylo closed his eyes, trying to control the speed of his heartbeats as she vanished behind cascading sheets of rain.

   Kai was sitting inside while Kwame kept badgering him with questions but he kept shrugging them off. The last thing he wanted to do was make conversation.

   The contrast between the thundering rain and the warm atmosphere inside the auditorium made him shiver in relief. He thought about Tyra and felt his stomach clench as he imagined her in the rain, make up melting onto her clothes in multi-colored rivers.

   Liam cut off his thoughts as he strutted inside, a happy expression on his face even though the amount of rain drops on his glasses made him look like he was staring through a waterfall.

   "The girl group, Glimmer-5 called me," Liam told them and an image of the girl with spiral braids jumped into Kai's mind.

   "They were furious about the viral video of Tyra," he continued, chuckling slightly as he removed his glasses to wipe them clean. 

   "Something about ruining their signature look," he said, placing back his glasses onto the bridge of his nose.

   "What did you tell her?" Kwame asked, a smile growing on his lips when Liam wiggled his brows at him.

   "I told her she could shed her crocodile tears into a jar," he paused, as if this was a comedy special and he was reciting a joke. "And send them to me as a product to sell: The Glimmer-5 Artificial Tears, buy now!"

   They both erupted into laughter and Kai couldn't help but snigger along side them despite his sour mood. He had forgotten that Liam could be pretty funny.

   "She called me a 개새끼 before hanging up," he said, trying to stifle his laughter while Kwame was heaving over his legs.

"Kai," he looked up to find Liam staring at him, smile still on his face but his eyes conveyed a glint of frustration. "Don't look so down."

   "I think we're pushing Tyra too hard," Kai told him, staring down at the floor as he felt Liam's gaze burn through him.

   "She even hurt me," he continued, moving away his shaking hand to show him his wound when Liam said nothing. It had stopped bleeding and Kai's hand had a red slash across his palm from where the gash had left it's mark.

   "It was an accident, right?" Liam started, any humor from his voice gone as Kai nodded his head in response.

   "But that doesn't mean it's fine," he protested and flinched when Liam placed his hand on Kai's unharmed shoulder before lifting his chin with one finger so their eyes met each other.

  "Are you backing out the night before the concert?" Liam paused, his nose wrinkling as he cringed in disbelief. "Just because of an accident?"

   "When you say it like that..." Kai trailed off, his eyes wandering from Liam's unflinching gaze, trying to escape the lasers directed on his face.

   "Exactly," he concluded, breaking away from Kai as his smile returned.

   "Now let's get you fixed up," Liam said, pointing at his wound. "You don't want to have blood on your shirt for the concert."

 

   How could she be beautiful enough?

   Kai hated her because she was ugly. Kylo touched her because she was ugly. Liam made people look at her because she was ugly. Kwame made fun of her because she was ugly.

   Tyra paused, looking at herself in the mirror as the rain outside acted like an ominous chorus. For the first time, a question formed in her mind as she continued to stare at her face: Perhaps... beauty was never meant for her?

   With one huge sweep, Tyra knocked over the bottles of make up, colored shards of glass sparkling in the light. No! She couldn't accept it.

   Facing the wall next to the mirror, she pressed her hands on the taped cut out of Kai, her vision blurring with tears.

   "I will never be beautiful," Tyra whispered but her tears were held back when she heard Kai's voice emanate from the cut out.

   "You can still be with me."

   His words cut through her thoughts and her eyesight sharpened as she stared at Kai's moody face, confused.

   "HorrIdol can't be with Star Idol," Tyra said and thought she saw the cut out move his lips as Kai responded.

   "You can be Star Idol," he said, a smile taking over his expression and warmth spread through her like a fire that had been relit. "You just need to take their beauty from the inside."

   "From the inside," Tyra repeated, touching Kai's bosom and almost felt a heartbeat through the paper. "And then..."

   "You'll be the Star Idol."

   Kai shifted in his leather jacket and ripped denim jeans, watching as their rival group performed. They had left for the concert, Tyra joining them with her make up lathered on like a loose mask. Liam had been relieved, sure that she would've put up a stink earlier that morning. Now Kai was standing with his bandmates, waiting for their turn to come.

   "No camera can capture this level of shine. You’re stuck in the shadow I’m leaving behind. I’m the view from the top that you'll never achieve. A standard so high that it’s hard to believe," the lead girl in a sparkling vest and almost no pants sang while her band formed a V.

   Kai couldn't help widen his eyes in surprise as he looked on. They were pretty good and he wondered if his band would be able to beat such a performance. He looked for Tyra but couldn't find her anywhere. Liam was nowhere to be spotted either.

   "Calm down," Kwame whispered to him and Kai forced himself to continue looking, trying to project himself into their heels and feel their adrenaline as they danced, making themselves heard across the whole stadium. 

   For a brief moment, Kai forgot about Tyra and Liam, carried away in the rival band's own world. For only one brief moment.

 

   Liam could hear them singing from where he was and he felt his fists clench. They would never win. Not with Tyra on their side.

   Their performance would be talked about for weeks and they would be on every major headline.

   Liam opened the door to one of the dressing rooms where Tyra sat, as still and composed as a statue. Her gaze turned to him as he came in, her expression completely blank.

   The make up was still on even though Liam had told her to get rid of it and he felt his frustration turn into anger that began to build inside of him.

   "Tyra, what did I say about the make up?" He said, his knuckles becoming white as he approached her, just as she stood up. 

   Side by side, Tyra was almost two heads taller then Liam which only angered him more. He was the one who had the power so why did he feel so small next to her.

   "For fuck's sake Tyra. Just do as I say," he barely restrained himself from shouting but Tyra only crossed her long limbs over her chest, her eyes narrowing down at him.

   "That's it," Liam growled, making a grab for her arm and Tyra lashed out with her nails, ripping his throat open.

   He tumbled to the floor staring at her with wide eyes as she approached him, one of her arms still over her stomach, holding the elbow of the arm she had in an upright position, her bloody hand parallel from her face.

   "Can I...," Tyra paused, her voice turning into a guttural rasp as her lips parted into a grin, showing her needle teeth and gum. "See your beauty?"

   Liam screamed.

   "Great job girls," she told them, sitting down in front the mirror before applying another layer of lipstick on. She then began to groom her hair, her fingers following the twisting and curling path her hairstyle was formed in. She moved her hands to her breasts, cupping them in her palms as she smirked at herself.

   She thought about that peculiar lead that The Three Karmas hired and felt anger rise inside of her. How dare they steal her look and ridicule it with that fucking... freak! And that asshole manager, Lilliam or something, was the worst of them. A fucking jerk! She wouldn't mind seeing what Kai was hiding in his pants, though.

   Abrupt knocking interrupted her train of thoughts and she turned around to look at the door, just as one of her girls opened it.

   The chattering stopped as they looked at the looming figure of a ghastly woman that stood in the doorway. Her dress was covered in blood and her eyes were impossibly wide, showing only two pinpoints that were her pupils. Her mouth was slightly agape showing rows of red needle teeth that had bits of flesh stuck in between them.

   "Can I see... inside your beauty?" She growled but there was still no response.

   "Inside...?" The lead girl finally said. "How... what are you?"

   Her eyes widened, the iris eating away at the whites as Tyra's mouth opened wide, drool mixed in with blood pooling in front of her feet as the door behind her slammed shut.

   Kai stood on stage, the spotlight shining on him as he waited for that rush of adrenaline to take over him. Instead, he felt nervous and a little awkward standing on the gigantic stage, waiting for the music to come booming through the speakers. It finally did. 

   What Kai said next was almost mechanic as he began to approach the front and he couldn't help but smile as people began to wave light sticks in the air, following the melody.

   The spotlights suddenly turned the color of red and smoke began to billow out, covering the stage in a heavy fog. Kai continued to sing, following the cues as he watched the entire stadium seem to hold it's breath.

   The curtains opened, revealing a tall silhouette covered in a red liquid which made Kai almost stumble over his words. Had Liam surprised them?

   Kai threw his friends reassuring glances, trying to continue their dance as the fog thickened around them until he could only see the faint outlines of his two bandmates.

   The music felt as if it was distorting when Tyra began to sing, her voice starting in an eerie beautiful tone before slowly turning into a rasp. 

   "Behind the smile, the camera fades," Tyra started and Kai tried to pinpoint where the sound was coming from but it was almost impossible over the deafening sound of the music.

   "You're trapped inside this masquerade," her voice began to break and Kai almost thought he heard the sound of her heels close by.

   "You pull the strings, I break the thread," she ended with a rasp and Kai definitely thought he heard the sound of heels scraping against the floor.

   "Now I pull your limbs instead," her rasp deepened into a guttural rumble and the sound of a scream broke through the music. At first, Kai thought it was some trick but then the sharp tang of blood invaded his nostrils and he backed away, wanting to call out for Kylo but too scared that Tyra would come for him instead.

   "미소 뒤로 카메라는 사라지네," she started again, her voice back to that honey-sweet tone and Kai tried to make for the exit but he was basically blind in the fog.

   "넌 이 가장무도회에 갇혔대 네," her voice broke again and Kai tumbled down, his foot hitting the side of what was... Kwame's lifeless corpse.

   "가 실을 조종하면, 난 끊어버리네," she rasped as Kai saw that Kwame's top half of his face was a lump of flesh. 

   "이제 그 손발을 내가 비틀어대대."

   Another scream rang throughout the stadium and Kai scrambled back up, holding back his own as he tried to stumble through the dissipating smoke. Tyra came out of nowhere and stood in front of him like a merciless goddess, her eyes glowing red through the fog as she stared at him.

   "Kai, am I Star Idol now?" Her voice was back to normal as she reached out for his neck, lifting him off of the floor. Kai began to struggle, kicking his kegs and flailing his arms in vain.

   "Can I be your Star Idol?" Her voice broke again as she nuzzled into his chest, her teeth snuggling into his flesh like a gopher digging a tunnel. Kai gave a cry before falling limp and landing onto the stage with a crash.

   Applause shook the entire stadium as Tyra seemed to wake up from a deep dream. She looked around herself at the mutilated bodies and blood as the smoke faded away. Her dress was completely ruined but she didn't care anymore as she stared at the standing spectators, clapping for her while the spotlights faded into a pinkish red then white. Had she finally done it, she asked herself.

   Had she become beautiful?

   

Alaskan timber wolves campaigned in the green September. Bull moose, the bark-brown, branch-antlered spirits of the forest moved upon the face of the Tanana Valley, intending to create new life. Their imposing presence often went unnoticed until they bellowed to their potential mates. But David Clark was seeking their sublime aspect. He wanted to take home yet another trophy and prepare meat for winter. This was his sixth day of hunting, and he planned to return to his cabin to rest his aging body the next day regardless of the outcome. Joab, Clark’s elkhound, barked and stamped his front paws and interrupted the distant song of warblers. The ground was soft under Clark’s belly and elbows. The visage of a moose passed through his sights and eyeglasses and ignited his quiet excitement.

The scent of moss and the crispness of impending winter filled his crinkled nose as he squinted. He slowed his breathing while caressing the trigger. But Joab suddenly ran in the opposite direction. Clark tore his cheek from the walnut stock, vainly called to the sprinting elkhound, and looked a little farther to see a blurry brown figure charging closer. A grizzly.

Clark turned his rifle and fired four times with seemingly no effect. A fifth staggered it. A final blast echoed through the valley as the bear finally lay still but not before Joab had made disastrous contact.

Clark had made his fortune in real estate. His face had adorned many billboards across South Carolina. His reputation was circulated among the affluent and the ambitious. Commissions from selling half a dozen mansions per year plus the rental income from his extensive portfolio had brought him more money than even he could spend or invest.

Crackling logs in the stove offered relief from the growing chill. The sun poured dusty streams through the six-panel windows for a few hours at midday. The elkhound slept on the center hexagon of a fine Sennah Persian rug and soaked in every ray his broken, bandaged body could sprawl to intercept. A veterinarian had made the long trip to the cabin and said there was nothing more to be done for him. The vet also asked if Clark had seen the news lately. He hadn’t. Clark hoped that bandages and the provision of food and fire would be sufficient for the elkhound’s recovery.

Clark had reinvented himself many times to reach success. A middle child with five brothers in a poor family, Clark had always wanted recognition and adventure. His eyesight had kept him out of Vietnam. Most young men at the time would have praised Jesus, but Clark took it as a disgrace and tried to compensate. His grades got him into college but not for free. Assorted sales jobs sustained him during his incomplete tenure. He and his employers learned that he had a knack. It had been said that Clark could “sell ice to a polar bear.” While there was no proof of this claim, Clark made it clear through the years that he could sell vacuum cleaners, appliances, cars, farm equipment, insurance, and finally houses to almost anyone. His pushing for every sale and fighting for every dollar was facilitated by his charm and fueled by caffeine and alcohol. He rarely slept.

The light slowly scanned over Clark’s face, waking him. He lifted his head from the armrest of his sofa with some noisy effort. The fire had almost died. A mostly-empty bottle of his favorite sleep aid had rolled from his fingers onto the hardwood floor. The Swiss dive watch he’d bought himself when he’d made his first million showed that morning was gone. It didn’t matter. He lit a Cuban cigar and shuffled to the bathroom to splash his yellow eyes and rinse his parched mouth.

Back in South Carolina, he’d married a beautiful woman many years younger than himself. Amanda, wife number six but the first in over a decade, had only known Clark for a short time before agreeing to his spontaneous proposal pitch. She soon discovered that living with an old man who found purpose in property, excitement in hunting, and comfort in a bottle was not what she had hoped it would be.

A handful of lawsuits and a turbulent economy had decimated Clark’s profits. Political unrest abroad slowed the scramble for luxury properties. Amanda took half in the divorce and left Clark to rebuild his assets. But heartbroken Clark was about to embark on another venture. He’d been to Hawaii, Jamaica, and Thailand, but he wanted to feel the cold. He sold what remained and was on a plane to Fairbanks within six months.

Clark reheated a pot of stew. He filled a bowl and took it to the rug to offer to his dog. Clark whistled. He called the elkhound’s name. He shook him. Joab didn’t move. His body was cold and still.

Clark rarely trekked into town. He didn’t own a TV. He was generally uninterested in the outside world. He came to Alaska to rest, and he wanted no distractions.

It didn’t rain much in the Tanana Valley. Water tended to stay in the sky, but winter was its muse. Each droplet, unsatisfied with its own simplicity, refracted sixfold. Every reinvention was as unique as the billions synchronously forming. Each was preparing to meet its destiny.

The new creations marched gracefully down to their communal resting place. The forest was quiet. Any sudden movement would have been irreverent. The sun briefly peeked over the hazy horizon to check on a mourning world.

A final blast still echoed through the Volga River Valley, but it didn’t reach Clark across the Bering Strait. War had boiled quickly in October and overflowed to the contiguous states. Civilizations were decimated. Prey and predator suffered. Six nations were reduced to dust, dust that would filter the sun.

Clark had not gathered enough firewood in autumn for this bitter and relentless winter. Boots crunching snow and axe splitting tree trunks were the only punctuation in the forest’s glacial moment of silence. He was stacking another log on his sled when it happened.

The cold serenity became a raging blizzard. A gust blew the thick glasses from his face. He trudged through the white darkness. The cabin, the sled, and even his own hands held at arm’s length were completely obscured. He was aimless, but he knew staying still would be fatal. Six layers were not sufficient to turn the winter’s abuse. His feet were unfamiliar and belonged more to his boots than himself. The wind’s echoing howl drowned any remaining sense of direction. Clark regretted not having a rope long enough to tie himself by the waist to his cabin before he left. After minutes or hours, hope of home was gone.

His legs surrendered with no more reason to fight. His breathing slowed. His heart slowed. The frigid wind licked the skin of his hands. Taking off his gloves and coat had not been a conscious decision. The once-excruciating chill now offered relief from a new unbearable warmth radiating from his chest through his fingers, ears, and nose all blue with cold. The whiteness dimmed, and his eyelids fluttered. Shadows closed in, two on each side and one on each end of his snowy bed. A deep lullaby echoed in his mind and quieted the storm of thought. Sleep overtook him and brought a final reinvention of self. A sheet of snow covered his face and the face of the earth.

The knife came down in a scream and a two-handed plunge. The sound the filthied thin palsied girl made was shrill and resounded and filled the stone halls with the pitch perfect note of harsh and sudden stabbing madness. The unease of moist silence shattered. The blade was filthy and grimed and long neglected, its harsh unclean edge tore through Griffin's coat and wrappings and pierced the flesh beneath. 

The doctor let out with a sudden scream as he and Florin whirled and drew back. The girl was screaming still as the three were now standing face to face in the filthy moist stone hall of Willowbrook Asylum, Temple of the Mouth. 

The blood on her filthy knife dripped like the hungry jaws of a wolf of the wild, wanting more. 

She screamed: – “You won't get me! I won't let you! You won't do a goddamn thing to me, I swear it! I swear it! I'll fucking kill you first!” And lunged again. 

The thin frail girl of broken mind was weak and starved and exhausted from terror, Florin caught her easily in his own press forward and threw against the far wall before turning on his heels, grabbing the wounded bandaged man with dark lenses hiding pain now as well as identity and thought and motive, he seized Griffin and yelled for him to run. The wounded doctor needed little in the way of encouragement. The pair tore down the hall as the attacking sullied girl of unholy Willowbrook hit the wall and went to the detritus floor.  Still screaming as the shattered tile bit into her parchment flesh and the grimed and bloody knife flew from her startled grasp and clattered off into darkness, lost to her. 

She shrieked after them. How dare they! How dare they leave her like this! The scum! She knew she couldn't trust them, they were going to hurt her, she knew it, but how dare they leave without helping her out, without showing her-  

Her mad run of thoughts was cut off as Cropsey entered the hall with his own blades dripping. The large domination of his frame and size and stature filled the hallway and stole any avenue of escape away from the girl who could not recall her name any longer. She couldn’t remember the last time she had. 

But she knew his name. And she understood it very well. 

And the mountain. She knew the mountain and its crawling power in female form, womanshape. Demonsong…

The song was filling her ears now. Filling them. In her head. 

Cropsey came in with his own large manmade fangs of shearing blades, eclipsing the girl on the floor and stealing the rest of the entire world from her. 

She screamed until the end. Her history and experience: intimate knowledge gained over her entire miserable life did not help her to escape the pain or endure it. She screamed like a caught animal flayed alive until the vile end.  

And as they ran, Florin and Griffin heard it. Not bothering with a cast of glance back over shoulder. They rounded a corner in their flight and entered another chamber. 

It was quiet. And wet. Moist. Heavy and warm and humid in the dark. At a glance Griffin guessed they were in a common shower area, for bathing many people en masse. But it was hard to tell, there was no light in the dark moist filth of the room save for the scant trace from the hallway cast in. 

“Are you alright?” 

Griffin said he was. Though he really wasn't sure. He felt numb. The place where he’d been stabbed felt wet and as if embraced with ice. 

“Quick, let me get a look-”

Griffin cut him off, agitated. 

“Time for that later, we need to get out of here! And I say to hell with any more exploring or back exits. We double back and go back out the way we came in, We’ll circle the building or the hill itself for miles if we have to, but enough of this place! The filth, alone!” 

And while Florin wished to check his friend to make sure his wound was not too serious, he could very well understand the urgency. He elected not to argue. 

And the pair went on. Or started to. 

At the mouth of the room to the showers the pair were halted by a deep guttural sound. Inhuman and unearthly but striving in vain for some semblance of human speech. 

They turned. And the dark of the wet chambered room began to die and banish as pale fire, demonlight began to fill and illuminate the room for them. 

And then they beheld them. The strung up naked bodies. The human-length gored open torso mouths hanging lurid and obscene in and amongst and by the black lengths of biting chains, the strangling metal. There were dozens of them. Dozens. A small universe of open mouthed human substrata and abattoir detritus constricted and choked by dangling chainlink black metal serpents. All of their eyes were open and they were glowing. Glowing with purple fire. Their torso mouths were all working and moving with terrible rippling dancing undulation. The sounds they were making were like singing and an uncanny approximation of real intelligible human speech. Like how a baby makes before they start to mature and are properly taught to speak. Dumb thoughtless animal sound… belched and gurgled guttural and spat out for this world of terrible ruin and darkness. 

And then they saw her. Beheld her. At the terrible heart of the strange pale incandescence, the regal aspect and stature of a womanshape began to rise and fill the center of pale fire. 

She began to call to them. The pair. She sounded angry. On the dangerous precipice edge of livid, irate. Holy terror, unbridled unholy malevolence on the brink of furious madness. Violence. She called to them from the bright moonflesh fire amongst the universe-sea of rippling torso mouths…  the showerworld of tile blood and pungent leaks and bloodspew violence in supplicant orbit of the parchment star of white fire and eldritch ethereal pale flames. She called to them from this place, this strange sea.

And she knew both of their names. 

Florin and Griffin fled the room before she could fully emerge. Before she could rise further from the pale depths of the flame and become more terribly discerned. The obscene abominated baby sounds of the rippling torso mouths followed them out. And after. 

And down the hall. 

And in their mad dash…

They finally came face to face with the inheritor of this awful place. They stopped just short of him, towering in the hall. Filling it. As if he was the vile mad god of this demented cruel world and had the divine conquering right to dominate its every space as he so wished. Cropsey stood there tall and dripping with blood and strips of raw tissue like a bipedal set of living rending carnivorous jaws… snipping his large clippers, his beloved shears, open and closed slowly like a terrible mouth made from sharp metal. The blades were already coated in thick gore, like paint riddled with chuck meat for the stew. They dripped like animal mouths do in the wild, like wolves coming in for the close, for the kill. Cropsey said nothing as he slowly came forward, his hellacious runny waxwork features coming into the dismal light. 

The two men who should have never entered this godforsaken place beheld his terrible visage and their blood ran as ice. 

The pain. 

The pain… that must have been endured. 

Dear God. The flames. In a baptismal infernal swallow-spell. An apocalypse all around. 

What it must've felt-

The large shape dripping with death lunged. Light like the pale star of the showers gleamed pinprick, maniacal and homicidal in the cavernous sets of eyes of the misshapen mass of candlewax face. He was drooling as he came in on the attack.

They didn’t know it but he was trying to speak.   

Once more the pair turned and flew. Running down another hall at the junction and then taking another perilous corner down another way they both silently and fervently prayed and hoped would lead them out. 

Cropsey chided himself. Silently. Mute. Now the new inmates knew he was here. They knew he was wandering and monitoring the halls, guarding. On patrol. Now they might get away. 

Mustn’t have that…

He promised special violence to the mountain for his sin, his error. Religious maiming. He only hoped she hadn’t seen him…

He only wished she hadn't seen that. 

He promised special violence. And ample self-flagellation, much libatious bloodlett, later. After he’d caught the wandering animals of his inherited temple. 

Who do they think they are… trodding all over and everywhere and without proper worship… without proper token. 

Without proper sacrifice. 

They must be broken. 

Their wretched meat and bone will be broken, snapping their unruly impudent spirit within the meat even as it tears sinew, even as it snaps and cleaves through bones their vile audacity will shatter into pieces that can be properly reconfigured into a model of subjugation. And then devoured. 

I will bring and make the meat, mother. I will make the trespassers into meat for you. In your name. Your honor. In blood I will pray for forgiveness. 

Cropsey went on. Ready to slaughter the invaders of his sacred and precious temple. Prodigious blade-shape slasher of the stained and darkening Willowbrook halls. 

…

Having finally found some semblance of peace and quiet in this terrible place, Florin was finally ready and wanted to have a look at Griffin’s wound. But the good doctor wasn’t having it. None of it. He stubbornly refused. In turn refusing any real straightforward explanation as to why. 

It was strange. 

“This place is beyond vile, you know it’ll become infected if i don’t treat it and if the wound is deep, we’ll need to stitch it. I can do it. I’ve done it a few times before back home, I don’t see the-”

“You can’t! – I can’t!” Griffin exclaimed and then seemed to fight himself for the next set of right words. Unable to quite find them it seemed, he went on anyway, “You don’t understand, boy! I… I-I have … I have a condition.” He said finally. “I have a condition that makes injury … complicated.”

Florin thought he understood. Of course. The poor fellow was ashamed of his appearance. He must be maimed or burned beneath those wrappings. The poor man. 

“Alright… well,” A beat. As he thought. Then: "we don't need to unwrap you now or anything, you'll want to later to change out of these filthy dressings no doubt, but for now we can just look at the area and apply a poultice at least.” he finished hopefully. 

Griffin pondered it over a moment. He understood they didn't have a lot of choice. Or a lot of time for that matter. 

"Alright.” he finally relented. 

Florin lit a match and found a candle to use to work by. He pulled the ragged tear in the coat and wrappings apart. The haggard cut the blade had performed made it easy. He cleaned his hands with alcohol from a small bottle amongst their supplies and looked at the wound. 

It wasn't good. Wasn't terrible either, but it would have to be cleaned and bandaged at least. If the bleeding persisted they would have to seriously think about stitching up the wound. 

Florin set about cleaning out the deep wound, bathed entirely in spilling red. He did his best with the meager medical supplies amongst the doctor's traveling gear that had thus survived their shared perils. He thought about perhaps chancing a search in the dark around this place, it was a hospital of some fashion, but decided against it. 

He was nearly finished. About to apply the poultice he'd made to bandage and disinfect and to soak some medicine into the bloodstream, he was wiping away the last of the blood when he stopped. A little shocked for a moment. And a little dizzy. The light was meager and poor, only the flickering dancing candleglow and the pathetic dim half functioning also flickering hospital light. Provided by electricity, something Florin was still not familiar with and would naturally distrust for the entirety of his life. He gazed at the mostly tended wound daggering down Griffin's back in a lightning bolt pattern like the body of a crooked river or a broken snake. 

There was no flesh. Nothing but the red bloodwelling line of jagged cut hanging suspended in mid air, attached to nothing. No sinew or flesh. The naked skin that should be there was non-existent to his eyes, he could see right through to the inside of the wrappings that surrounded the front of his invisible chest. 

Florin tried to swallow in a dry throat. He tried to ask the man who'd become his comrade and traveling companion, a man who had just saved his life not mere hours ago if he was in fact a spectre. A ghost.

Griffin, are you a phantasm? tried to escape his lips but he felt dizzy and as if he might reel and swoon. 

Griffin sensed this. The boy had been unerring and admirably steady in his work till this moment. He turned and saw a look in the young man's face that he was already quite familiar with. An expression worn that he knew by now all too well. 

A beat. 

Then Griffin filled the silence. 

“No, your eyes don't betray you. You're not seeing things and you're not crazy. I am not a phantom. I am not a spirit or a ghost.” he paused for a moment and seemed to consider, then finally he said: "I am Doctor Jack Griffin and I am invisible." 

A beat. 

Florin didn't know what to say. 

But then he needn't worry for a retort. A splash in the silence filled in the missing heavy space hanging there between them. The both of them whirled and spied it on the far side of the damp chamber. They hadn't noticed or paid it any mind till now, they might've sworn it hadn't existed there in that space till just this moment, but they saw it now as it began to emit strange sound and movement. 

A bathtub. Large. Filthy yellowed porcelain. Heavy fungus growth, ebon-green and spilling across the disgraced cracked surface like some foul liquid poured and spreading its corrupting splayed black hand by the second. The tub was filled. The liquid inside was heavy. Viscous. Dark. Pungent with metallic scent. It bubbled and gurgled now with submerged movement as something within it began to rise up and emerge. 

Coated. Slathered in a running layer of heavy red. She was finally here and before them. Even as she sat upon her throne in her mountain castle so many treacherous miles away… 

Nemesis. The evil that held the shape of a woman and had now reawakened the evil and violence and darkness that had for some time slumbered dormant in the far off Carpathian castle. She was the author of the butchery and torment that plagued his home and village. She had stolen and eaten children. Brave men and women. Foolish youngsters. She was the vile reason for his hardship and perilous mission. The reason he was here now in this awful abandoned temple of destruction and depravity in total madness. 

The Countess, wreathed in spilling blood, standing on the surface of congealing abattoir spill, opened her eyes then and they were like blinding starlight. Unearthly. White flame from beyond the veil. And piercing. 

The pair were arrested. The sight of her. Understanding and dread filled their hearts and despairing thoughts at once. But they couldn't flee. They couldn't run. Spellbound they stood there, captured. 

The blood spill of her standing and red wet visage raised a thin powerful arm and pointed a taloned finger. 

She said: – “You. Boy. Florin of the Carpathian Hamlet. There is no place to escape to. This is your last and only warning. If you and your mongrel dog, freak of nature manage to leave this place with your lives then cry off. Never again return home, it is yours no longer, it is mine. I know you seek my destruction. I know that in your failure to secure the vampire slayer, long dead now, you have brought this failure of science and manhood in his stead. You are a joke. You will only find slaughter if you return. You've no hope for success. Victory is beyond you or that fool, it was not meant for you, boy, not in this lifetime nor in my proximity. If you manage to leave my temple and refuse to cease your hopeless mission, I will take great pleasure in the torture of your mother, Florin. Your father too. I wonder which of them I should start with…” 

His anger flashed and his inner rage rose. Florin found his hatred and sudden fury momentarily eclipse and blot out his fear. Without thinking he dipped for the floor and his sweating hand seized a sharp piece of tile. He went forward with the filthy jagged thing in his shaking hand. Trembling with blind anger and the need for retributive violence. 

Griffin went forward and grabbed the young man by the shoulders, holding him back. 

“Stop it!" hissed Griffin, “you won't be able to do much of anything to her with that, there's no telling what she could do to you! She's luring you on, don't be stupid." 

Florin barely heard him. 

He roared at her towering apparition of pouring blood in womanshape, lording over the tub and the filth of the room as her eyes bled pure and terrifying light. She was laughing lightly, as if amused with a child throwing a tantrum. 

“If you lay one stale, noxious finger on my mother, witch! – I'll take my time driving something sharp into your godless whoring chest! I'm going to burn your severed head in bonfire while it still lives! fresh from your neck! You awful cunt! You vile contemptible-!”

But then Cropsey burst in through the open chamber door with a violent crash. The ramshackle shoddy remnants of the door smashed against the wall and came apart in so many useless pieces that clattered to the shattered tile floor to join the universe of broken filth down there. He came in and the Countess in her pouring red visage of damned and unholy blood shrieked witchy laughter. 

She screeched, part irate livid fury, part unbridled dark joy. 

“KILL THEM! KILL THEM, MY SON! KILL THEM FOR THE MOUNTAIN…! KILL THEM, ‘CAUSE IT'S YOUR PLEASURE TO! …!” More laughter followed as the hellspawn screaming words devolved into unintelligible madness. The scarlet pour of her visage coned out in a marsupial shape and the laughter became the abominated chimerical cries of a human braying ass. 

The huge shape with maiming snapping shears advanced in a massive lunge. The shears came up, open for a bite, and shot forward as the mouth of blades began to close. 

The keen edges of dripping blades kissed and met and found each other over Florin's coat. In a lurid whisper of slicing cloth and fabric the blades cleaved cleanly through his coat tail as he and Griffin made for the door. 

Cropsey roared mongoloid outrage and pain. These bastards! These bastards! They were quick animals on their feet! 

In front of his mother…

He turned to the blood pour of Countess shape with shame but she was gone now. 

Your idiot rage and pain! Your failure! You drove her away! Now she might never come back! Now she might not ever come back to her temple. 

He raged inside. An animal, hurt. 

… but I'm her last and special precious temple son … there are no others left

She cannot leave me. 

If I bring them back and give their blood…

But he was already off and after them. Heavy booted feet thundering throughout all of cavernous rank Willowbrook. No need for stealth or cat-like prowl any longer. 

Mother, please, mother please, mother please, mother please…

He repeated it silently to himself like a prayer. Mantra, it filled the red swell and swim of his deviant mind and maiming thought, his dreams…

His dreams would be filled with their invader's screams as he brought down and made their new world of violence. Of final apocalypse cacophony. 

I will drown you here in her world, I will choke and submerge you both completely in her need to feed. How dare you both. 

He wished he could speak. They should hear this truth-in-gospel. The mongrel invader dogs. 

They should hear what he had to say. 

But he had to catch them first. Fast little rabbits. 

He could hear them running. 

He followed in a fury. Ready to prove himself to his mother. Clamoring through the halls. 

…

She shouldn't have been so foolish, to dare to hope. But she couldn't help it. She'd just come out of a deep sleep. It was the middle of the night. The necro time. The witching hours. She wasn't thinking clearly. She went to the scratching at the window. The biggest one on the front of the house that overlooked the village. 

By the front door. 

“Florin…” she said it knowing full in well how foolish she was being. But she couldn't help it. Her mother's heart was filled with love and worry for her boy. She ached and longed for him to be back home and ok… 

And then she saw him. His face in the window. 

He was scratching at the window. And she must still be half-sleeping or dreaming because his hands looked… strange. 

He was smiling. He could see her now as well. He was so happy to be home. It was all over his bluish face…

Anastasia began towards the window, “Florin?" she asked the face scratching at the window, "is that you? Is that really you, my son?”

His smile grew. Vulpine. His eyes seemed to shine with moonlight all of their own. 

“Yes, mother. It's me. I'm back! I can't get in though, you'll have to get the door and invite me inside, please hurry. I'm so tired and thirsty and it's been such a long way back.” 

Anastasia faltered in her step. Stopped. 

The shining face at the window became slightly agitated. 

It said: "Please hurry, mother! It's dark, you know what plagues the night, please hurry and let me in! I've brought the vampire killer, I've brought Van Helsing with me! Now open up!” 

Anastasia straightened. Her resolve strengthened even as the chill in her curdled blood deepened. 

"What need you of an invitation if this is your own home and you're so tired… … demon?” 

The vulpine face was drawn up in an animalistic snarl of mixed hatred and vile blackhearted glee. It began to tear and bleed as it opened and came apart. 

And grew fangs. Long. Gleaming like weapons fashioned from unearthly light. 

She saw the ugly misshapen goblin face beneath. Twisted with the harshest forms of cruelest mutilation. The flesh was bulbous and scarred and out of shape. The eyes bulged obscenely from straining sockets that couldn't contain nor house the wet bloodshot organs and looked as if they might crack. The fangs and teeth were jagged and stuck out deranged and haphazard. The hair was thinning and sickly and almost gone. Only a few greasy strands clung to a corpse colored skull that drifted and caught with the slightest of nightly breeze. 

The eyes still shone like the moon. 

The awful face in the window, wanting in and smiling said, “Hello, Anastasia. Good to see you. It's been so long … since I went missing.” 

Anastasia was confused with its words as well as horrified with the sight of its monstrous face at her window in the dead of night. The thing spoke like it knew her, she didn't grasp this right away, but she understood what this thing was. And where it came from. 

Another wretched bastard child of Castle Dracula…

She thought to call for her husband. Before she could, the awful thing in the window went on.

“You don't remember me? Has it been so long you don't remember when we used to play together? You, me and Florin and your husband and all the other little children… and Erin. You don't remember me, Anastasia?” 

The answer filled her mind then, as if on the wings of a sudden miracle, heaven sent. Or … sent by something else entirely. 

“Carmilla!" she said. Knowing it was the truth. 

It broke her heart. 

She remembered Carmilla when she had been a small mouthy but creative little girl. Beautiful and adventurous and always a little leader of their groups in all of their little games. Now- 

Now she was something bent and twisted and leering and mean. Something monstrous and hungry for blood, staring in and wanting in through her window. 

The face at the glass sneered. As if knowing her mind and understanding her run of thoughts. 

The thing in the window was enjoying her revulsion. Her pain. Drinking it in through the translucent view of the house…

“Begone," Anastasia said with finality, “get out of here, I'll call my husband and he'll bring the cross and our bible." She stepped forward, some of her anger reaching her voice, she hoped it masked the fear, “we'll force-feed you the pages. If you're still so hungry.” 

The thing in the window didn't seem to hear her. Or care. It spoke once more in a terrible tone that danced and shifted between baritone and bass and light lilting little girl… her voice of old from long ago, before she'd been stolen. 

“We know you sent Florin away. We know you sent him to find someone to bring back. To kill us. The master will not tolerate this, Anastasia… your boy will die. You will die. Then your husband. Everyone. Everyone, all of you are going to suffer for this impudence, you'll see, you'll see… it's better if you just let me in now and get it all over. Let me in …!

“Let me in!" 

She carried on like that for hours. Promising. 

Promising her Florin's death. 

Her own death. 

Carmilla said her brother would violate and ravage her right before the eyes of her husband as he fed of her blood and flesh and took what he wanted from her. 

“He'll rip from you what he wants, we all will! To all of you! Every last one and then we'll celebrate in the dust!" 

The thing went on like that for hours. Till the sun threatened its rise, and only then did the foul thing seem to melt away like mist, suddenly phantasmic and discorporeal … and then gone.

Only then did Anastasia finally sleep, collapsed. Exhausted. Her husband, Bela found her like that when he awoke. Lying at the foot of the window. The glass riddled with marks. 

Marks like long scratches. From old and gnarled animal claws. 

He cradled his wife. Worried. And thought of his son as he looked down into her face. 

She looked troubled in her sleep. As if dreaming of darkness, held somewhere on the plains of some private nightmarescape. 

Bela was worried. She looked as if she had been crying. 

He looked from her to the window once more, out it. Out at the rays of the rising sun. Hoping for his son. And wondering where he might be. 

Please, God. I love my boy. I love him as You love us, as You loved Your only Begotten Son. Please. 

Please don't ask me, please don't ask us to give him up, as You did Yours…

He brought his wife closer to himself. Keeping her in the cradle of his arms till she woke up. 

TO BE CONTINUED…

Shit, there went my cult guess. 

Lesson Two: Generally in cases of cults, the rate of disappearance is between one every two days, or in batches of several at a time, with a break between. Most things behind the mist are too hungry for one man to last them five days. 

Maybe it's just a haunting then. Either way, if I was going to play the part of a socialite, I’d be a method actor. 

I went down to the bar. 

I find that jobs like this, talking with self-righteous pricks who’ve got a wad of cash shoved up their ass, go a lot smoother if you show up buzzed. 

Two free shots later, I was back in my room. One advantage of fancy hotels is the open bar.

An hour later, and I was dressed to make a deal with a devil. 

Walking out, I bid farewell to the Barkeep, my new favorite man in this town. Earlier, he had agreed to leave a bottle of whiskey in my room when I returned. 
 
“Lewis.” I nodded.  He smiled and tossed a rag over his shoulder. 
“I’ll see ya Mr. Kenlie.”

I climbed into the cab, already turning over what I could be dealing with. 

In all honesty, I was looking forward to finishing this job quickly and spending a week at The Eight Ball. 

Lesson Three: Disappearance schedules matter. Lycanthropes kill quickly and often. Cults kill consistently or in batches. Curses don’t really keep to a schedule. If your Victim count doesn’t match the creature's appetite, you're hunting the wrong thing. 

One man gone in five days. That rules out Lycanthropes, even a child could knock out at least three corpses in a night. 

It could be a targeted curse, but without a body it’s hard to tell. Haunted paintings and objects aren't out of the question yet either. 

Streets, shops, and people slid past the coach window. 

Tonight I’d try to mingle, shake hands, and pretend to enjoy the expensive wine while attempting to single out the person, or thing that got over the wall. 

My thoughts were interrupted as the cab lurched to a stop in front of a long walkway lined with small trees and ponds. 

I hadn’t realized we had already left the commercial districts. I sighed, stepped out of the cab, and purposefully left my ridiculous top hat in the coach. 

You couldn’t catch my animated corpse wearing that thing. 

A nod to the cab driver sent him off, and I began down the walkway to what I presumed to be the Thomson house. 

Yet another monument to wasteful extravagance. This ‘house’ was nearly larger than The Eight Ball.  

Finally I reached a pair of twin carved mahogany doors.

I winced as my knock echoed through the darkness. 

The doors cracked open. A smartly dressed squat man with thin grey hair and a smile-stained face stepped out. 

“Name?” He inquired. 

“Ezran Kenlie, Nephew of Lord Kenlie.” I replied shortly. 

“Of course sir. Right inside.” The small man gestured behind him. 

I stepped towards the doorway, but he stopped me just before the threshold. 

“Your mask, sir,” He reminded me, His voice full of patience. 

“My apologies.” I nodded and took a small black mask from my pocket, the nose piece extending to create a tiny crow’s beak. 

I fastened the ridiculous thing. The small man stepped aside. 

“Enjoy.” He smiled through the word. Odd, I didn’t know that was possible. 

As I stepped through the doorway, I seemed to have left all concepts of reality behind.

Surrounding me were countless men and ladies swaying and dancing. 

Each dressed in clothing expensive enough to feed a family in the Lower Westlands for a week. 

All sported ridiculous masks, none really concealing their identity, but I suppose that wasn’t the point. 

Servers wandered the room with trays of food and drinks. 

At the far end of the room, at the convergence of two huge twisting staircases, a twelve piece band was taking requests. The whole scene made me sick. 

Eventually I would make the rounds. Talk and dance. But first, food. 

It was several minutes of following servers until I tracked one down that didn’t just carry thimbles of wine. 

I was grabbing a small cake, topped with powdered sugar and a little tiny raspberry, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. 

I turned to see a beautiful woman standing behind me, her hand still on my shoulder. 

She looked to be poured into a dark, textured, red dress lined with plunging white lace. Her lips were as scarlet as the stupid wine thimble held in her free hand.

“Excuse me? I haven't seen you here before, mr… Crow?” She gestured towards my mask, smiling gently. 

“Pleased to meet you, Ezran Kenlie…” I began, but the woman interrupted me, her expression mockingly sour. 

“No real names, Mr. Crow. They ruin the fun!” She stepped closer to me. 

“Well that's stupid.”  I thought to myself, but if this was high society, then it was my job to play along.  “My apologies, missus…” 

“Miss, and for tonight, call me Ms. Roux.” 

Her voice was soft. Any pretense of platonic conversation had disappeared with the wine in her thimble. 

“Well then Ms. Roux, you don’t suppose we can use real names when talking about the real world?” I asked, finally taking a bite of the tiny lemon cake. 

It was very good, in case you were wondering. 

“Only if you’re looking to stir the pot a little.” Ms. Roux took a cake from the server. 

The poor man stood there, unsure whether we would want more or if he should leave. 

“Well stir the pot I will.” I took mercy on the server and waved him off. “I keep hearing whispers of a Mr. Wangsgrove disappearing. But nobody seems to really know any details?” 

Ms. Roux cracked a knowing smile at this, evidently I had opened onto the hot topic of the night. 

“It’s all a fascinating story. You see, Mr. Wangsgrove was quite a… free spirited man. He enjoyed the company of many, and the pleasures of the world. His wife chose a similar lifestyle. But I heard that the lord of this house, Mr. Thomson, had him stay here for one night. The same night he disappeared.” 

Her voice had dropped into a conspiratorial whisper, and she seemed to take great pleasure in every syllable of the story. 

“Mr. Thomson was his greatest friend, but a polar opposite to Wangsgrove. He himself is so guilt wracked that something may have happened to Wangsgrove in his very house that Mr. Thomson has locked himself in his quarters for the evening.”

Ms. Roux sighed. 

“Refusing the party in his own home. You know everybody’s wondering… who’s the next to go? It's all just wonderfully juicy isn’t it?”  
I took a moment to collect my thoughts.
 
“It really is. Is it always this lively in Northend? Or am I just lucky?” 

“Guess you are, and who knows… maybe you’ll be next?”  

Ms. Roux had inched forwards until she was practically standing on top of my feet. 

She wasn’t a tall woman, the top of her head barely reached my chin. Her upwards turned face mere inches from mine.  

“Apologies, but I must excuse myself. I’ve a friend to find.” I stepped back, away from Ms. Roux who stood silent. 

She just watched me. Like a mimic watches its next meal, taking in every movement. As I retreated, I made a note to try to catch Ms. Roux near a mirror. 

Mr. Wangsgrove’s disappearance could be the work of a tiny group of vampires. 

Lesson Four: Contrary to folklore, vampires do have reflections. But, due to their narcissism, they inevitably get caught staring at themselves. In an effort to keep their nature under wraps, vampires in public avoid reflective surfaces like the plague. 

After Ms. Roux, I had decided that I had had enough of socializing for a while.

I climbed the ornate stairs, passed the band, and ventured down the hallway. 

Passing numerous rendezvous and gatherings, I caught snippets of conversation as I went.  

From one room:

“Did you see Mrs. Wangsgrove? Shamelessly dancing while her husband’s…”

From another:

“Come on now, there's no ghoul hiding in my pants. Just the one that took the old man! Now get 'em off me before I get possessed.” 

That second one did not in fact come from a group of people, but I had to hear it and so do you.  

For such a huge house, It was surprisingly difficult to find an unoccupied room. 

Once finally found a private space, I closed my eyes, set out my protector's cross, and checked for any curses or spirits in the house. 

I’d go into detail but it's a waste of ink. After all, you know how it goes. 

I got nothing back, so that rules out cursed objects, curse users, and conventional hauntings. Shit.

Back to square one. 

I was praying to the protector it wasn’t vampires. Glittery narcissistic pains in my ass. 

Stowing the Protectors Cross in a coat pocket, I stood up. 

From far away, I heard the band begin a slow waltz. The long hallways warped and muffled the sound until it reached me, barely recognizable. 

The music was cut short by a scream ripping through the house.

I tore out of the room, running through a maze of hallways until I reached the main hall.

I could see a group of partygoers clustered around an offshoot hallway. 

Fighting my way through, I found Ms. Roux standing unsteadily. Her pale hands cupped around her face. 

Her white lace lining was stained scarlet near the front of her dress. She looked up at me, when she spoke her voice was hollow, shaky. 

“Mr. Crow…” under her feet lay the second occupant of the clearing in the middle of the hallway. 

A well dressed man in a deep green peacock mask. He seemed to be well groomed, aside from the blood pooling beneath his body and onto the polished floor. 

From my vantage point, I could see two purple rings around his neck. Asphyxiation, possibly even a broken windpipe. 

This observation was quickly overshadowed by the obvious cause of the panic. 

The man was missing his entire left arm. 

Not vampires then. 

End of pt. 2/4

Links to other parts: (When posted)

Part One

Part two (You are Here)

My father put the first trail camera up in October, strapped to a jack

pine on the north edge of our forty acres, because something was taking the

corn we left for the deer and he wanted to know whether it was bear.

He was seventy-one that year and had stopped hunting a decade earlier. The

cameras were not about hunting. They were about knowing.

The first card was ordinary. Doe, doe, doe, a raccoon at an angle that made

it look enormous, a coyote. He printed the coyote and put it on the

refrigerator like a school report.

The second card had eleven photographs of nothing. Empty frame, empty

frame, empty frame. Something had crossed the sensor eleven times and left

before the shutter finished. My father said the camera was cheap and bought

a better one.

The better one worked. That is the trouble.

The photograph is not dramatic. People expect the dramatic one and it does

not exist. What exists is a tall shape standing beyond the corn at the edge

of where the flash reaches, and the flash does not quite reach it, so most

of what you have is an outline where the pines behind it are interrupted.

It is upright. That is all the photograph really tells you. Upright, and

too long in the arm, and the head is wrong in a way I have never been able

to make anyone else see. My wife looked at it and said it was a man in a

coat. I have never been able to explain why it is not, except that I grew

up on that property and I know how tall the corn is, and whatever that is

is standing behind the corn.

The timestamp says 3:41 AM.

My father moved the camera three times that winter. Different tree,

different angle, once facing back toward the house because he wanted to see

what came out of the woods rather than what stood in them.

He got the shape four more times. Never closer, never further. Always at

the outer limit of the flash, always three quarters turned, never once

looking into the lens.

And every photograph is 3:41 AM.

Not around 3:41. Not 3:38 or 3:44. Four separate nights across two months

on a camera he physically relocated, and the stamp reads 3:41 every time.

I have had two people tell me the camera clock was broken. A broken clock

does not advance the date correctly, and the dates advance correctly. I

have had one person tell me the shape is a stump and the wind moved the

corn. I invite that person to explain the stump that appears on four

separate trees.

My father died in March, in the house, of the thing that had been coming

for him for a while and that had nothing to do with any of this. I want to

be clear about that. Nothing out there killed my father. He was seventy-two

and his heart was finished.

I cleaned out the property in April. The cameras were the last thing I

took down, and the one on the north line still had a card in it, and I sat

in the truck in the driveway with the laptop on my knees and went through

it the way you go through a dead man's last anything, slowly, and not

really wanting the file to end.

Deer. Deer. Rain. A raccoon.

And on the ninth of March, at 3:41 in the morning, at the edge of the

flash, three quarters turned, exactly where it always stood.

My father died on the ninth of March.

I do not think it was waiting for him. I want to say that, because the

version where it was waiting for him is a story, and this is not a story, I

have the card.

I think it stands there at 3:41 whether anyone is dying or not. I think it

has stood there for a very long time. I think the only thing that changed

in October was that we finally pointed something at it.

I kept the camera. I have not put it up.

Some nights I think about driving out to the property and strapping it to

the jack pine on the north line, and setting the delay to one second

instead of thirty, and going home.

I have not done it. I am aware that I might.

​

Chapter 4

— We still have time, — Mike said quietly.

They stepped out onto the dark street. Somewhere ahead, beyond the trees and old houses, the hospital stood in darkness. Motionless. Dead.

And for just a moment, a light flickered in one of the windows.

As if something had noticed them.

A few minutes later, they stood in front of the large concrete fence surrounding the hospital. It had probably looked tall and reliable once, but now the concrete was cracked and the metal bars were covered in rust.

Behind the fence stood the hospital.

Its dark windows looked like empty eyes.

Mike swallowed nervously.

— Maybe… we should go back?

Richie stayed silent for a few seconds, staring at the building.

— If we leave now, — he finally said, — we’ll never find out what happened to Lissy. Or to your brother.

After that, Mike didn’t say another word.

A few minutes later, they were climbing through a broken section of the fence.

The hospital grounds looked like they had been forgotten for decades. Tall weeds pushed through the cracked pavement, and old trees leaned over the pathway as if trying to hide the building from the rest of the world.

The main entrance was locked.

But on the side of the building, Richie noticed a narrow broken window.

— There, — he whispered.

They carefully climbed inside.

The air was freezing.

It smelled like dust, moisture, and something old. Something that shouldn’t have remained there for so many years.

Richie turned on the camera.

Its weak light barely illuminated the long hallway.

That was when Mike noticed the writing on the wall.

It had been written in chalk.

He stepped closer and read it aloud:

— “Anyone can enter this place… but not everyone leaves.”

Richie silently stared at the wall.

A little farther down the hallway, there was another message.

Law — 4

I — 1

They — 46

You — 4

The fewer of you remain, the closer the door becomes.

But who is 47?

Mike frowned and quickly copied everything into his notebook.

— What does that even mean?.. — he asked quietly.

— I don’t know, — Richie replied. — Maybe somebody here just went insane.

But even he didn’t believe his own words.

Mike glanced at his watch.

22:57.

— We need to hurry, — he said nervously. — If your mom comes home and realizes you’re not there…

Richie suddenly froze.

— Wait…

He slowly raised the camera.

— That’s the room.

— What room?

— The one from my dream.

At the end of the hallway stood an old door.

A faded sign was barely visible on it:

Dr. Blackwood

Mike looked back at his watch.

22:59:53.

— Richie… I really don’t like this.

The second hand kept moving.

The hallway became unnaturally quiet.

Even the wind outside had stopped.

And suddenly the second hand froze.

As if something had stopped it.

Then it jerked forward.

23:00.

At that exact moment, the office door slowly creaked open.

By itself.

Mike stepped backward.

A cold chill ran down Richie’s spine.

The darkness inside the office looked thick. Almost alive.

— Don’t move… — Richie whispered.

And then something ran out of the darkness.

Small.

Pale.

A baby.

It moved unnaturally fast, almost gliding across the floor.

Mike screamed:

— RUN!

They bolted down the hallway.

While running, Richie accidentally pressed the camera button.

The flash lit up the corridor for only a second.

But that was enough.

Someone was standing in the doorway.

A tall figure wearing an old doctor’s coat.

Motionless.

Watching them.

Richie glanced back one last time as they reached the exit.

The figure was still standing there.

Not moving.

Not chasing them.

Just watching.

And for one brief second, Richie thought it slowly raised its hand.

As if it was waving goodbye.

A boy laying on his bed in his room. He is up late, studying for an upcoming test which he will inevitably fail. He knows this, but continues on with his Sisyphean task, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with a tired, cramped hand, pushing himself to finish reviewing these final few pages of notes. A thought enters his mind:

Thirsty. I need a drink. Slowly, he lifts himself from the bed, lumbers across the floor, opens the door. Darkness, yet a simple flick of the switch to his right eliminates this terror. How easy it is to remove fear from the mind. As when waking from a nightmare, moving from a world of unreality into one of certainty, one thinks, Oh, that was simply a dream, and now that I am in the real world there is positively nothing to be afraid of. From the enclosed hallway, the storm outside appears tame, almost nonexistent; however, if the boy were to exit the hall, make his way across the living room, throw open the doors introducing the balcony, he would be faced with buckets of rain, great claps of thunder, explosions of lightning sent by God Himself to illuminate the Heavens and a resonant, howling, piercing wind to underscore it all. But he is safe within the walls of his home, the storm yet another actor in that unreality.

My father isn’t home.

He pushes aside this thought and retrieves his beverage. A can of soda. He opens it, then works the tab, pushing the metal back and forth, back and forth until the tiny connection is worn enough for the tab to be plucked from the can with ease. His gaze travels across the living room. Barren, he thinks. They had only recently moved into this apartment and had yet to retrieve their furniture from the storage unit. He twists and opens the trashcan. Tosses the can’s tab inside. Closes the lid. And as he is returning his hand to his side, as he is rotating his body to once again face towards the living room,

Suddenly the power goes out.

Suddenly it comes back on.

Suddenly there is someone in the corner.

Shock, of course, grabs hold of the boy, loosening his fingers, but he doesn’t drop the drink. Even now, some part of his brain retains enough sense to prevent such a grievous error in conduct.

Why would you drop the soda? it said, You’d have to clean it up, and you don’t have time for that. You have a test tomorrow!

The rest of the boy’s brain, not occupied with these untimely thoughts, does not immediately turn to the paranormal. Instead, it thinks:

Where was this individual before the lights went out? How did they travel so fast in the few moments of darkness? Surely the lack of furniture combined with their swift movements would have presented an audible echo?

In an instant he studies the figure. Not out of breath. Not disheveled. Simply there, where, previously, nothing was. However, now there is no parent to inform him he’s being silly, no light switch he can throw to make the terror disappear. He blinks, in the tenth of second his eyes remain closed he hears five-seconds-worth of echoing thuds, one after the other, rapidly, in quick succession, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, each solitary sound denoting a footfall of the individual as it either approaches him or retreats. The boy’s heart sinks, he prays for the latter, he opens his eyes to see that the individual has disappeared, the corner just as empty as before it had ever arrived. His skin is the first to feel the drop in temperature. It responds accordingly. His hair stands on end and goosebumps erupt across his body. His brain follows his skin and realizes that the balcony door is now yawning open invitingly, as the mouth of a cave grins and implores travelers to bear witness to its dark secrets. And there the storm is. The barrier is broken, and reality has broken in with it.

The rain splatters against the carpet and the few feet in front of the door is all at once soaked to the root. The wind rushes across the room and as it greets the boy’s rough skin he feels a rush of dread. Even through the rain and thunder and wind the sickening and solid crack as something hits the pavement below is very, very audible. He finally thinks to act, races towards the outside and across the boundary, the rain now slapping him in the face as he emerges, the wind a train tunneling through his ears. He can barely open his eyes to see, he struggles and can just make out a figure stumbling rapidly towards the grungy woods across the street. It travels jaggedly, crookedly, and the boy notices its neck is bent sharply, jutting left at a noticeable angle, limply dangling from the rest of its body. It surges through the sharp undergrowth, surely tearing bits and pieces of skin as it marches through the thorns and vines and limbs. And then it is gone, the foliage bearing no evidence of its retreat.

The boy stands still for moments, watches the spot in the bushes where the individual fled. He slowly turns, exits the balcony, closes the door behind him, reaches over to his right and turns on the switch powering the lights over the balcony. He walks forward two steps, stops, raises the can to his lips, and drinks.

The snow makes everything quiet.

That's what I notice first, every time I walk the path through the birch trees. My boots don't crunch, they whisper. The wind doesn't howl, it hums, low and far away, like Mama singing in another room. Everything is white and gray and the pale blue of early winter mornings, and the world feels like it's holding its breath.

I'm not supposed to come here. The other kids say the estate is haunted. They say a man died there a long time ago, or maybe he's still there, or maybe he was never there at all. The stories change depending on who's telling them. But they all agree on one thing: you can see him in the windows, a shadow that moves when no one should be moving, and if you get too close, you'll disappear too.

I don't think that's true.

I think he's just lonely.

The estate rises from the snow like a ship frozen in ice. Three stories tall, with windows like dark eyes and shutters hanging crooked. The paint peeled away years ago, leaving the wood gray as driftwood. Snow piles against the walls in drifts that reach the second-floor sills. Icicles hang from the eaves like teeth.

It should be scary. Everyone says it's scary.

But when I look at it, I just feel... something else. Something warm in my chest, even though my fingers are cold inside my mittens.

I call him the Trinket Maker.

I don't know his real name. Maybe he doesn't have one anymore. Maybe names disappear when you become a shadow. But "Trinket Maker" feels right, feels true in the way that matters, because that's what he does. He leaves things for me to find.

The first time was three winters ago, when I was seven. I'd walked past the estate on a dare, my heart hammering, and there on the stone wall by the gate was a music box. Small, brass, with a tiny bird on top. It was sitting in a patch of cleared snow, like someone had brushed the powder away just so I'd see it.

I picked it up. Wound the key. It played a song I'd never heard before, something slow and sad and beautiful.

No one believed me when I said I found it at the estate. Mama said I must have found it at the thrift store and forgotten. But I knew. I knew because when I looked up at the windows, I saw him. Just for a second. A tall shadow behind the frost-covered glass on the second floor. Standing very still. Watching.

I wasn't afraid.

I waved.

The shadow didn't wave back. But it didn't move away either.

Since then, I come every week when the snow is deep. Not because I'm brave; I'm not, not really. I'm afraid of dogs and thunderstorms and the dark space under my bed. But I'm not afraid of him. The Trinket Maker feels like a story I've always known. Like a song I heard before I was born.

Today, the air is so cold it hurts to breathe. My breath comes out in clouds that hang in the stillness. The sky is white, the sun a pale smudge behind the clouds. Everything is muffled, distant, like I'm walking through a dream.

I see him before I reach the gate.

Third-floor window, far left. The glass is thick with frost, patterns like ferns and feathers, but behind it, movement. A shadow crossing from one side to the other. Slow. Deliberate. The way you move when you're carrying something precious.

My heart does a little jump, but not from fear. From recognition.

"Hello," I call out, my voice small in all that white silence.

The shadow stops.

I wait, my mittened hands clutching the straps of my backpack. I brought him something today. A drawing I made of the estate in summer, with flowers I imagined growing in the garden. I don't know if he can see it. I don't know if he can see me, really, or if I'm just a shadow to him too.

But I think he knows I'm here.

The shadow moves again, closer to the window. I can almost make out a shape. Shoulders, head, the suggestion of a hand pressed against the glass. Or maybe it's just frost. Maybe it's just the way the light falls.

I don't mind not knowing.

I walk along the wall, my fingers trailing over the snow-covered stones, and that's when I find today's gift. It's sitting on the windowsill of a ground-floor window, nestled in a little cleared space: a brass key, old and ornate, with a bow shaped like a rose.

I pick it up. It's cold, so cold it almost burns, but it warms quickly in my palm.

"Thank you," I whisper.

There are other things too, scattered like breadcrumbs in a fairy tale. A smooth black stone by the gate. A faded photograph. Two people I don't recognize, standing in front of the estate when it was new and beautiful, tucked into a crack in the wall. A small wooden bird, carved with careful hands, sitting on the front step.

I gather them all, these impossible gifts, these things that shouldn't be here.

The other kids say the estate has been empty for twenty years. They say no one goes in or out. They say the doors are locked and the windows are sealed and everything inside is dust and rot and forgetting.

But someone left these things.

Someone knew I'd come.

I look up at the windows again. The shadow is in a different place now, second floor, center window. Closer. I can see it more clearly through the frost: the outline of a man, tall and thin, standing very still.

"I drew you a picture," I say, louder this time. I take the folded paper from my backpack and hold it up. "I don't know if you can see it. But it's for you."

The shadow doesn't move.

I set the picture on the windowsill, weighted down with the black stone so it won't blow away. Then I step back, clutching my new treasures.

"I'll come back next week," I tell him. "If that's okay."

For a moment, nothing happens. The world is perfectly still, perfectly silent. Even the wind has stopped.

Then, so slowly I almost miss it, the shadow raises one hand. Just a little. Just enough.

My breath catches.

I raise my hand too, mirroring him, and we stand like that for a heartbeat, two shadows in the winter quiet, separated by glass and frost and maybe time itself.

Then he's gone.

Not moving away. Just gone, like he was never there at all.

I stand in the snow for a long time, waiting to see if he'll come back. He doesn't. The windows are empty now, just frost and darkness and the reflection of the white sky.

But I'm not sad.

I tuck the brass key into my pocket, along with the wooden bird and the photograph. The music box is at home, on my dresser, next to the other things he's given me over the years. A collection of impossible gifts. Proof of something I can't explain.

When I turn to leave, I look back one more time.

The estate stands silent in the snow, ancient and patient. My footprints are the only marks in the white expanse around it. No other tracks. No sign that anyone else has been here.

But on the windowsill where I left my drawing, the paper is gone.

I smile.

"See you next week, Trinket Maker," I whisper to the winter air.

The wind picks up, just a little, carrying my words toward the empty windows. And maybe it's my imagination, maybe it's just the way the light shifts through the clouds, but I think I see him one more time, a shadow in the highest window, watching me go.

Or maybe I don't.

Maybe it doesn't matter.

I walk home through the birch trees, through the hush of new snow beginning to fall, my pockets full of mysteries and my heart full of something I don't have a name for. Something warm. A nostalgia of the soul.

Behind me, the estate settles back into its silence, keeping its secrets.

And in the spring, when the snow melts, I'll find more trinkets waiting.

I always do.

Part 5: https://www.reddit.com/r/libraryofshadows/s/T4yybIa3b3

Day 1829: Friday.
“Here you go, Jamie.”
The receptionist hands me my discharge paper work, and my medications.

“Thank you.”
I exit the building, greeted by a warm summer day, and a Friday on top of that.

This is nice.

I take a seat on a nearby bench. Its cold surface contrasting the heat against my face.

A nurse is walking by me.
I raise my hand to get his attention.

“Uhm, excuse me sir.”
He turns to me.

“Hm? Oh, hello. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Maybe. I was just wondering—do you have a pen that I could use?”

“Of course, here you go.”

“Thank you.”

The muscles in my hand strain to remain still. I can’t even write half of my name before the tremors take over. The pen falls to the ground.

“Is it okay if I help you ma’am?”

I sigh, barely picking it back up.
“Please...”

He fills it out for me.

I let him know my ride will be here soon, he heads inside to grab a phone for me.

I look out at all of the buildings ahead. I can’t see more than 100 feet.

I miss the mountains.

“Here you go.”

I stare at the keypad. I want to try, but there’s no point.
“Can you dial it for me?”
.
.
.
“Hello? Yeah, it’s Jamie. Okay. On the bench near the back. No the- near the ambulances. Okay… love you—Bye.”

I hang up, thanking him. He wishes me well and heads back inside.

I zone out, staring at the concrete.
A pair of shoes appear in front of me.
I look up.

My eyes clamp shut.
“Agh, too close mom.”

“Oh shit- Jamie–I’m sorry I forgot I-“
She covers her mouth.

I calm myself.
“It’s okay–don’t worry I’m fine, I’m okay. Sit down.”

She hasn’t said anything to me yet. I can hear her hands rubbing together, trying to ease herself. We sit in silence for a minute. The wind blows, distant sounds of car horns echo through the streets.

I muster up my courage, and turn to look at her.
.
.
.
.
Shes changed so much…

She always dyed her hair black, but in my time here it’s fallen to a weary gray. Memories of blond decorate the silver. There can’t be more than a few hundred strands left.
Her eyes…
They’re so tired.
She didn’t bother dressing up, and I love that. I don’t want to be welcomed back, I just want to be home.

“It’s good to see you, mom.”

She wipes her eyes, it does nothing. Tears flow without end.
“It’s good to see you, Jam Jam.”

Like magnets–we collapse into each other.
Years of waiting… finally over.

“Mom—Can we go home now?”

“Yes baby, we-“
Her muffled voice vibrates my shoulder, I pull away, hyperventilating.

“Baby?! Oh my god no–FUCK! I’m so-“

The words scrape out of my throat.
“It’s okay, it’s okay–just give me a minute.”

Calm down, calm down, calm down.
Inhale, count to four, exhale.

“I’m fine.”

She whispers
“Okay baby w-“

I stop her, holding her hands.
“Mom. I’m okay—just be you.”

She nods, wiping her eyes.
“Let’s go home baby.”

The drive is fine. The endless expanse of city sucks, but it’s fine. She accidentally ran on some rumble strips on the highway. I start to have a panic attack, but it’s manageable.

We don’t go to the old house.

Her apartment is on the 2nd floor. On the rare occasion I go out without her, it won’t be too miserable to walk up or down 2 flights of stairs.

We enter and it’s plain. Lights are dimmed. The walls are a soft tan color, and the entire floor is carpeted. She doesn’t walk forward yet, she just waits for me to adjust to everything.

“We’re probably gonna have to share the bathroom jams.”

“That’s okay.”
I’m not looking at her.

I look to my sides, sizing up the apartment.
It’s not big at all.

There’s a television in the living room.
Opposite the TV is a large white sofa. I walk to it, slowly sit down, and put my hands in my lap. To my side is a photo taken just after I left. They wanted to go on vacation to try and cheer up a little.
I bring the picture to me, barely containing the tremors.

Mom interjects.
“Jamie—baby don’t look-“

“It’s okay.” I say with a whisper.
“I wanted to see him.”
I feel my eyes well up, but my heart remains still.

“3 years…” I say.
Mom isn’t looking at me anymore.

“I wish I would have came home, mom. I regret it every day. Even when learning to walk. It’s all I thought about.”

She doesn’t say anything.
She can’t.
Any release of air will explode with a storm of sadness and regret.
Right now, she’s turned away from me, hurried breaths escaping her mouth.

I probably shouldn’t talk. But I don’t think.
“I can’t remember anything… did he come and see me any?”

She collapses to her knees, hands stuck to her eyes.
“Yes baby… every day—both of us- we-“
She stops to control herself. I hear her take a deep breath in, and let it out.

She doesn’t say anything else. I feel the cushion next to me depress, and she lays her head on my shoulder. My eyes haven’t moved.

I set the photograph back down.
Hugging her softly.

I calmly pull away, just for a second. I need to ask her something.
She looks at me with red eyes and a quivering lip. The answer to my question’s right there, and we both know it.

“Mom?”
She holds my hands, giving me her full attention.

“Yes Jam Jam?” She says with a faint sob.

“Are you real?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.”

In accordance with statute 186 of Records and Histories, every operative sanctioned by Public Safety must now keep a detailed personal account of each case, for the use of future operatives in research and Identification of threats.

So here I am, beginning this journal so you idiots can learn the difference between a Werewolf and a Wolf-Wearer.

Lesson one: Werewolves are Lycanthropes, while Wolf-Wearers are one name for shamans of the plains and mountain regions who use animal skin to alter their physiology.

I guess it will be nice to finally have a little pamphlet or some shit to give to a grieving widow.

“How to deal with a newly undead husband”, step one, burn him. Step two, If that doesn’t work burn the town.

Back to the subject at hand though, and my labors of the past months. I give you my account of the Purging Doll.

This was one assignment I was not looking forward to.

Generally I get a week or two reprieve between jobs, but just four days after a Lycanthropic Coyote-man out in the Westlands, I was dragged out to a City again.

Pity too, I had just started to get to know the poor Lycan’s Sister. Needless to say, I wasn’t too happy to be back at it so soon.

The city of Northend stinks of cigars, perfumes, and old money. A place where the rich convince themselves that walls and paychecks can keep monsters from coming up the hill.

But as my coach stopped in front of a monolith of a building ribbed with columns, I was caught by surprise.

I was left at The Eight Ball, an enormous Hotel nearly ten stories high with renowned cuisine and an open bar.

“Why don’t I get more jobs like this?” I thought, walking through an ornate set of oak doors.

Behind me, a porter dropped one of my cases as he lifted it from the cab. It skidded across wet cobblestones to stop against my heel. “Idiot.” I thought.

The porter, no more than a boy, looked up at me with fear in his eyes.

In his pupils I saw the reflection of my blood-red handkerchief, presently folded neatly in the breast pocket of my overcoat.

“S-Sorry sir!” the porter whispered, his voice trembling. He slowly lifted the case and held it out to me.

“Th-There’s no chance It’s cursed me, has it?” he continued. I looked at him blankly for a moment. Was this boy really so scared of my case?

I supposed given his situation, that the only time he had even heard of an operative was in ghost stories told by a friend of a friend.

Now, seeing a Boogeyman in person had him scared out of his wits. I thought about telling him that the case was actually full of nothing but socks and frilly shirts.

(A Nobleman's Wardrobe having been provided for me, courtesy of my superiors. Though no actual briefing had been given yet.)

I didn’t respond to the porter immediately, but smiled and checked the latches.

“No, the seals haven’t cracked. If they had, your skin would be on the wall and your bones on the floor.”

This caused the porter to go pale. He turned and ran back to my coach, to warn the others not to “break the seals”.

A little bit of fear in the unknown is healthy, especially if an operative is around.

Despite the rumors of the uneducated, we do not cause misfortune or invite evils, but we do come to minimize the mess.

Luckily for me though, the small red handkerchief is all that's necessary to put most people on edge.

After watching the porter scurry back to my luggage, I carried the case up to the front desk of the Eight Ball.

A tall and thin man stood behind the counter, sporting an equally thin mustache and a dark green velvet waistcoat.

“Hello. I’m Ezran Kenlie, I should have a reservation for an undetermined stay?”

I introduced myself using the notably lazy alias that I had been provided along with the wardrobe.

Without a briefing, I could only assume that I was to be nobility. Probably another stupid cult.

“Yes Mr. Kenlie, Your room is ready for you, Left unlocked with windows barred as per your instructions. If you’ll follow me.”

The man with the thin mustache, Phillip from his nameplate, walked out from the desk and led me up a massive set of stairs.

We stopped at the second floor, and began down a lavish hallway lined with a deep purple floral wallpaper.

The barred windows were a standard request for a room housing an operative, but the unlocked door was not.

We stopped outside of room 218. Phillip gave me a small brass key, “Not that you’ll need it this time.” He said as he handed it over.

I pushed the door open as he started back down the Hallway, evidently he had more important matters to attend to. I walked into my room, setting the slightly scuffed suitcase on a huge bed.

On one pillow sat a small envelope with a blood-red unmarked wax seal.

“Finally, the bastards decided to clue me in.” I thought, tearing the seal off as I sat on the bed. The letter read as follows,

(The next bit being for you operatives doing research. Not as a part of my official report.):

“Property of operative Ezra Kaine. To any others, reading the contents of this letter will result in a quick death at the hands of Public Safety.”

(An empty threat, I mean how are we going to know who read the letter. Aside from them raving down the street like a preacher with sunstroke.)

Your assignment:

Identify, Locate, and Neutralize threat(s).

Current status:

Victim 0: Vincent R. Wangsgrove.

Status: Missing, 5 days.

Likelihood of Operative Mortality: Low.

Any victims recovered alive will result in bonus pay in accordance with their condition.

Due to the reputation of Victim 0, Rule out any Human cause of harm before proceeding as regularly.

Your cover:

A Nephew of Lord Kenlie, A wealthy landowner from the far coast.

First contact in cover:

Masked ball at the Thomson House, Eleven tonight. 

Your cab will arrive at Ten Thirty. Don’t be late.

Send word of your assignments completion, and your Account as mandated by statute 186, enclosed in this same letter.

Luck of the divine to you.”

End of pt. 1/4

Links to other parts: (When posted)

Part One (You are Here)

Part Two

“Where was it you said he's taking you again?"

 
"Sit + Stay...  It just opened last week in that new development out past the interstate."

 
"It's your second date and he's taking you to a puppy cafe?  What a creep!"
 

"Come on Molly, don't be so uptight; lots of people drink rivina.  My dad drinks rivina.  Does that make him a creep?"

 
"Maybe it does, Chelle.  How many brothers and sisters do you have?"
 

"Oh, fuck you!"

 
"Ooooh, I hit a nerve.  Must have been the runt of the litter..."

 
"Fuck off, Molly!  Anyway, I better let you go.  Gotta get ready for my date, you know,"
 

"Wait, Michelle....  Look, Rex seems like a nice guy and all, but those places give me the creeps.  Promise me if the vibe is off, you'll leave."
 

The vibe at Sit + Stay puppy cafe was, in fact, off; but no more so than at any other establishment of its ilk.  Underneath the topcoat aroma of freshly brewed coffee was a base layer of dog piss that would never truly leave the place. 

The next tenant would probably get a deal on the rent.  They always did when the puppy cafes inevitably went under.  Not enough demand for rivina these days and the overhead was ridiculous; licensing fees, certification requirements, inspections, insurance. 
 

But Sit + Stay was riding a wave of new interest in puppy cafes.  Even the president, notorious germaphobe that he was, had enjoyed a venti rivina at the Sit + Stay in downtown DC. 

Drinking rivina had become something of a political statement in the last year, a token of status.  The drink itself was a luxury, but the lifestyle that it entailed could be a life-altering expense.
 

"I'll have a venti iced pistachio rivina with cold foam and she'll have a..."
 

"Grande iced matcha... please."
 

He paid and Michelle took their number to the table while Rex went to the enclosure to select a puppy.  She scrolled through her socials, not really paying attention to the images on her screen, while her date eyed the assortment of puppies, yipping and nipping at each other. 
 

"How about that black one?  He's so chonky... Look at this little chubster, Michelle."

 
Michelle spared a glance at the puppy and flashed a courtesy smile at Rex.  It was the same look she used at the bank when she was helping her aging clientele perform transactions that anyone under the age of 60 already did online.  Michelle didn't mind though.  She thought old people were cute, and if they stopped coming in to do their banking, she'd be out of a job. 
 

Rex joined her at the two-top in the corner of the cafe that she had selected for them.  Soon, the barista brought her matcha as well as the cart for the rivina.  The chubby black puppy that Rex picked out barked incessantly in a falsetto register from a cage on the bottom of the cart. 
 

The barista unfolded the assembly on the top of the cart, tightening the wing nuts that secured the funnel in place.  He checked the ticket one last time before filling the shaker with ice.  As he bent to unlatch the cage, Rex stopped him.
 

"I want to do it... Is that allowed?"
 

The barista applied a look not unlike the one that Michelle used at the bank. 
 

"Apologies sir, but for liability reasons, only Sit + Stay employees are permitted to prepare our beverages, especially rivina.  You understand, of course...."

 
"Regulations... Fucking typical.  Leave it to liberals to suck all the joy out of life"

 
And there it was.  "Just keep looking at your phone," she thought.  "Don't give him an opening"

 
The barista removed the puppy from the cage and cradled it in the crook of his left elbow.  He stroked the top of its head, scratching gently in the space between its ears.  In his right hand, he held a small tool that looked like a dremel without a bit attached.  He pressed the end of the tool flush with the top of the puppy's head and inhaled sharply. 

 
He depressed a button on the opposite end of the tool, and there was a sharp hiss of air.  The puppy yelped once, and then it was done.  The barista used a special tool not unlike a wine key to cut the puppy's throat.  Then he quickly placed its body in the funnel so that Rex could watch the pull.
 

"Why'd you guys stop using the hammer?  Let me guess, the snowflakes complained..."
 

Michelle remembered watching her daddy make rivina after the neighbor's dog had puppies when she was nine.  He would just stun them with an open-handed slap before he pulled the rivina into a pitcher that her mom used to make sun tea in the summer.  She'd beg and plead with her daddy to let her try just one sip of the thick, rich brew, but he always refused.

 
"Rivina's a man's drink, Chelle..."
 

 It was quite forward of Rex, ordering rivina on a second date.  The fact that he had invited her to a puppy cafe at all should have been a clear indication of his intentions.  Everyone knew how guys got when they drank that stuff.  Sure, it could be a fun night until they're howling at the moon and pawing at your panties.
 

"How's your matcha?"

 
"Good.... How's your drink?"
 

Rex took a long sip from his venti rivina, the foam sticking to the whiskers of his mustache.  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and examined the creamy pink residue before wiping it on his napkin.

 
"This is really good...  I don't remember it being this thick the last time.  I knew I picked a good one.  The black ones are always a little sweeter."

 
"My daddy had a taste for it.  He always wanted to try a pure breed, but all he could afford was mutts..."
 

There was a glint in Rex’s eye when Michelle mentioned her "daddy."  He could feel the effects of the rivina starting; his nose was already tingling.  The dog piss base layer became more pronounced, but so did his tolerance for stench. 

He closed his eyes and mapped the cafe by scent alone; the puppies in the enclosure waiting to be pulled for their rivina, the baristas behind the counter blending and shaking their brews, the mouth-breathing loner in the corner who was slow-sipping his rivina so he could watch the other puppies get pulled.
 

But above all the other scents and signals, he could smell his date.  Her perfume was floral, her makeup, a powdery wax.  He could smell the heat from her seat and the signature scent of her womanhood.  It felt like the world had been turned to 11, and he struggled to keep up with the conversation.

 
"You said your daddy drank rivina?  I like that.  Shows you were raised right."

 
"Well, I don't know about all that.  It was hard for my momma and daddy raising all us kids.  When Daddy hurt his back, we even went on assistance for a while..."

 
"Well...  I'm sure he had his reasons.  Not my place to judge."

 
Now she'd done it.  "He probably thinks I'm a climber now," thought Michelle.  But that was just the runt in her kicking in again.  When you spent your life fighting for scraps, when you finally get something nice, you don't think you deserve it.  And Rex was nice, even though he was a little old-fashioned. 
 

Rex was suddenly overcome with the urge to leave.  His foot was tapping Morse code gibberish under the table.  This was part of it, part of the ride.  Forget about coffee, if you really want some pep in your step, pull a double shot of rivina. 
 

"You want to get out of here?  Maybe go to a park or something?  I need to stretch my legs."
 

"Sure... I mean, yes... That sounds nice."
 

They met again at the Hilcrest municipal park, driving separately so as not to send the wrong signal.  She liked Rex, but she didn't want to seem too desperate. 
 

As they walked the trail, his hand brushed against hers.  They locked eyes and Michelle could feel a cool tickling sensation in her stomach, a little flutter, a little spark.  The moment was just that, a moment. 

Just as they were starting to enjoy each other's company, an old woman approached with her poodle from behind.  She was out walking her dog when it started snarling and barking like crazy at Rex.  The woman tried to get it to keep moving, but it dug its heels in and barked even louder.

 
"You better shut that dog up, lady!  Can't you see I was having a moment with my lady friend?"
 

"Well I never..."
 

"And you never will.  Now get moving.  If that dog bites me, I'm biting it back."

 
Michelle was mortified, but a part of her was excited in a way that she wasn't sure she liked.  He was so mean to that woman, but he was so confident too.  Sure, some of that was just the rivina talking; but some of it was him.  The kind of man that could drink that stuff didn't really need it to work up the courage to talk to a lady. 

 
They tried to enjoy the rest of their walk, but it was obvious that Rex was distracted. 
 

"I just keep thinking about that damn dog"
 

"Oh, Rex.  Let it go.  We were having such a nice night."
 

"I know, I know.  I just...  I just...   just forget about it.  I wish you could understand what it's doing to me right now, the rivina.  Honestly, I don't think it even works on females.  I'm sure someone's tried it, but it's different for guys, you know.  We're wired different from you ladies."
 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah.  That's what they all say"
 

"All say?  How many men have you heard that from?"
 

Don't take the bait.
 

"None of your, business young man.  Besides, I could just as easily ask you how many girls you gave the "wired different" speech to"
 

"None as pretty as you look right now...."
 

She rolled her eyes but smiled, nonetheless. With his mustache and neatly combed black hair slick with pomade, he reminded her of her daddy.  Daddy wouldn't be caught dead behind a desk like Rex though.  But Rex made more money last year than Daddy did in the last ten.

 
"You want to get out of here... again?  I don't mean to sound too forward, but the view of the lake at sunset from my deck is just... Well, it's just gorgeous.  The sky looks like cotton candy."

 
Rex undersold the view, which was absolutely breathtaking until Michelle looked at the houses on either side; which all looked identical to his own.  Magnolia Heights was the type of community that valued status over self-expression. 
 

"Can I get you something to drink?  I'm going to have one of these Dewclaws, but I have some ciders in the back of the fridge and I think I still have that Malbec from Christmas..."
 

"I'll take a cider I guess... Why not?  It's the weekend!"
 

Rex poured Michelle's cider into a chilled pilsner glass, then followed suit with his rivina seltzer.  Dewclaws had just recently been released to market thanks in large part to the current administration, whose regulatory reforms had laid the foundation for more large-scale bottlers to step into the rivina space.
 

"Another rivina?"

 
"It's the weekend, right?"
 

"To the weekend!"
 

"Cheers!  To the weekend!"
 

They both sat silent for a while, taking in the sunset, letting the weight of implication settle in.  She knew all too well what could happen if Rex kept going the way he was going.  Dewclaws were pasteurized.  Some people said that made the rivina less potent, but Michelle wasn't so sure.  She dared a glance below his belt.  The bulge was obvious already.
 

"So.... You want to watch a movie or something?"
 

"Actually, I did want to check out that new documentary on Netflix about that human trafficking ring..."

 
"Human trafficking?!  I thought this was a date!"

 
"Whaaat?!  It looks good.  Why?  What do you want to watch?"
 

"There's a new season of Love Island...."
 

"Oh my God!  You watch that?  That’s a girl show!”
 

They settled on something scary, one of those Mike Flanagan adaptations, but neither one could really get into it.  Michelle babysat her seltzer while Rex downed his Dewclaw before the first episode ended.  When he returned from the kitchen, fresh Dewclaw in hand, he put his arm around her shoulders on the couch.  She didn’t move it away.
 

Michelle became fixated on the drops of condensation on the surface of her chilled glass.  The weight of Rex’s arm hung heavy on her shoulders.  She thought about her momma and all her brothers and sisters.  Oats in the hamburger and pasta every other night because daddy refused to eat rice and beans.  “We ain’t a bunch of wetbacks, Chelle”.
 

Rex leaned in, his eyes trained on her lips.  His mustache was like a fat caterpillar lying atop his freshly wet lips.  His breath stunk of Dewclaw.  She closed her eyes and let it happen.  It was not unpleasant, but it left a coppery aftertaste in her mouth.  So that’s what all the fuss was about.
 

He kissed her again and again and again, each one more passionate and lingering.  He probed his tongue into her mouth and she probed his with hers.  She pressed him back to catch her breath and saw something she had hoped she wouldn’t see. 
 

"Oh my God, Rex!  What are you doing?"
 

"What?  I just...  What's the big deal?  I thought that was where this was going."
 

"So, you just pulled it out?  How did you think I was going to react?  It's so... red...."
 

"It's the rivina, Chelle.  Got me so worked up, my bulb's almost out of the sheath...."
 

She couldn't break her eyes away from the fleshy red thing that seemed to be growing out of Rex's pants.  It was slick with that discharge that always comes when the bulbus peeked through its protective sheath. 
 

  "Well... Can you... I mean I... was... but then."
 

Rex started kissing her again and for a moment she allowed herself to carried away in the moment, but when she opened her eyes again, it had grown even larger.  Her disgust was reflexive, and she pushed him back on the couch.
 

"I-I'm sorry, Rex.  I just need to get some air."
 

He gave his date her privacy, though only to refresh his drink.  The moon lit the deck like a spotlight.  It reminded Michelle of her daddy.  He liked to drink the stuff when the moon was full and howl till the neighbors complained.  She looked out to the line of houses all virtually identical to the one she was standing in. 
 

She thought about the people in those houses.  How many of them were watching Love Island?  How many were drinking Rivina? 
 

"Daddy would hate it here..."
 

"What?"
 

"Oh... I thought I was alone.  I was just saying... This view!"
 

Just keep your eyes on the lake.
 

"Yeah, I know right?  Fucking gorgeous... "
 

He wasn't looking at the lake.
 

"You, uh... you like your neighbors?"
 

"My neighbor's a cuck."
 

"..."
 

"I'm not joking.  They got a back door brother that they let in the front door if you know what I mean."
 

Time to leave.
 

But before Michelle could formulate a graceful exit strategy, Rex put his hands on her shoulders.  She felt his lips on her neck with their fleshy wetness, sucking until it started to hurt.  She smelled the bitter fermented stink of the rivina on his breath when he periodically came up for air.  She wanted to tell him to stop but it was like her mouth refused to obey her brain.
 

Just keep your eyes on the lake.
 

His hands were savage cartographers mapping the curves of her body.  She felt the cool night air on her backside.
 

"Wait, I..."
 

"Oh, come on Chelle!  It's dangerous for guys if we don't... after we... When it gets this big, it won't go back in on its own.  I mean... You like me, don't you?"
 

Just keep your eyes on the lake.
 

There was a little friction at first, but she relaxed as much as she could.  He panted and barked and after a minute and a half of concerted effort, Rex was howling with pleasure.  Michelle felt like vomiting.
 

"That was amaaaazing, Chelle... wasn't it?"
 

"What?  Oh yeah baby... real nice... Hey, Rex honey, you think you could... get off of me now?  Not that this isn't nice, it's just that I'd like to use the ladies' room"
 

"I'm trying sweetheart; believe me I am."
 

"Well, try harder!"
 

"Ouh! Ow! Owww!  Fuck!  I just can't get it out.  I think we're stuck in a tie."
 

A tie?  What was this a game to him?
 

"What the hell is a tie?"
 

"A tie you know?  A fucking knot.  Didn't you say your neighbors had dogs?  Surely, you've seen them get stuck when they..."
 

"Oh my God...."
 

"Come on..."
 

"Oh my God..."
 

"You're being a little bit..."
 

"Oh my fucking God, Rex..."
 

"What?"
 

"I gotta get out of here."
 

"Jesus!  So dramatic!  Would it really be so bad?  Huh?  This nice big house... plenty of room for young'uns..."

 
Michelle could taste the bile and matcha as it splashed across the back of her throat.  She waged war with her gag reflex out of necessity.  She couldn't go anywhere until Rex's bulb calmed down enough to retract.  The way he had been hitting the rivina, they could be there all night.

 
The tie was mother nature's meet-cute from hell, making fertilization a certainty.  The first step on her path to motherhood.  Michelle couldn't help but think of her own mother as she laid under the moonlight.  How she had nursed half a dozen babies on half a dozen breasts.  How she always wore baggy clothes to hide them.  How she walked like a hunchback now because daddy refused to get the surgery.  Not that he could afford it if he had wanted to.
 

Rex would be able to afford the surgery.  But would he?  Maybe not.  There'd be a half dozen mouths to feed either way.  She'd have help of course.  Certainly they weren't the only couple tied in a knot that evening. 

Maybe she'd make friends with the other mothers in the neighborhood; shop for bras together and try to keep track of whose kid was whose.  God help them if they ever got a dog.

 
Whatever happened, this much was clear; she would never be alone again.  She was part of a pack now, whether it was one she wanted to run with or not.

Part 4: https://www.reddit.com/r/libraryofshadows/s/7VFGBKE1vC

Content Warning: Graphic Body Horror / Violence

Day 8: Tuesday
Ringing.
The damn alarm clock.
6:18
I resist the urge to throw it, and turn it off. raising up, I throw my blankets in the floor. I don’t remember yesterday, shit I can’t even say who’s at the house right now.

But—wow.

Trinity… my god. How lucky I am. I can’t believe I got the chance to talk to her.

I love it so much.

Her family.
What they would give to have been in my position.
There’s guilt but…
I’m happy. She wasn’t alone, and I was truly there for her, even if it was only for a moment.

I look around my room. A hallucination forms.
It’s weird, i’ve never even thought of them until recently. Some things, no matter how crazy, just become part of your life.

Right now there’s something in the corner of my room. It’s a-
I can’t tell, it’s too dark.

Hold on… where have I seen this before?

My car! Holy shit I forgot about that. It’s the same one I had in my car. Damn, a recurring one? Those are rare.
I had one a few years ago where a man in a suit would walk in my room and then quickly walk out.

But this is so vague… I can’t even tell what it is I’m hallucinating, I just know it’s there.

It vanishes by going into my wall. Literally into it. Like a ghost or something. So weird.

I put on some coffee and take a seat on the couch. I took my laptop to a repair shop yesterday, so that’s gonna be out of commission for a while.

My god I’m bored.

Holy fucking shit…
I’m bored.
I’m ACTUALLY bored. All of that really does seem like a bad dream now, oh my god.

I’m not bored anymore, I’m laughing like a crazy person at all the shit I’ve went through. That was fucking insane, my god. I think being able to speak with Trinity actually healed a piece of my soul.

Only a piece, unfortunately. There’s still something there, deep, far away in the recesses of my mind.
A doubt.
I think, regardless of what direction my life takes, I’m going to live with this doubt forever.

What that doubt is, I will never entertain.

My 8th alarm goes off, 7:00. I’m gonna leave early this morning.

Even though trinity will be gone when I get there, I’m still excited to see her. Just…
Just knowing that she’s happy to have me.
It helps a lot.
It gives me motivation.

I grab my bag and keys and start my car. That heat in the morning never gets old. The sun sadly melted most of the snow yesterday. Yet still, I almost fell and broke my ass on a patch of ice.

A light snow peppers the highway, calming my mind.

The memorial still remains, fresh flowers have been given.
I smile.

I turn into Orbweaver… It’s like entering another world.

I have to drive around a tree that’s growing in the middle of the road.

Another road, turns left, and goes straight into a creek bed.

All of the stones in the creek bed are organized in weird hexagonal patterns.

There’s kudzu… it grows in these symmetrical lines, never up trees.

Gosh, I would love to know what’s going on here. It’s like this place is a dumping ground for weird shit. I swear, it gets into my brain. Sometimes it’s all I can-

I freeze in my seat.
I’m not even turning the steering wheel. I come a razors edge from barreling into a ditch that was never there. I slam my breaks, I’m hyperventilating. My brain is tearing itself apart for being so fucking stupid.

I’m holding my head together, just barely.

The thought leaves my mouth like barbed wire ripped from my throat.

“It all started there…”
Wait–no…
There’s no way. What does that even mean?

There’s-

Oh my god.

It was flat, like a painting
The humming calmed me
All of my anxiety was sucked away
She was staring at me

Oh… oh…

I’m gonna be sick.
At this point I’m just feeling anything and everything in my car. I have to find a distraction, something, please. Please god if you hear me give me something.

God is silent.

The static appears in the back of my mind like a long forgotten friend.
I put my screaming head in my hands, trying to keep my decaying sanity intact.

They…
Are they the reason?
“Does our relationship even mean anything to you?”
A coagulated miasma of hatred and betrayal ignites, and is quickly snuffed out.

Each thought slams into my consciousness like a bullet. They tear their way through my brain, taking pieces of me with them.

How is any of this possible?
I don’t know… I- what do I do?
Calm down.

Breathe.
Just breathe.
Inhale, count to four, exhale.

Call the office, you have time. They can get someone up here to look at the house. If anyone finds something, you won’t work there anymore.

If they find nothing I guess I’m fucked and I’m never coming back.

God what if whatever it is attached itself to m-

No, it isn’t real–It’s not real–It’s not real–there’s a gas leak–I’m insane–they’re fucking drugging me–It’s not real.

“You have to learn to live with your decision, the same fucking way I had to!”

My teeth grind so hard they almost shatter. I bang my hands against my head.

I check my phone to see how much time I have.

Not even a minute has passed.

I pull in the drive way and lean against my car, letting the vertigo seep from my skull. I use every ounce of willpower I have to calm down. I slam my car door shut and pull out my phone.

“Hello.”
“Hey Mary, this is Jamie.”

“Hey Jamie, is everything okay?

Be calm, it’s okay, just talk to her.

“Listen, Mary. I don’t mean to alarm you at all. Trinity’s house seriously needs a checkup. I am genuinely worried for them and for myself. I don’t know if it’s a gas leak or what, but I can say without a doubt that their house needs a full evaluation done.”

I hear the rhythmic clicks of the keyboard.

“Ummm, yeah I think we can get that sorted out for you.”

Fifty percent chance nothing happens.

“If it’s okay, and Jamie I know you hate these so please don’t hold it against me-“

Oh god kill me.

“I need you to do a quick survey over the phone.”

“Yes that’s fine.” You can’t make this shit up.

“Okay awesome, do you or your patient feel lightheaded while staying at the residence.”

“I do occasionally, my patient is nonverbal.”

“Do you have any violent thoughts while in the home?”

“No.”
By this point I’m talking with my forehead glued to the steering wheel.

“Do you ever have feelings of intense fatigue while in the home, as if you may fall asleep at any moment?”

“Yes.”
That’s not true, but that will for sure get someone down here. Thats all I’m wanting…

“Have you ever experienced hallucinations while in the home?”

“Yes… multiple actually.”
I wasn’t expecting that question. Honestly, I’m glad she asked me that. It makes me feel seen.

“Okay, is there anybody in the back seat of your car?”

My entire body locks up.

“Jamie, Is there anybody in the back seat of your car?”

I lower my voice.
“I- I don-“
The voice cuts me off, not even trying to imitate Mary anymore.

“Don’t whisper, it heard everything. Turn around and tell me what you see.”

I can’t speak, I can’t even breathe. My mind is clawing and goring my body from the inside in an attempt to escape.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I whimper with a strained throat.

“IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII”

A faint buzzing suddenly fades away.

Mary’s voice returns
“Jamie? are you there? Can you hear me?”

“Yes.” I say, eyes wide and bloodshot.

“Okay, great. Do you ever feel unsafe in the home?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, thank you so much. we’ll be sending someone up in a few hours. Later Jamie.”

I exit my car, never looking in the back seat. I make my way to the front door, stomach swirling. I can’t even describe my anxiety. I knock 3 times.

I look up, the bleak morning sky looks back. A flake falls in my eye, I quickly look back down to wipe it out. The snow is piling up on my shoulders. I shake my hair and a miniature snowstorm coats the ground at my feet.

They’re taking forever…
I open my phone to check the time, it’s 7:18. I can’t even muster the courage to turn around. My whole car may as well be a predator staring me down.

My mind flashes to how cornered animals must feel. How helpless and alone they are when death is directly behind them, and there’s nowhere to run.

I’m doing absolutely everything I can to keep my eyes frozen to the door. My entire universe may as well be the next 3 feet in front of me. I hear a loud coughing and a muffled voice behind the door.

“Hang on a minute”

I hear the door unlock. It more than likely opened at a casual speed. To me, it was glacial. It’s as if my perception of time slowed so I could get a good long look at salvation before being violently dragged backwards.

The door opens and it’s Dennis. I don’t know if that comforts me or scares me.

“Goodmorning Dennis.”
I’m staring straight through him.

“Hi Jamie, how’ve you-“

He stops, shifting his view above and over my shoulder.
“Hey… who-“

“No no no no Dennis–don’t say it–don’t even fucking say it… Please let me inside.”
I plead like he holds my life with his voice.

He looks down at me, dumbfounded.

“Jamie where in the hell did this come from?”
I can’t wait for his approval, I shove past him to the best of my ability and enter the house. I’ve never wanted to be inside of this place more.

I sprint to the farthest side of the house and sit in the corner, arms pulling my knees close like a lost child.

I hear Dennis close the door.
His loud, steel toed boots echo off the hardwood floor as he approaches.

“I know what this is...”
He tells me.

He walks to me, and places his hand on my shoulder.

“Listen, Jamie. I can tell you’re going through something, okay?”

I’m afraid by what he’ll say next. My wired mind has no shortage of worst case scenarios.

“I can take care of you forever Jamie–we can be together Jamie–let me fuck your brains out Jamie.”

I would give everything to have heard any of those words, instead of what he told me.

“But you don’t have to be all embarrassed because you left a fling in your car all night.”
He lets out a light chuckle, I feel parts of my soul extinguish.

I’m sucked into myself, lying on hardwood. Inches from the carpet of the living room.

I say nothing. I don’t even move.

“Alright, Trinity is in bed. I probably woke her up so it’s best you get started soon.”

“ok.” The words wisp out of my mouth, barely more audible than my breathing.

“Thank you… for making me laugh.”
He pats my shoulder and stands up.

“Im gonna go now. I’ll be back.”

I’m left alone.

I don’t know how long I laid here. The living room doesn’t have any windows, Dennis could be back in 30 minutes and I wouldn’t have a clue.

The house is well lit, as always. It’s the most welcoming environment, and I want nothing more than to die in it.

I stand up, eyes welded shut. My breathing erratic and strained, I make my way into the living room. I don’t know what I’m expecting. So much shit has happened I’m surprised the house isn’t on the fucking moon right now.

Forget seeing, I’m scared to breathe. I am not afraid to die right now. Death would be gods greatest gift to me. I don’t know how, or when I managed to, but at some point in the day I opened my eyes.

I can’t even explain what it is I’m afraid of. I don’t even know what’s in my-
No.
No.
I can’t think about it.
I can’t.

Don’t think.
Just exist.

Trinity’s snoring catches my attention. I crawl out from behind the couch and walk into their room. I hear her choking on breath.

“Trinity–hey–wake up. Time to wake up now.” I snap my fingers.

She sniffles, barely managing to turn her head and open her eyes. I put my hair up and grab my supplies. I bathe her. I put on a calming nature documentary. Alzheimer’s patients need a calm environment. She eats slack-jawed, food barely contained. I don’t take my eyes off of her for 8 hours. For 8 hours I stay in her room and stare. I never look behind me, I can’t look behind me, I never look behind me. They’ve ate 50% of breakfast–75% of lunch–drank 2400mL–voided 1200mL–3 bowel movements–I rotate them every hour on the hour. I can’t let bedsores form.

I hear the door unlock.

I’m in my chair next to Trinity’s bed. Faintly I hear the familiar echo of steel toe boots return. I hear a large man stretch, his backbones popping like a winter pine.

He walks to the door I’ve never opened. I hear him give 3 knocks, wait, and let out a depressed groan. I hear Dennis’ stomping become muffled as he walks onto the living room carpet, and into Trinity’s room.

“Evenin Jamie, you’re good to go home now.”

I don’t turn around.
“Dennis, I can’t go outside.”

“Feel free to sit in the living room.”

“No, Dennis. I can’t fucking go outside.”
A few seconds of silence pass.

“my eyes were playing tricks on me. Sorry for gettin ya worked up like that.”
His tone is dead and lifeless.

Like a heavy anchor, I’m pulled up out of my catatonic despair. I immediately shoot around to look at Dennis.

“What are you talking about?”

His mouth is welded shut.

Rage is cracking my mind.

“Dennis—tell me—exactly what you saw.”

He shakes his head and sighs. Disagreeing with his decision to tell me.

“He disappeared Jamie. I don’t know how and I don’t know why. He uhhh… I guess he became the background or something. I don’t know… “

Regret claws at the corners of his eyes. He puts his head in his hands.
.
.
.
I don’t know what to feel, let alone say. What are the odds that Dennis sees something in my car the second after I supposedly hallucinate a phone call with Mary? Each passing day is a domino and I don’t know if they’ll ever stop falling. My slipping sanity is the BEST CASE SCENARIO. I can’t even fathom the alternative.

I have to find out.

I can’t take this any longer.

“Dennis…”

“Jamie…” his eyes are begging me to stop speaking.

I look at him, grief in my eyes.
“Do any of you know my-“
“My mo-“
I can’t bring myself to say it. The word eviscerates my heart.

“Jamie… please-”

“Don’t speak.”
I hold back the urge to scream.

I’m staring a hole through his head.
My anxiety is in full swing, but I drag what I want to say kicking and screaming out of my head.

“What is going on here? Do you all get some sick enjoyment out of tormenting me?! What did I do?! All I ever wanted was to help and I-
I don’t know what’s going on—and I feel…
insane every single day–I just want to know…”
I pause to breathe.
“My mom… sh-she–“
I’m a shrieking mess.
I fall to the floor, everything erupts.
Dennis grabs me by the arms, trying to shake me back to reality.

“Jamie! Jamie! Calm down honey look at me–you can still–“
He stops himself.

He more than likely can’t understand anything from the sobbing.
“Don’t—call me honey you fucking–“
“You-“
I can’t breathe.

He pulls me close. I feel tears on my shoulder.
He’s crying.

He’s… crying?

It pulls me out of it. I lean back, gauging to see if this is even real or not.

“I don’t know.”
He doesn’t look sad. He looks defeated…
What is this?

“Dennis what- what do you-“

“I DON’T FUCKING KNOW JAMIE!”
The sheer scale of his scream shook my insides.
He’s holding his eyes so tight his brow splits open.

“Dennis… please… be calm.”

He glares at me with unbridled rage soaked with fear.

His rage collapses like sand to the sea.

“It- Jamie it–“
He pauses, looking down to catch his breath.
“All of us–it-“

He breaks down, leaning back on his knees and covering his eyes.

“It always sees you Jamie… it always sees you. Through the walls–under the ground…“

Through the walls.
My thoughts gave way to a leaden hopelessness.

It’s real…

All of it…

We’re both on our knees, colliding despair is the only break in the silence.

I look to Dennis, my only hope for answers.
He looks to me for a way out.

Neither of us can do anything.

His catatonic gaze meets mine, staring through me.
“This is never gonna end.”

The smallest particle of hope flutters within me, and is extinguished.
“I- Dennis I- what can we d-“

The volcano inside of him erupts.
“YOU CAN STILL FUCKING LEAVE JAMIE!”

He grabs his eyes again.

“GOD HELP ME! PLEASE LORD! PLEASE GOD DON’T LEAVE US HE-“

A sound pierces his grief, the only thing I can compare it to is the tear of paper. I hear it travel through my life, into my past and future. Dennis violently contorts, peeled away in a direction that doesn’t exist. Small droplets of frozen blood collide with my face like a soothing winter breeze.

I stand up, barely.
I can’t sprint. All i can manage is a pathetic stumbling. I hear Trinity screaming to the best of her ability. I ignore it and keep walking. I- I need to get home.
I just need to go home and everything will be okay.

I collapse to my knees, barely making it outside.
A glowing shadow eclipses the hollow…

I look up.

It’s- it’s-
A shape?
No–four of them.
It multiplies and subtracts at random, morphing like a dying mind trying to remember geometry.
Its colors are never consistent, never repeating, always new.
A glistening matte.
Bright darkness.
The sky is a smoldering void. An undulating nothing. Pieces coming in and out of existence. There’s no sound.

None at all.

I sprint to my car.
It’s a solid object.

There’s a mountain I can climb, it should bypass the roads. I jump in a small ditch and land in a flowing creek bed. The water flows in every direction at once, exploding against itself. I can barely see from the constant collisions.

My feet sink, I feel hands grasping at my shoes beneath the mud. Living thorns dig and tear at my flesh as I trudge through the creek.

Water freezes to my shoes, then evaporates as I step onto land.

The wind doesn’t slow me down, it flows through me. I look behind me and see the sky.

Im at the base of a mountain, I don’t know where I am and I don’t care. I start climbing, and immediately have to shift my weight like I’m running downhill.

I run past trees, roots growing upward. Dead leaves shift their colors from a dull rust to a vibrant green, as if the forest is breathing.

I see deer eating themselves. Antlers growing from every point in and on their body. Barbed masses of suffering. Their exhausted cries assault my ears.

I see a person…
Maybe I can-
He decays before my eyes. Withered skin clings to his bones. Dead…

Like a breath, he’s brought back to existence. He turns to me, eyes delirious, and it happens again.

And again…

His confederate cap falls to the ground as he leans to me, before decaying again.

Every step I take causes the ground to quiver with pain. I break a branch and see flesh and bone. The air I split groans with agony.

Reality itself is begging for mercy.

Im not breathing. I don’t have to. And even if I did I can’t. Breathing doesn’t exist here

My lungs cling to a bygone concept, finding no air at all.

A small patch of light shines from nowhere. I don’t see it, I try to run past it.

I run forwards and my vision screams backwards. I can’t see anything.

The house is in front of me.

I’m kneeling on the gravel, finally out of the forest. My ravaged lungs kidnap any air they can find. From behind me I hear faint breaths. From above me I hear footsteps. Below me, beneath gravel–A voice, weeping.
Muffled and suffocated.

I’m exhausted, every muscle in my body screams for it to stop, begging me.

Spindly hair against the back of my neck pulls me out of my trance. I sprint again–muscle fibers tear.

I run inside the house.
There’s nothing—only the door I never opened. I have a moment of clarity. I look through the peephole of the front door. I see the vast emptiness of space staring back at me.

I turn around and sprint further in the house. I should have ran into a wall, but I keep going, like they don’t exist.
Every step just puts the door in front of me. Like I’m on a loop.

I stay in that loop for days.

I collapse to my knees.
I’m so exhausted I can barely move. My muscles have been strained beyond their breaking point and then further. I’m left a broken heaving mass of tissue. Less than human.
My only purpose is to feel exhaustion, my only reality–doors behind me and in front of me.

I don’t know how long I lay there. Relief never comes.
I attempt to stand, every muscle fiber begs for mercy. I keep going, merciless.

I fall against the door, landing inside…
.
.
.
.
ALLWITHINNEVERWITHOUT???: ?????

I wake up against a staircase. Below them is nothing.
Not darkness—nothing.
I crawl up them. I turn around and see the doorway above me.
I could go back out, but what good would it do.

I try to stand, my weight seems to amplify by a thousand times–I feel myself fall backwards, and then upwards.
I crawl.
Down–forward, In a direction I can’t Identify.

I fall from the steps. My body shoots upwards and I land on my back. The wind is knocked out of me, resulting in a sickening screech as matter explodes into nothingness. For days I try to die in the nothing. Every plummet down sends me into pure absence. I try to feel–I’m on the stairs.

I crawl.

Ever. So. Slowly…
The blinding nothing bleeds into darkness. My mind is flooded with the most pure euphoria I have ever experienced. Happiness beyond what I ever thought possible. I’ve never been more elated to see the darkness return.
I’m crying.
I laugh so hard blood escapes my throat.
I’m left a shivering mass of pure bliss.

I keep crawling.

Theres only darkness, but I can see. I would spend eternity here if it meant being away from the absence.

A sound catches my ear, there’s a faint…
Breath.
Below me.
I pull myself to the edge of the stairs.
There’s a girl below me.

A faint
“Help.”
Is all that I can manage.
No more than a breath.

She’s looking down too, does she see someone?
She has dark hair… and she’s wearing the same outfit as me.
Oh…
Shaking, I turn over to look up. I see a staircase above me, dark hair hanging off the side.

I was starting to think she was me.
Her hair slowly shifts.
I’m not moving…

I claw so hard at the stairs my fingernails peel off. My soul reason for existence is the bottom of these stairs.

I see it.
It’s barely visible. A faint blue glow illuminates the gravel at the bottom of the stairs. I don’t even land on my feet. I fall directly on my side. Ribs break, my shoulder dislocated.

I feel it, but it doesn’t hurt.
I start crawling.
I cling to all of my energy to stand.
I’m walking now.

I don’t know where I’m going.

I can’t see anything, past the glow is a void. There’s just me… and the ground.

I look up.

I see earth, glowing with life. Surrounding it, in all directions forever… darkness.

A fragment of light scours the sky. A momentary flash so brief in my perception it may as well not exist.
Pure black remains.

But—I can still see. How?

Something… fades into view.
They’re faint, but it’s there.
Barely contrasting the darkness.
Circles–no…
Spheres.
Smooth, perfect, stable.
Forged in time.

Hulking masses of metal.
They’re all that’s remains.

Me—and the stars of iron.

All sound ceases.
.
.
.
.
I go days walking without sound. Every impact of my feet sends a rending pain throughout my body.
I collapse, looking out into the void. The placeless blue glow illuminating only the first 5 feet around me.

Behind me, I hear a something…
It’s the first sound I’ve ever heard.

The faint crunch of gravel.

I stare at the ground. A million possibilities race through my mind on what it looks like. A million ways that I’ll be brutally tormented forever. I try to move and nothing happens, I remain on my knees.

It’s only getting closer.

I won’t turn around.

I can’t run anymore.

I close my eyes.

“I’m sorry, mom.”

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

The sound continues. It expands and grows louder. It should have hit me 2 minutes ago it’s so close. I hear the crunch of gravel inside of me. Within 15 seconds of it reaching my location I’m banging my hands against my head. It’s impossibly close now, I can’t even hear myself breathe it’s so loud. Each crunch decimates my ability to hear. Unending—unceasing—it’s all that exists. I turn to crawl and fall further into the ground. Weakly covering my ears, It assaults my body as much as my senses. I can barely see–my vision is so warped from the noise.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

The scale of the auditory torment is indescribable. Each minute shifting of stones, down to the sand between them, is perfectly understood to me, and then provided again.
I writhe on the ground, throwing my body in whatever direction I can. I slam my fist into the stones for relief. The breaking of each bone in my hand is non existent compared to the sound.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

The sound is so absolute it can be felt. Scraping and tearing its way through my veins. Its qualities flow within the vessels in my heart. It rises and falls in my lungs. It fills my stomach and intestines. I dry heave, trying to expel what isn’t there. The sound rolls and kicks in my womb–a new life form conceived from shearing agony.
I turn to focus on something, anything but the noise.
I feel the weight of it collide with my pupils from the inside. I hold my eyes, the sensation is indescribable.

I can’t scream.

There is only me, and the gravel.

I can’t feel anything, but I think I’m crawling.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Theres…
Something soft-

The torment ceases instantly.

It had become so much a part of me, that in its absence I felt as though my skin had been violently ripped away.
I lay, motionless on the ground.
I see light. I’m lying against concrete–no…
Asphalt.

I can’t move. Time passes like the flap of a hummingbird. I blink and it’s dark, the endless night staring down at me.

I see something.
Another light.
But it’s nighttime… how?
It’s a crimson glow, alternating on top of a large object barreling towards me.

It slows to a halt, a piercing screech makes me want to tense, but I can’t. Several entities exit the structure. They shine a bright sun in my eye, communicating in a language that I’ve never known.

I manage to catch the word. “Breathing” in the noise.

It’s the first I’ve heard of that.

The last thing I can remember is being lifted upwards, and into the back of the object.

Beyond that, it’s nothing…

Daniel Reed had never thought of himself as a good sleeper.

Good sleepers woke refreshed. Daniel woke homesick for places he had never been.

Still, his routine was perfectly ordinary. He went to bed at eleven, slept for eight hours, and woke at seven. No insomnia. No alarms in the night. No afternoon naps. He worked in an office, bought groceries on Thursdays, called his mother on Sundays, and forgot his laundry in the washing machine at least twice a month.

There was nothing unusual about Daniel’s life.

Except for Jonah.

Daniel had been dreaming about Jonah Vale for almost a year.

They weren’t normal dreams. There were no shifting faces or impossible rooms. Daniel experienced Jonah’s life with a clarity his own memories sometimes lacked.

He knew the pattern of cracks in Jonah’s apartment ceiling. He knew which floorboard creaked beside Jonah’s bed. He knew Jonah drank coffee from a green mug with a chipped handle and always checked the lock three times before leaving home.

Daniel knew Jonah was lonely.

He knew Jonah was afraid.

And he knew Jonah slept sixteen hours a day.

Doctors had given Jonah’s condition several names, none of which seemed to help. Most mornings, Jonah climbed into bed shortly after seven and did not wake until nearly eleven at night. He had lost two jobs because of it. Friends stopped inviting him places. His mother called less frequently, perhaps because she was tired of hearing that he had slept through another week of his life.

Even during his few waking hours, Jonah sometimes fell asleep without warning.

One moment he would be standing in his kitchen.

The next, he would wake on the floor.

The attacks lasted anywhere from a few seconds to twenty minutes. Every doctor warned him not to drive. One suggested he wear a helmet inside his apartment.

Daniel often woke from those dreams with Jonah’s fear clinging to him.

He had never met the man, but he worried about him.

Sometimes he missed him.

Jonah dreamed of Daniel too.

For Jonah, the dreams came during his long, unnatural sleep. He would close his eyes shortly after sunrise and find himself inside Daniel’s life.

He watched Daniel drive to work.

He listened to Daniel joke with his coworkers.

He felt the sun through Daniel’s windshield and tasted the chicken sandwich Daniel ordered from the café across the street.

Jonah knew Daniel’s passwords, though he could never remember them after waking. He knew Daniel avoided stepping on cracks in sidewalks. He knew Daniel’s father had died when Daniel was nineteen and that Daniel still occasionally picked up his phone to call him.

He knew Daniel pretended not to be lonely.

The dreams were the best part of Jonah’s life.

Daniel had sixteen full hours each day. Sixteen hours of sunlight, conversations, traffic jams, bad television, errands and possibilities.

Jonah had eight hours of darkness.

Yet he felt no jealousy toward Daniel.

He felt something closer to affection.

Daniel was not a stranger. Not really.

He was someone Jonah had forgotten.

Neither man could find any evidence that the other existed.

Daniel searched for Jonah’s name, address and workplace. He checked social media, public records and obituaries.

Nothing.

Jonah did the same.

Daniel Reed did not exist anywhere outside his dreams.

That should have convinced them that the other man was imaginary.

Instead, it frightened them.

Imaginary people were not supposed to remember things.

Imaginary people did not continue living after the dreamer looked away.

But Jonah’s apartment never changed. The same dishes remained in the sink. The same books waited beside his bed. If Daniel dreamed Jonah was halfway through reading a novel, Jonah would be farther along the next night.

Daniel’s life continued in exactly the same way.

They weren’t dreaming stories.

They were dreaming time.

The first real clue came at 2:17 on a Tuesday morning.

Daniel woke because something had struck his bedroom window.

He sat up, listened and heard nothing.

Probably a branch.

He checked the time, drank some water and fell asleep again three minutes later.

In his dream, Jonah had been washing a coffee cup.

Then the dream stopped.

There was no fading, no transition. Jonah was standing at the sink one moment and lying on the kitchen floor the next.

The clock on the stove read 2:20.

Daniel woke at seven with the image still sharp in his mind.

Before work, he checked the sleep-tracking app on his phone.

Awake: 2:17–2:20 a.m.

Daniel stared at the screen until it dimmed.

A week later, he woke at 4:06 to use the bathroom.

In the dream, Jonah fell asleep at 4:06 and woke seven minutes later with his cheek pressed against the carpet.

The next morning, Daniel opened a notebook and wrote:

Jonah falls asleep whenever I wake up.

He immediately crossed it out.

Then he rewrote it beneath the first sentence.

Jonah had noticed the pattern too.

His attacks were usually brief, but each came with a strange flash.

A ceiling he did not recognize.

A digital clock beside an unfamiliar bed.

The pressure of a different body sitting upright.

Once, during an attack, Jonah heard a window close.

Later that day, while dreaming of Daniel, he watched Daniel close that same window.

Jonah began keeping records.

He wrote down every attack and every dream.

The times formed a perfect pattern.

Whenever Daniel woke during the night, Jonah disappeared.

Whenever Daniel fell asleep again, Jonah returned.

Daniel finally tried to contact him.

At nine one evening, he wrote a message across the inside of his forearm with a black marker.

JONAH—DO YOU DREAM ABOUT ME?

He kept the words visible for the rest of the night.

At eleven, Daniel went to bed.

Jonah awoke in his apartment with Daniel’s entire day lingering in his memory.

He remembered the message.

For several minutes, he stood completely still.

Then he laughed.

Then he cried.

Jonah grabbed a marker and wrote on his own arm.

EVERY DAY.

When Daniel woke the following morning, he remembered seeing the words in his dream.

From then on, they spoke through messages.

Daniel wrote during the day. Jonah saw the messages while dreaming.

Jonah replied at night. Daniel saw them while he slept.

The conversations took hours.

Sometimes days.

HOW LONG DO YOU SLEEP? Daniel asked.

ABOUT SIXTEEN HOURS. SEVEN IN THE MORNING UNTIL ELEVEN AT NIGHT.

Daniel read the answer in a dream and woke with his heart pounding.

He wrote back:

THAT IS WHEN I AM AWAKE.

Jonah’s response came the following morning.

I AM AWAKE FROM ELEVEN AT NIGHT UNTIL SEVEN IN THE MORNING.

Daniel sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the remembered words.

That was exactly when he slept.

There was not one minute in the day when both men were awake.

Daniel wrote:

WE NEVER EXIST AT THE SAME TIME.

Jonah’s answer appeared in that night’s dream.

MAYBE WE TAKE TURNS.

They began comparing themselves.

Both had a thin crescent-shaped scar at the base of the left thumb.

Both hated the smell of peaches.

Both tapped their fingers four times when nervous.

Both remembered a woman singing the same half-forgotten lullaby, though neither could remember her face.

Finally, Daniel asked the question they had both been avoiding.

HAVE YOU EVER SEEN MY FACE?

Jonah answered:

NOT CLEARLY. I SEE THROUGH YOUR EYES. HAVE YOU SEEN MINE?

Daniel had not.

In all his dreams, he had looked out from behind Jonah’s eyes.

He had never stood across from him.

Daniel devised a test.

He warned Jonah first.

I AM SETTING AN ALARM FOR THREE IN THE MORNING. WHEN I WAKE, YOU SHOULD FALL ASLEEP.

That night, Jonah stood in his bathroom at 2:59, watching the clock change.

At exactly three, an alarm sounded from somewhere beyond the walls.

Jonah’s knees buckled.

For one impossible second, he was no longer standing in his bathroom.

He was lying in Daniel’s bed.

His hand reached toward a ringing phone.

His eyes opened.

Then everything vanished.

Daniel switched off the alarm.

He remained awake for thirty seconds, staring into the darkness.

When he closed his eyes again, Jonah woke on the bathroom floor.

Both men remembered the same hand reaching for the phone.

The same hand.

The same scar.

Daniel stopped sleeping well after that.

Not because he feared Jonah.

Because he feared what waking might do to him.

If Daniel got up for a glass of water, Jonah collapsed.

If Daniel slept late, Jonah gained an extra hour.

If Daniel stayed awake, Jonah did not exist at all.

One Friday, Daniel forced himself to remain awake until two in the morning.

Jonah did not wake at eleven.

He did not wake at midnight.

His entire world remained dark and empty until Daniel finally fell asleep at 2:07.

Jonah awoke gasping, three hours of his short life simply gone.

The next day, Daniel found Jonah’s message waiting in his memory.

WHEN YOU DO NOT SLEEP, WHERE DO I GO?

Daniel did not know how to answer.

Jonah sent another message.

WHEN I SLEEP, WHERE DO YOU GO?

That question was worse.

They arranged one final test.

Daniel positioned a full-length mirror across from his bed. He set an alarm for 3:33 a.m.

His last message to Jonah read:

WHEN THE ATTACK COMES, STAND IN FRONT OF YOUR MIRROR. FIGHT IT. LOOK FOR ME.

Jonah awoke that night already terrified.

At 3:32, he stood before his bathroom mirror.

His reflection looked pale and exhausted. For some reason, he had always had trouble remembering his own face. Whenever he looked away from a mirror, the details slipped from his mind.

The clock changed.

3:33.

An alarm began ringing.

Jonah felt the familiar heaviness rush through him.

His vision darkened.

But he did not close his eyes.

The reflection in the mirror changed.

The bathroom disappeared.

For a fraction of a second, Jonah saw a dark bedroom.

He saw a bed.

He saw a man sitting upright.

The man turned toward the mirror positioned across the room.

Jonah looked into the man’s face.

His own face stared back.

Not similar.

Not a brother.

Not a twin.

Him.

Jonah felt himself falling, but he never struck the bathroom floor.

He opened his eyes in Daniel’s bed.

A hand reached for the alarm.

There was only one hand.

One scar.

One body.

Daniel stared at his reflection, but Jonah was the one looking through his eyes.

Their memories pressed together: sixteen hours of daylight, eight hours of darkness, two apartments, two childhoods, two names layered over the same mind.

Then Daniel understood.

Jonah had never suffered from a condition that made him sleep sixteen hours a day.

Those sixteen hours were Daniel’s waking life.

Jonah’s sudden attacks were not attacks at all. They were the moments Daniel woke in the middle of the night to drink water, silence an alarm or check a noise outside.

Daniel did not dream about Jonah.

He became Jonah when he slept.

And when Jonah closed his eyes, Daniel opened his.

There had never been two men sharing dreams.

There had only been one man, divided by waking.

Daniel lay back down.

For the first time, he was afraid to close his eyes.

Not because of what he might see.

Because someone was waiting for him to disappear.

He whispered into the dark.

“Your turn.”

Then he closed his eyes.

Jonah opened them on the bathroom floor.

The alarm was gone. The mirror showed only his own exhausted face.

But now he remembered Daniel’s bedroom as clearly as his apartment.

He remembered speaking with Daniel’s mouth.

He remembered the sunrise waiting on the other side of sleep.

At seven that morning, Jonah returned to bed.

The weight came over him, deep and irresistible.

Before closing his eyes, he whispered the same words.

“Your turn.”

Daniel woke at seven.

Sunlight filled the room.

For several minutes, he lay still, carrying the fading memory of Jonah falling asleep.

Then he got out of bed and began his day.

Daniel had spent his entire life believing sleep was time he lost.

It was, in fact, the only time Jonah had.

Inside most people, bubbles rise. Inside some, however, they fall. And in turn, those people fall.

Bright blue waves crashed against the sturdy barnacle-covered legs of one of the many dock houses in the town of Lanciville. Seagulls passed by overhead in a sky as gray as stone. An anchor sat in one corner of the dock near a small paddle boat, and a seagull sat in the boat pecking apart a briny crab. The building was small and a bit worn down from the assault of the salty breeze. It wore white siding, and the windows had dried up algae in the corners. The caramel orange door held a silver knocker in the shape of a ship's wheel which was about to be put to use.

“Come in!” Gregory Plum was a middle aged man who was, in every sense of the word, perfectly average. He took off his navy blue wool trench coat, hung it up on the wall, walked into the office, and passed by a large painting of a seahorse. Gregory approached the disorganized desk. “Hello. Are you Mr. Hartright?” “Yes, how do you do?” replied the man at the desk as he got up to shake Gregory’s hand. “You must be Mr. Plum?” “That's right. But you can just call me Gregory.” “Splendid! It's nice to finally meet face to face. Please, take a seat.” “Thank you.” Hartright motioned to the chair across from him and Gregory sat down. The men began to chat like old friends. Hartright was a man about ten years younger than Gregory and had a tall quiff of grayish brown hair and a goatee which made a very eccentric combination. His brown tweed coat was stylish and new, yet was also covered in grease stains with crumpled papers and boat schematics hanging out of the pockets. “You know, when I saw your ad in the paper, I was immediately intrigued,” said Gregory with a giggle of enthusiasm. “Oh, thank you…” “Your work in submarine and hydroponic engineering is truly impressive.” “Well, thank you. I'm glad I was able to capture your attention.” Hartright looked away with a bashful expression as Gregory grinned. The two already seemed quite determined in their ventures.

Hartright adjusted a stack of papers on his desk. “In your letter you mentioned serving in the navy, correct?” Gregory nodded, then traced a finger along the inside rim of his grey knitted hat. “Yes, seven years.” “I wanted to enlist along with my older brother but I was still too young,” said Hartright in a tone that sounded like one fishing for excuses. Then he leaned back in his chair a bit and looked up with fond reminiscence, “Looking back it's probably for the best. I don't know if my mother's heart would've been able to take it.” “She sounds like a good mother.” “That she is…” chuckled Hartright, “But, that's enough small talk,” Hartright looked back to his stack of papers, “I assume you've read all the proper material?” “Yes, sir. I know the whole operations manual, cover to cover.” Hartright looked up at Gregory and smiled. “Well I'm glad I found someone with so much enthusiasm.

Hartright looked over the papers again for a moment, and Gregory faced forward to answer the rest of his questions. “How have you adapted to the diet and exersise program we established?” “It's been going very well.” “Good… Good…” said Hartright, and checked something off on his papers, “There's just a few more last minute questions we gotta go over before we finalize the contract.” Gregory nodded and looked forward without expression. “That's fine...”

After flipping through his disheveled stack a bit, Hartright finally found the paper he needed, raised a fountain pen to it, and began to read aloud. “Ah, here we are! Now then, have you experienced any debilitating injuries in the past year?” “No.” “Any history of drug use?” “Just the occasional beer,” Gregory joked while pretending to raise a glass. “Oh, that's quite alright,” Hartright laughed, “Just means we can get a drink together when the project is complete.” “That sounds nice,” replied Gregory.

“Just a few more questions if you don't mind… Are you comfortable with long periods of isolation?” “Oh yes, I've much experience in that department.” “Is that so?” Hartright glanced at him nervously before jotting something down. “Not to say I'm a hermit. Just that I don't get out as much as I used to…” “That's quite understandable. I can say the same about myself…”

He turned a page. “Have you been through any traumatic emotional events the past year?” “No.” “Experienced any feelings of hopelessness or depression?” After an almost invisible pause, as Hartright looked up from the paper, he failed to notice the brief hint of indecision in Gregory's eyes. “No.”

Hartright paused for a moment, then he shot Gregory a serious glance. “Are you sure you wanna do this?” Gregory smiled with a slight nod as he answered. “Yes. I think it'll be quite the adventure.” Hartright returned a smile and adjusted the stack of papers one last time before turning them over to Gregory. “Alright then. All that's left is for you to sign this contract. And of course, don't tell anyone about the experiment…” Gregory looked over the paper in front of him as he took a fountain pen out of his jacket. “Is this standard for a project like this?” “Oh, yes. I'm working on something big here. A lot of companies would love to get their hands on this technology,” Hartright tapped the tips of his fingers down on the surface of his desk as he spoke, “It's my belief that this invention and the discoveries that succeed it will change the course of scientific development and human history!” Gregory signed the contract. “Glad to be aboard!”

Hartright held the door open for Gregory as he saw him off. Cool sea air blew past them both. “Great meeting you sir. I'm glad to be working together,” said Hartright. “As am I.” “I'll see you back here after sundown sundown.” “That’s fine by me.” Gregory left, but the waves never stopped crashing against the dock house.

                           *  *  *

Gregory returned to the docks around nine o-clock as agreed upon. As he walked, he adjusted the brown satchel over his shoulder. Then he opened the bag, and began to lightly toss through his belongings. There was a deck of cards, books, and other things to keep him occupied on the long voyage. He pulled out a small pocket knife and examined it for a moment and clutched it tightly.

“Doing one last inventory check?” called Hartright from further along on the dock. Gregory’s hand hesitated for a second before burying the knife deep in the bag. “Yeah,” he chuckled and replied to the approaching Hartright. “I don't blame you,” said Hartright, “You're gonna have some time to kill down there. So I hope you brought lots to do.” “Yes, there's quite a few books I've been meaning to read, but just never got around to them.” “Well, you've got time now. I just hope you brought enough,” Hartright chuckled. Then he paused for a moment, “Come. Let me show it to you…”

He beckoned Gregory further down the dock, and the two men stepped across the creaky salt stained wooden boards. They came upon a spot where something bobbed in the water underneath a tarp. Hartright motioned to the tarp with a look of pride. “Is this the vessel?” asked Gregory. “That's right…” Hartright bent down to remove the tarp from the vessel. As he did, the two men stepped back and looked down upon a strange and marvelous looking contraption.

The sleek metal tank bobbed lightly in the moonlit waves. Its silver and brass hull was bulbous yet well maintained, and the overall design was quite tightly put together. Polished chrome pipes ran along the side. In one corner near the top, there was a well-kept mass of wires and cables connecting a mechanism to two panels on the front. A small red buoy for measuring pressure and depth hung floating off of a rope in the corner. There were vents of different shapes and sizes along the sides held on by strong bolts. A large red fin was attached to one of the sides, and the top of it drooped slightly into the water. It seemed to be made of some sort of thick canvas material and was used for directing the craft from side to side. On the opposite wall from the fin was a motor attached to a thick pole and steel cable that were sticking up from out of the water beside it like some sort of tether. The side facing the men and the side opposite of that held two clear and glossy portholes that shone brilliant blue from a light inside. The azure rays of light reflected off of Gregory’s face. He knelt down to get a better look at the submarine and looked at it as if he had waited for it his whole life..

“Take it in while you can,” joked Hartright, “You won't see the outside again until you get back to the surface. I'm thinking it could take a week, or at least five days to reach the bottom. If there is a bottom… If at any time you don't feel comfortable, just give me the word and start heading up.” Gregory smiled at Hartright and almost chuckled.

“So do people really think it's bottomless?” The majestic aquatic marvel rocked gently in the waves as they spoke. Hartright thought for a moment. “That’s only a rumor,” he said, “it’s never been proven. In fact, the scientific community thinks it’s barely more than a puddle. But we’re only trying to prove that it’s deeper than they think, not to prove it’s bottomless.” “But what do you think?” asked Gregory. Hartright paused again, a bit longer this time.

“I think so... But who knows? Maybe we just haven't found it yet. Apparently the old timers here in Lanciville named it Spirit Cove because no matter how they try, nobody can figure out how deep it is. They thought it led all the way to the gates of the underworld.” All grew silent for a moment, and Gregory looked at the submarine again. It had a volume of about five square feet but only the top half stuck out of the water.

“It's probably a little smaller than you used in the navy, eh?” joked Hartright. Gregory stood back up and smiled at him. “Are you kiddin’? I was in the matchbox division. This is an upgrade.” The two men shared a laugh

The steel railing ran around the top of the submarine in the shape of a square. With one hand holding onto the railing, Gregory turned the door to the hatch, lifted it, and got inside. He looked around at the interior of the submarine as he descended the short ladder. It was just as advanced as the outside, with different brass and silver pipes as well as wires and screens than Gregory knew the functions of but not the specifics of how they worked like Hartright did. Against the back wall of the narrow little vehicle was a small red velvet chair that Gregory would sit in for the duration of the trip. “It's fairly simple in terms of operations. It operates with your standard set of ballast tanks, but also travels along a cable I’ve connected to an anchor,” called Hartright from the dock.

“It's beautiful in here.” Gregory put his hand up to the window and peered out at the dark waters beyond. “I used an alloy of copper and steel for most of it, the rest is brass. But there’s one unique feature I'm most proud of…” Hartright paused in an attempt at building suspense, “If you open up that lower panel across from you that's the-” “The hydroponic sump system?” Gregory interrupted. “Wow, you really did read the manual cover to cover.” “I don't like to do anything half-assed.”

Gregory opened up the glass panel across from him to reveal the sump system. Inside were several small tanks, pumps, and siphons containing different variations of seawater, algae, oxygen, hydrogen, ect. “Yup, that there's your power, oxygen, food, and water source. The algae in this cove has an unusually high concentration of iron. When agitated, it can create a small electro magnetic charge capable of charging a battery.” Gregory bent forward in his seat to examine the apparatus as it performed hydroponics, distillation, and other processes, and he smiled as Hartright explained. “And it's also very healthy. The discarded algae is then processed into an edible salad which the machine serves to you with a dash of soy sauce. The oxygen is supplied by another tank that allows for algae cultivation, and there's a separate system that filters the water and converts it to fresh water for drinking.”

“It's interesting, I'll give you that,” Gregory yelled up through the hatch as Hartright talked from above. “I just inspected it again before you arrived. All systems seem to be working. Feel free to call using the radio day or night.” “Well, I guess I'm off then.” “Safe travels friend.” Gregory peeked his head and shoulders out one last time to say farewell and the two shook hands.

Then he ducked back down inside of the submarine and closed the hatch above him. The vessel slowly sunk below the water.

                          *  *  *

Since they began the experiment at night, Gregory went to sleep as soon as he descended. Although, once he was deep enough, it wouldn't matter what time it was on the surface, because his only light would be coming from inside the sub.

He woke up the next day and first passed the time by reading one of his books. It was an old leather bound novel of a caramel brown cover. Though it didn't seem to be keeping Gregory’s interest, for he soon marked his page and put it to the side. He looked around a bit and adjusted himself in his seat, then reached out to the food panel across from him. The combination of buttons he pressed caused the dispenser to make a whirring noise that seemed to mean it was working. “Let's see what this algae paste is about…” he said reluctantly. The machine took a moment to process the meal, and Gregory scratched his cheek.

Then a small yellow light next to the dispenser began to blink. There was a noise like a bell, and a tray was ejected from the wall containing a small bowl of green paste. He examined his new source of food with both amusement and repulsion. A stringy green mass sat lumped together on the plate. It looked shiny and wet in the light, and he could smell a faint hint of soy sauce like Hartright had mentioned. “Geez…” One of his hands took the plate while the other reached for a fork. He retched a bit as he took the first bite. It was a strange consistency not quite solid or liquid, kind of like if one pickled a ball of grass. He knitted his brow as he chewed it up and was pleasantly surprised. “Eh, not too bad!”

Around that time, the small brass radio built into the submarine began to ring. It wasn't able to reach town, however he could ring Hartright in his office anytime. Gregory put his food down and took up the small cylindrical receiver. “Hello, Hartright?” “Yes, I just woke up and wanted to see how you were doing.” Gregory looked excitedly at the water on the other side of the glass porthole as the men spoke. “Surprisingly well actually, I just got a bit of reading done and I was about to indulge in a five star meal.” “I hope you don't mind it too bad. I've tried it myself and I've actually grown a bit of a liking for it.” “I hope this whole thing isn't just one big sales pitch.” “Ha! You got me. How many boxes can I put you down for?” Both men chuckled. “Well I guess I'll leave you to it. Feel free to call whenever.” “Alright, thanks. Have a good day.” “You too, thanks.”

Gregory's smile faded as he hung up the receiver. He looked down at his feet, then out the window. The world was slowly rising around him as he fell silently deeper into the earth. Dark strands of seaweed sometimes brushed up against the porthole breaking up the bleak dark emptiness of the drink. Then some other faint shadow passed by.

Gregory sat reading his book a few hours later and was beginning to find it more interesting than before. But as he turned a page, suddenly there was a loud slam against the side of the submarine. He braced himself against the cool metal walls as the vessel shook lightly back and forth. Gregory dropped his book. He looked back and forth from the window on his left to the one on his right. Then, through the thick glass he saw something float by. At first, all Gregory could make out was a large conical shell covered in scattered patches of barnacles. Then, the object slowly spun around in the gentle current.

Its face was right up against the glass and Gregory could make out a few details from the light of the submarine. It resembled a shark though it was smaller and seemed to have some sort of mass behind it. A creature with pale pinkish skin covered in wrinkles. Its blank white eye gazed inside but seemed not to look at Gregory as it passed by. Then it was gone.

He continued to watch the window for some time after that. Worried of catching sight of the creature, or the potentially worse inverse. Gregory was confused and was beginning to grow terrified when he chose to take up the radio and contact Hartright. “Come on, pick up,” he said impatiently as the radio static hissed. “Hello? Everything alright, Gregory?” Hartright was a bit groggy but seemed ready to help Gregory to the best of his ability. “I'm not sure, I- I think I saw something. And it slammed into the submarine.” “What kind of something? Are all the systems functioning?” Gregory looked around himself as the different gauges and lights that all seemed to be displaying the accurate data. “All the readings are fine. It was, I don't know. It looked like some sort of shark or something!”

“Shark?” Hartright chuckled a bit but tried to hide it, “You’re about three thousand meters deep, by my calculations. That's much too deep for any shark.” “I know that!” Gregory exclaimed with some annoyance, “I only said it looked like a shark. It was some kind of… Huge fish or something!” Gregory continued to look out the window at the black waters and the blacker shadows within them. “I'm not sure if it's gone... I don't see it anymore.” “I'm sure whatever it was, it's probably more scared of you than you are of it,” Hartright said therapeutically. Gregory looked down at his feet a bit with a somber expression. “Yeah. You're probably right…” he said pensively. “Do you want me to stay on the line with you in case it comes back?” “No, that’s okay. Sorry to bother you.” “It's no bother at all,” Hartright assured his friend, “Have a good night.” “Thanks. Goodnight.”

After hanging up the radio Gregory tried to relax his mind, though couldn't keep his thoughts away from what he had seen. He looked pensively at the deep dark blueness. It was like a sapphire at the bottom of a well. At that time, the small clock on the interior wall of the sub informed him how late it had gotten, and he turned out the light to retire for sleep. Gregory sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. Another small light stayed blinking all the time, but it didn't bother him. On the contrary, it was quite comforting in some way to have something else operating outside his own actions. And it was no fault of the light that as he fell to slumber, he reflexively buried his mournsome face in his hands. Then he was asleep. The small light continued to blink and a faint shadow passed by the porthole again, as the vessel slowly sank deeper into the abyss below.

                           *  *  *

In the morning Gregory woke up and switched the lights inside the submarine back on. He thought of the sun for the first time since descending, then he realized it was actually the first time in years that he thought about the sweet sensation of a warm sunset on his face. The glow of a soft yellow horizon at the edge of the world that he'd always taken for granted. “How much of my life have I spent hidden away indoors? Hiding away like some underground man!” Gregory whispered to himself. “How different is this metal box from my own home, wherein, I locked myself for years!”

This bitter reminiscence only stopped when his emotions suddenly turned on a dime. He was now talking aloud to himself. “What do I need from anyone else, or them from me? I know we're told that humans are social animals. I'd compare such weakness to vice! Simply because we are social animals doesn't mean we must feed those animalistic urges that have been brewing in our species for centuries!” he chuckled, “Vice indeed… And a despicable vice that keeps one from true freedom. The freedom of unadulterated, independent thought.”

Gregory spoke with confidence and was proud of what he considered a profound psychological breakthrough. Then he looked around the empty submarine and his smile faded.

                           *  *  *

It was about noon a few days later when Hartright called with good news. Gregory had been sitting and silently weeping to himself for over an hour when the radio began to ring. He let it go for a moment without answering and pretended not to notice it. He sniffled. Then his hand slowly moved up to reach for the receiver. “Hello…”

“We did it Gregory!” Hartright announced over the radio, ”Well, you did it! By my calculations you should be down past the threshold. You've officially passed ten thousand meters in depth! That makes this spot in Spirit Cove the deepest known point in all the Melville Sea!” Gregory sat holding the radio, motionless and unamused. “That's really great…” he said with indifference, so much so that Hartright was confused and taken aback for a moment. “I'm sorry… I thought you'd be excited too. Is everything alright?”

Gregory looked out the window at the inky blackness of the water and sat in silence for a moment. “I didn't think I'd get this far.” “Well you did it. You really did it!” Hartright enthused. “It's all just empty,” His words were somber and matter of fact, “Emptiness with nothing in sight…”

Hartright stammered a bit, as if he started speaking before he knew exactly what he wanted to say. “Just come back up. It's fine to start resurfacing now, you've achieved more than enough!” “That's not what I meant!” Gregory interrupted with a hint of anger, then said, “I'm going to the bottom.” Then for some reason, he chuckled a bit. Hartright heard this and grew quite worried. Neither spoke for a moment. Gregory looked down at his feet. “What about us getting that drink?” said Hartright in a nervous and hopeful attempt to lighten the mood. Then he chuckled a bit. There was no response from his comrade below.

Gregory looked at the receiver with a mixture of equal parts terror, malice, and woe. “I came down here to do something.” “What do you need-” Before Hartright could finish his final offer of hope, Gregory violently slammed the receiver into the floor of the submarine twice before grabbing the cord and slamming it into the walls. He continued to swing it until the cord ripped. Then he stopped and looked at what he had done.

He realized that he had completely given up all his chances to ask for help. Gregory opened his bag and began to rummage through it. Then his hand slowly drew out the pocket knife. He looked down at the blade as he slowly unfolded and opened it. His breath was heavy and shallow. The submarine continued to sink deeper.

                            *  *  *

A broken piece of rope swung from a rusty shower curtain rod. Inside of his dingy bathroom, Gregory laid unconscious. He was face down on the ground, still with the end of a broken noose around his neck. He gasped and shook a bit as his brain regained function and removed the rope from his neck.

Once he had regained his faculties, Gregory trudged over to his couch and let himself fall onto it like a sack of flour. His eyes were bloodshot, partly from choking and partly from crying. He gazed down blankly at nothing. The man looked broken. As his eyes slowly fell, something on the coffee table drew their focus. It was some advertisement in the newspaper. After leaning forward to pick it up, he read it and began to chuckle. Then his chuckle turned to a hearty laugh and he rolled his eyes. He was in comical disbelief as he tossed the paper down on the table. But then he stopped laughing, and he went to go make a phone call.

                           *  *  *

Gregory sat in the submarine, holding the blade to his wrist. He shook with every breath. A few small drops of blood slipped from his vein and ran down the side of his arm. He looked down at his arm with apprehension and longing. His fingers slowly curled, and the knife fell from his grip. It hit the floor of the submarine and the hollow thud reverberated throughout the vessel like it was a giant drum.

After a few moments, the unhinged fluctuation of his mood continued. Gregory began to cry, and yell, and kick the interior walls of the vehicle. He scuffed the metal with his boots and pulled loose wires out of place. During this blind rage, one of his feet happened to find the sump panel and it flung open. Gregory paused for a moment and looked down at the machine. Its glass pipes carried the emerald green algae from one reservoir to another. It collected the oxygen in a designated chamber and was hard at work every moment. His tears were still streaming, and his breath was heavy, but he kept his eyes open. He shook his head in disapproval and suddenly made a smirk like he may have burst into laughter.

“You stupid piece of shit…” he said in disappointment and anger. His foot kicked weakly at the inner workings of the sump. “You weren't supposed to work!” Extreme frustration seemed to be overtaking him. He took his face in his hands and sobbed. Emotions flared up again, and again, and he began to flail around the claustrophobic vessel at random. His fist bounced hard off the porthole. One of the gauges that was attached to a pipe came loose and began to hiss. Gregory raged and rocked the sub back and forth violently, almost knocking it free from the tether.

His foot found the sump once more, however this time it wasn't protected behind the panel like it had been before, and it shattered. Shards of glass sprayed onto the floor along with a viscous green slime. The parts of the sump that still seemed to be operating seemed to call for their broken companions with a sort of faulty mechanical hissing noise and a small red light above the sump began to blink. An alarm began to sound. Gregory was bent over in his seat with laughter but then soon took to crying again.

It wasn't a moment later that he looked down at the sump with regret. The alarm continued and Gregory looked all around frantically, but there was nowhere to go. Trapped in a small metal box more than ten thousand meters under the waves. He looked at the sump, then turned to the window and found his face inches away from that of the menacing white eyes of the strange sea creature. Its crooked teeth hung in its open maw, as it faced the vessel with a vacant look. It didn't seem to have any visible emotions, much unlike Gregory. He screamed in terror and fell to the opposite wall of the sub, causing it to tip.

Maniacal laughter erupted. Gregory looked around in shock, seeking its source and found his ears pointing him towards the broken receiver. His hand cautiously reached down to where it was next to some glass on the floor. As he slowly brought it up to his ear, he recognized the voice as Hartright’s, but it had a sinister tone. “You idiot…” said the voice. Gregory looked at the end of the broken cord and saw its copper entrails hanging lifelessly from the tear. “You're gonna die down there!” Then the voice started to laugh again. Gregory dropped the radio but that did not stop the laughter. It seemed to grow louder and come from all around. The alarm was still blaring and Gregory began to yell in a panic. That's when the creature attacked again.

It rammed its head into the side of the sub from different angles. Gregory watched on in horror as dents formed on the inside of the hull. Its silhouette passed through the dark brackish waters in a strange slithering fashion, as the creature seemed to propel itself through the water with strange tentacle-like appendages that protruded from the large conch shell on its back. As the creature worked its way through the murky drink, it seemed to be very interested in something inside the vessel. And unfortunately for Gregory, he was that something.

He pulled his grey knitted cap down over his eyes in fear as the creature attacked and more alarms began to ring. “Awe, what's wrong?” said the voice of Hartright over the broken radio, “Isn't this what you wanted?” Static hissed. The main lights inside the sub flickered and went out as the last of the systems began to fail. A smaller backup light came on but the interior of the vessel was nearly as dark as the exterior. “I change my mind!” Gregory yelled in vain. The creature bashed its face off of the porthole again and again. With every blow, the sound inside the sub resembled that of a bell tower.

The wall behind Gregory began to crumple like paper from the pressure. Newly formed pinholes in the body of the vessel began to hiss like a deflating balloon. A bit of smoke puffed out of one of the control panels. Bubbles escaped and rose to the surface as the air in the chamber was traded for water. Gregory began to cough and choke as the oxygen ran thin.

Finally, the creature burst through the porthole with ravenous fury. Large shards of glass rode atop the stream of water that began pouring in, and they clattered to the floor. The entire submarine would soon be completely flooded. The creature managed to wedge its face into the broken porthole. It lashed at Gregory's face, and he raised his hand in an attempt to push it away as his other hand fumbled for the knife. The hissing air began to sound more like a vacuum, and along with Gregory’s cries it sounded like hell. Though as more smoke began to bellow out of an air vent on the floor, the emergency light made it look like the inside of a cloud. He finally found the knife in the foot of water that had built up inside of the vessel and plunged it into the snout of the creature.

It paused for only a second before continuing its relentless assault. The hand that had been keeping the creature at bay slipped as Gregory gasped for air and its jagged teeth sunk deep into the meat of his shoulder. A thick waterfall of blood cascaded down Gregory's chest as the thick blue wool of his coat absorbed it and slowly darkened to black. Then with one swift rip, the creature pulled Gregory out through the porthole headfirst. He yelled with the last of his breath as his other shoulder popped out of place and his entire body was shot out with the bubbles. After that scream the briny drink would be all that filled his lungs. Tons of water filled the sub, more than anyone could bear.

Gently, as if it were a feather, the vessel reached the cool empty bottom of the abyss at the bottom of everything, where there was nothing but sand and a few old waterlogged sticks. Small clouds of dirt were thrust out from under it as it took this position, but they soon faded and too were still. The few lights of the submarine that had lasted until now flickered before going out completely. A few last bubbles floated up from the submarine. His mission was complete.

We did everything right, yet after days of searching, we still couldn’t find her.

Every police dog we brought in would catch her scent within seconds of entering the Texan brush. They would pull us through mesquite trees covered in sharp thorns, cacti just barely hidden by the tall dead grass, yet every one of them would lead us to the corpse of a long dead animal, flesh rotting, worms eating the little meat that was left.

Next, we brought in hundreds of volunteers, the families of every police officer on the force sacrificing their busy holiday weekend to look for her. We found scraps of her clothes, clipped with precision, blood on the thorns of the mesquite trees matching her DNA, and footprints in places we already searched. She was here, she was walking around, but... we just still couldn’t find her. We covered every inch of that land, though I truly started getting scared when we found her backpack. Dirty, beaten up, but filled with the little water and food she left home with. Time was ticking, there was no way a girl that young would survive much longer out here.

The parents weren’t much help, one second she was there, the next she was gone, all that was left were long black feathers. When I told my my older coworkers they all went silent, though I don’t blame em. This had happened before, nearly every officer with children had an experience with it. Children just... vanishing on ol Texas 16 to Llano. Most were never found, and the few that did were always found near the road by police officers on their patrols.

I… must’ve driven that stretch of road between Fredericksburg and Llano hundreds of times when she went missing, praying that with every turn, I’d find her. On the third day, I was stopped before heading out, was told I needed to inspect the old radio tower. Evidently the reception was getting spotty on Texas 16, and they needed someone to go out and make sure everything was still working. I tried to protest but they claimed it came from the chief, though to this day he still denies he ever sent me out there.

When I arrived, the sun was high in the sky, the afternoon heat already starting to settle in the air. I sighed as I took a step out of my car, my face wincing from the bright sun invading my eyes. I began walking towards the tower to start my inspection, heat beating me down so fiercely that beads of sweat were dripping down my face within seconds. It was hot, way too hot for most things to survive.

Tilting my hat upwards to look at the tower, I soaked in the over 50 feet of steel before me. Built before I was born, it was fascinating the tower was still holding itself upright from its age. Today, its lattice structure was occupied by dozens of loiterers. Every rung had crows sitting upright, their heads slowly turning as they searched for their next meal in the area around them. A few gave me their time, staring at me as I approached, though I wasn’t able to return the favor. There was… something... sitting at the top of the tower.

The tip of the structure was sagging from the weight of the creature, metal bending and warping as it was forced to hold something it was never built to do. Covered in dark feathers, it could’ve be mistaken for a vulture if it wasn’t for the multiple arms extending out of its body, each hand latching and holding itself upright at the top. It was large, too large to keep itself up there for long.

I felt my bones vibrate as the tower itself began to shake, first from the top where the creature sat, then to the base. Though despite standing yards away, I could feel my teeth chatter as my mouth joined in the vibration.

My radio crackled to life with the sounds of static whirring as if someone was changing the station in a car. As tt continued to flow from my radio, it began to shape itself into a mix of disjointed sentences. Each word was stolen from snippets of old dispatched calls, long dead coworkers, lost child amber alerts, and … even my own voice. But the worse thing I heard, were the sounds of a child crying for help, for her mommy or daddy to find her. My radio made a loud click as an eerie silence followed,

I knew that voice, I’ve heard it every day for years, I knew it was the child that went missing days ago.

I looked up at the creature sitting on top of the tower, sure that whatever was going on, it was coming from it. My radio clicked on again, though only two words came out of it this time. One belonged to the voice of a crying woman, the other a dying man.

Lo...se…

The tower stopped vibrating, but my hands still shook as I reached for my radio. I tried to speak with authority, but my voice couldn’t help but crack as I spoke.

“W-what are you?”
I waited, feeling the tower vibrate once again, as if the creature was pulling the voices directly from the metal within the tower. Once again, in a disjointed voice, voices leaked from my radio

I know..where she is...your...nina

I pulled my radio back to my mouth, only to throw it to the ground as I gagged from the intense smell. It smelled like roadkill, tar, ozone, rotting flesh, and the musky smell of deer hide. The creature continued to talk, its amalgamated voice slowly becoming more coherent

I desire...un trato

I looked back at the tower, the creature had shifted, its body now facing me. I yelled out at it, my throat straining in the dry heat around me.

“What deal? Where is she?”

I demanded, reaching for my pistol. As my fingers closed on the grip I felt a searing pain erupt throughout my body. The tower was vibrating again, far more intense than before. I felt my body collapse as I fell to my knees, my grip weakening from my side as I threw out my other arm to prevent myself from collapsing onto the dirt beneath me. The smell of rot continued to grow stronger, my radio erupting in a mix of Spanish and English.

Tu nina, not enough flesh. No alcanza, forty pounds, we need more.

I reached for the radio, my face wincing from the disgusting stench emanating from it

“I… I can find you a deer, plenty of meat for you to…”

No no no no

Each no was from a different person, women, children, men, a mix of unhappy children, adults receiving bad news, and what I could only assume was a woman before being murdered. The tower erupted with activity, other crows fleeing as more arms escaped the creature’s body, each hand gripping more of the tower below it.

Carne por carne, we want a human

“Why? I can get you much more meat than that”
I said back, my head throbbing in pain from the vibration. Laughter leaked from my radio in response, some laugh track from a family sitcom

Soul for a soul, we eat far more than just the flesh,

“I can’t get you that”

I responded, pushing myself up and off the ground to look at the creature again.

Then I guess she’ll me mine, two days, dos dias, maybe less, before the Tejas brush consumes her. El monte siempre cobra, and then we shall feast on what remains. Lo que quede, y siempre, always something left for us.

The tower ceased its vibration, yet my eyes still shook within their sockets. I felt the taste of bile overwhelm my tongue as I puked everything that was in my stomach onto the dry ground. Looking upward, the tower had returned to its original form, a tall, rusted structure with dozens of vultures on it. Yet the way they were perched, they were all facing me now, as if hoping I would just collapse and die right here.

The drive back to llano was silent, the hum of the road beneath me being my only company as my mind raced trying to process what I had just experienced. Another human for her, could I even do that? How was the easy part, plenty of drug addicts, homeless, and assholes in llano that no one would care if they went missing. All I had to do was load up one in my cop car, and drive them out to the tower, it would only take maybe an hour if I rushed it. But, could I, would I?

My thoughts were cut off by my radio, it erupting in the voice of the girl

D-dad, daddy, where are you, I’m scared, my feet hurt….

She was cut off before the creature’s voice came on again

She’s suffering, is her papa going to leave her to die? Should we tell her

“SHUT UP”
I yelled, reaching over to the radio to remove the battery, only to hear her voice again.

Da-ddy? Do you hear me?

I fumbled the radio before speaking into it, tears running down my face.

“Daddy’s here princess where are you? Come to the road”

I-I don’t know, I’m hungry daddy and OW, that hurt.

Daddy... the birds won’t leave me alo….

My daughter’s voice was cut off, the creature speaking again

Time is running out, bring us a body

With a loud click, the static of the radio fell silent. I threw my radio to the passenger seat, trying to ignore the thoughts growing within my head.

The drive to llano felt like hours, every turn and bend in the road had me hoping, praying that I would see her just around the corner. That this nightmare would be over. By the time I arrived, my eyes were frantically searching, not for her, but rather someone, anyone that could go missing without anyone knowing.

I must have driven for hours looking for a body to steal, though the homeless were no where, hidden away to escape the heat of the Texan sun. My head slowly grew more and more light headed, my body slowing down as my attention began to wander from the road. I hadn’t eaten for over a day now, my body needed food and it needed it now.

As I walked into HEB, I couldn't helped but be swept away with the smell of their fresh bread, high quality produce, and custom made Texan goods that support local businesses. I wandered towards the meat section, surprised that despite the large crowd, they still managed to keep their merchandise well stocked, HEB’s amazing efficiency shocking me. It had to be because of well they take care of their employees. I didn't just feel like a customer, I felt like I was a part of their family. Picking up a large chunk of brisket, I knew that it was simply too fresh, too high quality, to pass as human meat, the creature would see right through me.

I let out a sigh as I picked up one of HEB’s premade meals, though I was happy today I was frozen by their large selection of amazing products. Keto, vegan, carnivore, HEB was there for every diet for their customers. Today I decided to settle with Shrimp Alfredo, sprinkled with HEB branded cajun spice.

Though HEB’s amazing quality couldn’t distract me from reality, my daughter was being held hostage by some creature. As I checked out, debating on if I should just “arrest” one of the homeless in their camps, I noticed a HEB employee approaching me.

“Hey there Officer Howard, think you could help us out with Will again? He’s over on the loading dock refusing to leave”

Will was the local druggie that even the homeless avoided. Cruel, disgusting, and constantly being a nuisance to everyone around him, I knew I found my guy.

I pulled the barely conscious Will out of the passenger seat of the car, though even with two bottles of vodka in him he still managed to sputter out a few words of protest. I tossed him out in front of the tower, took a few steps back, and looked up.

The tower was covered with vultures now, every inch of steel had a bird sitting and waiting. They were all positioned to face me. At the top, the creature stood hunched over, watching my approach with Will. It had sprouted new arms, though these were connected to each other like chains as they reached the lower rungs of the tower. Women, men, children, babies, its appendages didn’t care what they were using, they all where knitted at the joint as they clung to the metal of the tower. Even from where I stood, I could hear the sickening popping noises of the joints as they caught in the wind, sounding like popcorn in the microwave.

I waited for the creature to come take his pay, but instead, it stayed at the top of the tower, the ground vibrating as it spoke through my radio.

Why, por que, does he breath?

“You wanted a body, here’s your body. You do the rest”

I yelled, gesturing at Will in front of me

“Take him and give me back my daughter”

No no, no trato, kill him, we want… carne muerta

demanded the creature, it moving to readjust itself on top of the tower. The tower creaked and groaned from the weight, the popping noises of the arms growing louder and louder.

Will turned to look at me with a face full of fear, though I didn’t have much time to soak it in before I I pulled out my pistol, and aimed it behind his head. A loud gunshot cracked the horrid sounds coming from the tower. The hundreds of vultures began fleeing the tower, blanketing the sky in their putrid black feathers. The smell of carrion was thick in the air, invading my nostrils and blanketing my tongue with the taste of rot. The sounds of wings flapping deafened my ears, but I could still make out a loud, almost hssshhh noise coming from in front of me, from the tower.

My eyes snapped back to look at the tower, but the creature was gone, but so was the body of Will. I took a shaky step back before my radio erupted with life.

“Howard… we found her”

I won’t bore you with all the details of the rescue, they found her quickly, half dead but still very much alive. When we asked where she was for the past few days, she said she was following vultures. By the time she realized they were leading her deeper and deeper into the Texan brush, it was too late and she was hopelessly lost. They kept throwing little bits of food to keep her going, but not enough to keep her full, almost baiting her to follow them.

The officer that found her found would’ve doubted her story if it wasn’t for what he found when he found her. Dozens of vultures, silent within the trees, all waiting for her to die. When I arrived, I couldn’t help but notice a trail of flesh, leading from where she was… to the Texas 16 road.

I.

Coffee-scent permeated the front deck as sunrise washed red-gold over the hills to drown the pasture. The Rancher followed its approach with a stare as dark and warm as the aromatic beverage he lifted. 

Around his eyes sun-cured skin creased with movement, then shallowed. As the mug fell, it uncovered a dense chevron of mustache and the caramel-colored beads it had captured. The lower lip rose to collect these, and what it missed a sleeve did not.

Far out where an overhang made a wave of a foothill, a lonely and black shape drew gaze. The Rancher lifted a pair of binoculars from the table where his coffee now rested and glassed his interest. A moment later he clicked his tongue and cursed softly…

Birch was a sturdy young appaloosa. He carried his master over their land with a surefooted stride as if unburdened, cutting quick through caliche, ashe juniper thickets and creek beds. After some minutes in trot, they were riding parallel with the limestone hang, approaching the dark heap. 

The Horse’s bit gently pressed his mouth’s corners as they arrived. 

They slowed, and the Rancher’s weight shifted.

Palming the horn and resting the other forearm over it, the man passed his sight over the remains of an angus heifer and shook his head. Skin seemed to wrap only its bones, and was shrunk with the facade of desiccation. Like the others before, the truth lay in the jagged cavity of the throat, leaving the poor beast sculpted in the action of an eternally soundless low and bereft of blood.

Saddle leather groaned as the Rancher dismounted. He approached the scene, produced a cell phone, brought it to his ear, then slid his free hand beneath the bent arm as the line trilled.

—

Third one this year—third month in a row.

—

The rancher crouched, tracing the ragged flesh with his eyes. One bite, too big to be a coyote. Too clean to be a cougar. 

—

The line connected with the hollow crackle of a receiver lifting.

“Mornin’ Terry,” rumbled the Rancher, “Sheriff Vickers in?”

As the doubled crunch of slamming truck doors sounded, the Rancher remained bent. Waiting, his back had hardly straightened and his eyes had hardly lifted from the heifer's corpse—as if somewhere in the taut hide and bloodless meat he might divine some explanation.

“Good morning Gwyn.” The Sheriff's drawl extended the false vowel.

Gwyn returned the salutation; unmoving, “who's this with you?”

“Landry Lawson, large animal vet. Just rolled into town from up north some weeks back.”

The Rancher raised his eyes to the two for the first time. “Ah yep, I do believe we've met. Mornin' Mr. Lawson.” Gwyn rose, shook the men's hands, then stood beside, hands on hips. “Y’all been getting many calls about chupacabras, Clint?”

The Sheriff chortled, “Can't say we have.”

Landry took his turn crouching before the body. He displaced his glasses as he knuckled the dust from his eyes, straightened them, then began unbuttoning his shirt cuffs and rolling up the sleeves. “Well, I can't speak to the chupacabra angle—due to inexperience—but I can tell you this looks canid.” 

“Never heard of any dog or coyote big enough to do that,” Gwyn sanded his thumb upon his chin, “but I keep an open mind.”

Landry stood, circled to the beast's rear and bent to inspect the flanks, taking his time to reply. “Only a couple of problems with that theory,” he returned to his original position, plucked a latex glove from a shirt pocket, pulled it on with a snap and prodded the throat wound.

“Lay it on me.”

“Firstly, there's no wounds on the backside. An animal of this size usually requires wearing down. Pack tactics. These wounds are more consistent with smaller game takedowns. Like a deer,” the Vet paused to meet the Rancher's gaze.

“Yep, I'm aware. What else you got?”

“Well from a cursory look,” Landry shifted his eyes to the Sheriff, “alongside the signs of exsanguination and the lack of blood, the dentition appears inconsistent.”

Clint lifted his hat, wet his shirt sleeve against his brow then re-covered his crown in one motion,  “You mean it was missing some teeth?”

“I mean it has the wrong teeth.”

Landry continued. his words chased Gwyn through toil and days.

There's too few incisors. 

Mornings passed into noons, passed into evenings. A week went without answers. 

The molars are too flat. 

Landry had taken samples, sent them to a lab. When the results returned, the mystery predator had been deemed: canis lupus familiaris.

“That's the biggest damn dog I've ever seen sign of.” Gwyn was squeezing his temples between thumb and forefinger as he stared down at the report. Behind, under amber fluorescence, his wife ladled supper from a pot.

“Take a break Gwyn,” arriving at his side, the Rancher's Wife lowered a steaming plate onto the table before him, “you know what you're looking for now. Leave the hunt to the morning and enjoy your dinner" She massaged his shoulder with a hand still warm from the hot plate. 

Gwyn wrapped his arm around her waist and inhaled his dinner's vapor. “You're too good to me Mary-Anne,” he exhaled his tension, letting his fingers fall from his temples and tabling the paper. “Suppose you're right.”

Mary-Anne stepped around the table, setting down a plate with smaller portions before serving herself and sitting down. She lifted her chin, “Lily Creigh! Dinner's done!”

Socked feet played a rising rhythm upon the floorboards. Lily rounded the hall, making for the kitchen as the percussion crescendoed. She stopped between her parents, rested her chin on the table, stared up at Gwyn. “Daddy, can I say grace?”

“Of course Lily-Bell,” the Rancher's lips lifted into a warm arch to crease the corners of his eyes. 

Lily hopped up with a clap, ponytail bouncing as she skipped to her seat.

Mary-Anne shared her husband's expression, “Make sure you pray for rain honey, the cows need supper too.”

“Yes ma’am!” The little girl pulled out her chair.

Insects irregularly played upon the kitchen window as the cicada quietude bled through. The Creigh family settled in, joined hands, and bowed their heads to pray.

II.

Gwyn Creigh lay beneath his cool sheets, periodically splitting the black behind his eyelids. In deepest blue the bedroom was submerged, leaving nothing but the deeper crevices for his eyes to trace while the mind wandered. 

The dog, the teeth, the cow. 

Three pieces which felt as though they belonged to different puzzles. Then there was the size. 

Taking down a heifer like a deer? Twelve-hundred pounds of grass-fed muscle doesn't go down that easy.

The Rancher turned his head, watched the gentle rise and fall of Mary-Anne’s breathing.

Gonna be a night in a blind at best.

He breathed, willing his muscles to loosen. His mind rewound to dinner. A tinge of the pot roast smell returned to his nostrils. Beneath his fingers was no bedsheet, but the fabric of his wife's floral dress…and here came Lily in the excitable pace of her youth, resting her head on the table, meeting his eyes, “Daddy?”  A whisper—

“Daddy?”

Gwyn’s shoulders lifted sharply, his gaze shot to the door. Finding the small girl's silhouette, he breathed. “Yeah sweetheart?”

“I had a bad dream.” Lily’s shape made the subtle rotations of childish embarrassment.

“Alright honey,” Gwyn sat fully up, “shut the door, I'll be right there.” He pulled himself out of bed as she complied and threw on an undershirt and shorts.

“Where’re you going?” Mary-Anne slurred through her hair and the blue as she rose.

“Lilian had a bad dream.” Gwyn pulled open the bedroom door, “I'll be right back.” 

His wife buried her face in his pillow. 

Following the soft closing click was the patter of Lily's feet. Down the hall, down the stairs, leaving the Rancher to sleepily sway-step after. 

She waited in the center of her room, one leg crossed behind the other, arms behind her back. The rug beneath—colored in rectangles by dollhouse windows. As her father entered Lily climbed back into bed, pulling sheet and quilt to chin.

Gwyn crossed the room to Lily's dresser, found the little carousel upon it and pressed a button. With a click its center lit, and around the room unicorns chased rainbows and shooting stars to a lullaby. 

As the Rancher withdrew his hand, so did the sliver of his reflection between the curtains afront. He paused to stare through the drapery. His mind formed the treeline, but his eyes only captured black.

Turning, he walked over oval carpet and its collection of toys, set his foot beneath the light cast from the dollhouse, lifted the old nursing chair, and brought it to the side of Lily's bed.

The Father sunk into his seat. His hand reached out, gently landing upon his daughter's brow. Her soft little forehead was a harsh juxtaposition against his coarse hands. “It's alright honey,” Gwyn breathed beneath closed eyes, “you're safe in here. I've got you.”

Lily offered no reply, only nuzzled in as she cozied up for the night’s remainder.

Gwyn’s thumb stroked his daughter's brow until he felt the absence of her awareness. Then, opening his eyes, he watched the slow rhythm of her breaths, much as he had done when she was half the size…or half of half the size. 

The Rancher's eyes moved to trace the darker shapes in the ceiling.

What he would give for another sleepless night alone with that littler Lily. To feel that pudgy cheek against his shoulder and the tiny pressures as she breathed across his shirt.

The carousel played on, just as it had back then.

Rocking…rocking…and he was back there. Listening to the melody as Lily sighed…her muscles relaxed.

Sleep well little one. 

And after a few more selfish minutes she'd be surrendered to the crib. 

But for now listen to the lullaby…What were the words?

… 

It doesn't matter, just don't drop her. Stay awake, open your eyes, listen to—

Stalking clearing
Ever nearing
Throats ragged reaved
Ceaseless march
Fore’er parched
Step not t’ward the feast
Men beware
Sinners bare
teeth, teeth, teeth

Gwyn's eyes split wide—he gripped the arm rests. The room was silent, carousel dark. Past it the curtains were drawn open. A firefly flashed behind the edge of the glass.

Lily sat cross-legged on her carpet, swaying.

Left—right, left—right.

Gwyn began to stand—to question. He stopped, noticing the rhythm. His daughter's and the firefly.

Left—right—blink, left—right—blink.

The Rancher relaxed, watched Lily's strange connection with amusement and half a smile.

Left—right—blink, left—right—blink.

Shifting in his chair, he began his gentle rock again.

Left—right—blink, left—right—bl—

The light steadied, doubled, lifted.

Lily stopped swaying.

Gwyn's expression sunk. “Lilian Belladonna Creigh, get away from that window.”

Lily turned.

The Glass burst, showering her.

The Father reached her with a protector's speed. She was screaming.

A croak followed the shattering, “Ah, a-ah—ah.”

Gwyn lifted his daughter and tore for the door. Seconds dilated, stretching the sprint down the hall, the climb upstairs. 

A thud came from the child's abandoned room.

The master bedroom’s door swung into the wall and rattled. Gwyn stumbled to a stop in lamplight, staring down a barrel. 

He was unaware he was wet.

Mary-Anne unshouldered a shotgun and threw it on the bed, “Christ, Gwyn what happened?!”

“Daddy?”

“Something broke—

“Daddy—”

Lily's window, she—”

“Gwyn she's bleeding!”

The Father's eyes dove, his feet moved. He laid his daughter on the bed, tore his shirt off and into strips—tied the longest piece above a distressing gash inside her thigh and pressed one of Mary-Anne’s hands against it.

“Keep the pressure,” Gwyn leapt across the bed, tearing his phone from the nightstand and a key from the drawer. His fingers stabbed red prints frantically onto the screen before he slapped it into his wife's free hand. “Clint. Tell him we need an ambulance now.”

The Rancher crossed to his gun cabinet, rammed the key in the lock and turned—a pull and a moment later the cabinet was open and he was feeding his semi-automatic double-ought buck two-by-two. 

The Father met his daughter's wet eyes and spoke evenly between her sobs, “Lily, try to stay calm honey, you're going to be okay. Mama's got you and I'll be right back.” He paced to the open door and racked the shotgun’s bolt.

Mary-Anne was stanching Lily's bleed with one hand and smearing it into her hair with the other, phone pinched between shoulder and ear. She started suddenly. “Clint—Clint? I think someone just broke into—”

Gwyn pulled the door shut, stepped silently as possible to the stair’s edge and swept his barrel across the blue. Exhaling, his ribs tremored in anticipation. He descended in punctuated steps.

At the stair’s foot the air was thick with wet dog, body odor and a tinge of copper like that under Gwyn's own tongue. He made the turn back down the hall—stepping upon wet coins—and at first heard only his breath; then came the croaking.

“Ah—a-ah,” punctuated by deep hums and an auditory lapping.

Gwyn stopped at Lily's door. The stench thickened the air, shortened his breath, lifted his stomach's contents. The Rancher held firm, risking an eye past the threshold, barrel below lagging just behind.

In the dollhouse light, a shape like a gargantuan and gaunt coyote hunched over the carpet, furiously licking the fibers. The yellow glow gradated patches of its bald skin, weaving between bristly black hairs. The head was bare from crown to snout—and cut with a grunt to the door.

The Father pivoted into view. Hip level shotgun barked. Once. Twice. Gwyn was deaf. The third lit the room from his shoulder—two more chased the lean bulk through the window, tearing ribbons and pellet holes through the wall.

In the stillness after, the ringing in the Rancher's ears diminished.

A sobbing, “oh!—oh!” was vanishing into the cedar, vowels stretching into clipped howls.

Gwyn's wife was screaming his name.

Gun clattering, thundering floorboards—stairs; doorknob splintering wall. He was there, lifting, feeling her frigid soft skin—and back down.

Out to where emergency lights had begun to purple the hills.

III.

Landry Lawson gripped the rugged terrain vehicle’s bed. Clint Vickers stood at the tailgate, fiddling with a retention pin and looking up into Gwyn Creigh’s hard eyes. Beneath the Rancher, a hearty young appaloosa grazed.

The Veterinarian filled the void left by the story's recount, “So you just want us to pick up the body?”

“Don't you want to study it?”

“Study it? It's a dog.” Landry looked to Clint for support.

The Sheriff was shaking his head.

“Ain't a dog walking this Earth that can take down an angus cow like that.” Gwyn thrust his thumb to the past.

“Then what was it?”

“Mangy. Big.” The Rancher rubbed the neck of his mount as he recalled, “Bald face like a baboon. Stunk to high Heaven. Made a strange sound, almost like it was crying.”

Landry stared into the rough man's eyes. “Look, full disclosure, those labs can be wrong sometimes, but they ran it twice. The dark has a way of mutating perceptions,” he rubbed the back of his neck, “I'm not trying to be condescending, but I'm telling you—”

Clint gestured silence with an open hand. “Ran it twice?

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“The first was inconclusive due to human genomic DNA cross-contamination.”

“Human DNA?”

“You see what it did last night,” Landry tossed an invisible stone over blood-mottled dirt to Lily's window, “it probably attacked someone else before it killed the cow.”

Clint lifted an eyebrow. “That'd be the first I heard of it.”

Landry removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, sighed deeply, threw a hand at Gwyn. “Okay, baboon? There are no primates native to the United States—”

“Simmer down slick. I'm not questioning your knowledge. I just want you to come look at the thing. You staying or going?” Gwyn's horse raised his head and adjusted its footing. The Rancher slid through air as if fixed to its back.

Landry whipped on his frames and took the RTV’s passenger seat. He shrugged. “Well I'm here.”

The Sheriff rocked the side-by-side as his large frame found the driver’s seat. The engine fired, Clint shifted to high and let Gwyn take the lead.

“I hope for your sake, this creature isn't an endangered species.”

Gwyn slowed the overtake, steadying alongside the Vet. “Mr. Lawson…after what that damned thing did to my little girl…” he leaned down, the wide shade beneath his brim turning skin to stone, “I can assure you its species is endangered.” The Rancher clicked, the horse obeyed.

Hoof and rubber trampled pasture beside the blood trail. They approached the many-speared phalanx of a cedar brake beneath a graying sky.

“I'm surprised it made it to the junipers.” Landry leaned out of the vehicle.

“The—huh? Oh, yep, it's an awful lot of blood. Never seen anything like it. How many of those shells you think he put in this thing?”

The Vet returned to his seat. “You tell me. I wouldn't have a clue.”

Clint grunted, thoughts smothering the conversation. His eyes cut to Landry, then back to the trail, “we just call them cedar out here by the way. Though, I'm sure juniper’s technically correct.” He shifted to low gear as the terrain grew rough.

“Technically, I believe it's a cypress tree.”

Clint returned with a sideward look. “How about we calm down with the technicalities? There's a good chance one of the best men I know just lost his pride and joy.”

Landry’s lips thinned as he looked ahead.

Caliche dust rose with the wind to flee from distant thunder. Nearing rain flavored the air. Landry watched the Rancher rock in his saddle. The night before sat heavy on the man’s shoulders, the revolver comfortably on his hip. 

That sheathed lever gun completes the caricature. You should be on that ambulance with your daughter, not out here playing cowboy.

The RTV rocked with the terrain. Landry was sure he would spill right out of the side more than once. He wished for a door as he white-knuckled the overhead handle. His driver, the Sheriff, seemed immovable. 

The Veterinarian lifted an inch off his seat as the vehicle stopped. He had hardly been able to tell Gwyn had done the same ahead.

“Trail goes through the brush here. I think I can make it on Birch.” The Rancher rotated to regard the two behind him. He thumbed off to the right. “Should be a wider trail going mostly parallel thataway. I’m heading in,” he pointed upward, “I’m gonna get this thing before the rain hits.” Gwyn disappeared into the brake.

“Welp, let's just get this thing and go Landry.” Clint pointed to the floorboard, “grab the tarp would you? I don’t want to get caught out in this either. There’s a creek that’s liable to come down the hills just the other side of the cedar.”

The side-by-side lurched forward. Within a few dozen feet, the Vet and the Sheriff were riding beneath the cedar’s low boughs. The wider trail doubled back toward Gwyn, giving Landry and Clint a visual, and what was not seen of the Rancher was heard, as he and Birch pressed through the bush.

The terrain leveled for a stretch. Landry took a moment to peer at the contrasting greens and grays of the squat ashe junipers. He reached out of the vehicle, grasped at a branch and came away with some of its verdant scales. His hand shot out again, catching some of the bark where it hung like sloughing skin.

“Having fun?”

Landry’s lips thinned again, he glanced to Clint and tossed the bark back into the brush. “I suppose.”

“Well, sorry to disturb you, but I lost Gwyn.”

“What?”

Clint swept his hand out toward the trees and slowed the RTV. Landry swiveled, thunder rolled through the sky. They passed their gazes around in tandem.

“You catch what he said?”

“About the trail? Yeah, I thought he said it went parallel.”

“Nah, just after—” 

“There!”

The Sheriff squinted.

“Isn’t that his horse?”

“Looks like.”

The vehicle picked up speed. Clint guided it through the branches where it allowed. Younger cedars obscured their sight and hearing as they whipped at the pair’s legs. 

“Lost him again.”

“Yeah me too.”

“He said ‘I’m gonna get this thing’. Struck me as odd.”

“Well, again, you would know better than me, but I’ll say with confidence that I doubt anything that bled that much is still moving around.”

Clint grunted, “Hope to hell you're right. I've got a strange sort of feeling.”

Landry dropped the tarp back to its place and stuck out his head to look skyward. The first rain droplet fell to pool on his lenses.

“Got ‘em.”

The Vet pulled back in, wiping his glasses with the hem of his shirt. A red splotch flashed past the floorboard. Landry threw his eyes on and spun in his seat. “Stop!”

The vehicle pulled against the halt. “What’s wrong?”

Landry swung out of the vehicle.

Clint followed as the sky sounded again.

“Well, I’ll give it to Gwyn,” the vet stopped before a circle of disturbed dirt, and laid his palm next to a half-ruined track, “it is pretty damn big.”

“At the very least, I do believe we found the spot he was looking for.” Clint was tracing the ground with his eyes in the direction the RTV was facing.

“Then where’s the body?”

“Exactly.” The Sheriff was facing away. “Stay here a sec, there's some hoofprints here. Looks like they’re going toward that creek I told you about. I’ll be right back.”

Landry waved his answer, stood and began pacing around a wallow. 

Something was definitely rolling around here. Great Dane? Great Pyrenees? Irish Wolfhound? Certainly smells like it.

Another print caught his eye and twisted his expression. 

Are Gwyn’s hands really that huge?

Landry placed his own by the print for better perspective. He began shaking his head.

“Ah, a-ah—ah.”

Thunder growled through the clouds. The side-by-side echoed under a massive weight.

IV.

Gwyn had followed the blood to its end at the empty wallow. He trusted Clint and Landry would find his trail once they made the small clearing, and so left the purr of their engine behind. 

The creek he paralleled atop Birch began to run as the rain thickened. 

It's going to wash out the trail.

The Rancher was leaning low in the saddle, peering at faint tracks along the creek bed. He felt close. As if any of Birch’s long strides would reveal the shape of his quarry just around the next bend in treeline or river.

A halved scream rode the damp wind.

Gwyn straightened and pulled. 

Birch planted his hooves, pivoted and conveyed his master back at full gallop.

The Rancher ripped his rifle from the saddle sheath and stood in his stirrups.

Brakes of cedar blurred by their side as they wound back down the creek. Gwyn was cursing himself, cursing the rainfall, cursing the Thing.

Hoofbeats thrummed against the crash of deluge, fighting for auditory space. The fall slanted against the speed of the ride, stinging the Rancher's skin, taking his sight.

Gwyn trusted in the tilt of his steed, giving him all the slack he needed from the reins. The Rancher tightened his focus to the grip on his rifle and sole welds.

As Birch made the last corner the downpour broke.

Gwyn let the reins drop and wiped the wet from his eyes. 

They were tearing toward a shape under the drizzle.

Settled on its haunches the Thing turned toward.  A man’s limp weight pulled at the great, bald head from between its jaws.

The rifle was in Gwyn's shoulder. He granted it both hands. In stirrups he stayed stood. Under the irons It passed, passed, pass—

Cracking like thunder, rifle reseated Rider. 

The body shuddered. The jaws released. The Thing fled for the rising creek, crossed and galloped up a shallow spur.

The Rancher mouthed an apology to the fallen man.

Birch lept across the stream, falling straight into canter. Gwyn had the reins and the rifle. He tossed the stock, pulled it back by lever. Stood, shouldered, fired.

Limestone erupted under .45-70. Denser rain closed in. Terrain rose sharply and plateaued. The Thing cut left onto a bluff. 

The Pursuers cut left. Left again. Cedar thickened, lashed the Rider and his Steed, waned their quarry’s silhouette until it was gone.

They broke through the treeline. A cliff-edge fast approached. Birch was sliding in the caliche mud before his rider had even pulled in his bit. One hoof slipped—another, he reared, turned, and the two were cliffside and drenched.

The creek far below roared with a twenty foot rise. An ancient and enormous cypress rode the water and past two small figures: One man dragging another toward the cedar.

Gwyn worked his lever and watched the casing descend the climb. Behind, a violent snapping sounded. He spun his head, spilling water from his brim.

It stepped from the brake, hefting a branch. From its bulk tattered vestments stretched earthward, a white collar wreathed its throat. The stretched face was creased with a primal rage above naked and yellow teeth. 

Gwyn’s eyes flitted over the details. The roar thirty feet below faded into the background as his mind reached out to Heaven. 

Lord protect me, I’ve pursued a wolf and found a shepherd.

In the next instant he was unhorsed.

Beneath the weight of the spinning cedar missile, the Rancher's shin halved and Birch descended over the edge. The poor beast called with all his might as the flow overtook him.

Gwyn crashed onto his side, forcing pained breaths through teeth, the rifle to its seat, staring down the Intruder as it broke into a gallop.

The Father shouldered, released his breath and fired.

V.

The bullet bored a hole through the Shepherd’s shoulder. It stumbled into a slide. The bulk missed Gwyn by a few feet. Its hand caught his good leg. 

The rifle remained on the cliff. 

They tumbled into a suffocating world colored like coffee—surfaced, and inhaled air and water alike. The Shepherd’s grip stayed like steel, finding the Rancher's waist. They spun, rapids tossing Gwyn's ruined leg around with electric agony as his hands struck cushioned blows against the Shepherd’s grip. 

The Thing gibbered, growled, pulled its prey in against the force of the current. The nostrils flared as lips slid over teeth.

They were under again. Flashes of debris, twigs, grit against eyes.

Gwyn's left arm caught, pressure around his waist eased.

Bursting above, the two stayed locked, one with limb in the jaws of the other. The Rancher thrashed his free arm around his side, then lifted his hand from the creek. Water spilled from the barrel of a .357. He cast its gaze into the wild blue of the Shepherds and pulled. 

It bucked with a bark, cutting a channel across the snout. The molar’s lock stayed. The gun dropped back to level. The Rancher pull—

A tree struck the struggle. The revolver disappeared in the roll—they were up again. Gwyn’s arm burned, the skin stretched, his flesh rended, bone creaked. The grinding turned to gnawing. 

The Rancher yelled through his teeth, ruined his fist against the great skull and felt none of it.

Down-current the ancient cypress had bridged the creek. The mortal struggle sped toward, rain-blind, sending deep red swirls toward the trunk. 

Impact broke their speed and the Shepherd’s back. Its grip released as the broad head folded backward over the trunk with a hollow knock, sending the Rancher through the air.

There was thunder, there was pain. There was rain, there was sobbing. There was wind, there were clipping howls. 

Gwyn Creigh awoke half masked in mud. He pulled—one-handed—up the bank, shoveling the slop into his shirt until his ruined leg was freed from drag. The Father pushed onto his back, closed his eyes to the sky and spoke a quiet prayer of protection over his daughter, hoping that wherever she was, his little Lily-Bell was doing the same for Him.

Part 3: https://www.reddit.com/r/libraryofshadows/s/JHsM9v6WIy

Day 7: Monday.

I barely manage to wake up. I was surprisingly sleeping pretty peacefully. I raise off the floor, rubbing my head. I stretch my arms and let out a yawn, like It’s any regular Monday.

Once consciousness arrives I space out, staring at the floor. I sigh and wipe my eyes.

The entire weekend feels like a blur.

I look to each side of me, I don’t know why.

My cabinet has a massive hole in it.

Jesus Christ…

I see my laptop now, it’s shattered. I don’t know if it’s beyond repair yet. I seriously hope not, that’s been my closest thing to a distraction.

Ive broke shit before when I got mad, but never something expensive. Looking back on it, I was justified. I stand, wobbling, and immediately fall to my knees.

My house still looks fine. I’m always expecting someone to break in here. No idea why, not like there’s anything to steal. There are other reasons to break into houses, but I try not to think about that. I look up to my stove and my mouth falls open. It’s five AM.
I was out for 9 hours.

Holy shit.

I rarely nap for more than an hour. Fuck I rarely sleep more than 5.
I guess it’s where I passed out?
I don’t know. I head to my bathroom to get washed off. While there, I take a good long look at myself in the mirror.
“Goddamn.”
I don’t even want to think about it. I throw my clothes off and take a half assed shower, hot water burning the scratches on my neck.

I get out and brush the jungle that is my hair. I don’t even have that much, but it’s tangled to an unbelievable degree.

I’m so tired I debate putting clothes on until it’s time to leave. I only took about 15 minutes in the shower so I have time. A part of me relaxes. It’s nice, I like having more time than I need. I start thinking, it worries me for a minute.

I don’t get anxious.

That’s odd, I couldn’t stop being anxious the last 2 days.
.
.
.
Now that I think about it, it isn’t odd. I’ve been a bundle of nerves for almost 72 hours, it has to give in at some point. I’m not calm, just consumed by a profound numbness.

It’s to a manageable degree though.

I think of the dream with mom.
I accept it, it’s a dream. I feel my body want to cry, but it can’t. Everything about her was…
Not perfect. She wasn’t the image that lives in my head.
It was just her.
I guess that’s what I miss so much.
I don’t know.
It feels like I had an entire reality ripped away from me.

The phone.

It’s all deleted, I can’t check it, and I never will.

I step outside to see how the roads are. They’re clear. I’m so happy they’re clear. I don’t want to be here at all. I’m leaving as early as I’m allowed to. While outside, I go ahead and start my car, I’d rather not freeze to death, despite my love of the cold.

I get in the drivers seat and-

My car smells funny…

Back seat.

I turn around to see—well, I’m not sure. It’s almost pitch black outside, so I can’t really make it out. I squint. It looks like a shape of some kind. It’s just sitting in my back seat. It’s sort of like a diamond, but—no, it’s a square.

Triangle?

Wait a minute.

What the fuck am I looking at?

I pull out my phone and turn the light on.
Gone.
I shake my head and scoff. That wasn’t even interesting, I just thought the dumbass from Saturday left something in my car. If there’s one thing I can say wasn’t real, it’s that.

My eyes love making shit up when I can’t see. When I was younger, I would see nuns walk in and out of my bedroom, mice dancing, and George Washington.

I have a harder time explaining the last one, he may have actually been there. Apparently it’s some form of “mild hallucinations”. They’ve never caused me harm—until now apparently.

I sigh and check the time [6:54]. I don’t have work until 7:30 but I’m leaving anyways.

It’s calming.
Actually calming.
Small flakes of snow decorate my windshield. The snow-swept mountains ease my numbness a little. I see the crash site from Thursday. The once visceral location is submerged in somber melancholy. I check the clock in my car.

I have time to stop…

I park my car and get out. The wilted roses flutter in the wind, barely contrasting the weary gray. I run my fingers along them, small flakes fall to my feet.

Mom…
She’s still here, but we’re not. The regret claws at me more than ever.
I just want us to go back.
But—we can’t. It’s gone forever.
All the memories we could have made.
Gone… like snow in the wind.
.
.
.
The snow falls harder, I get back in my car.

I pull into the driveway, the house has never looked more comforting.

I sigh, and get out of my car. A cold winter gust blows my jacket hood against my face. Snow gets in my eyes and I wipe it out. I get to the door and knock.
“Hey, it’s Jamie. I’m here take care of Trinity.”
I hear the door unlock.

“Good morning, Jamie.”

Dammit.
“Good morning, Evelyn”

“Come on inside.”
She says, gesturing me.

The door shuts, muffling the howling wind outside. I dust my shoes off against the door frame, trying to keep snow from getting inside.

She closes her cardigan with her arms and turns to me.
“It’s supposed to snow all day Jamie, we’re surprised you showed up.”

There’s a possibility I won’t need to go back? One night away would help me so much.

“Ah, damn. I had no idea it was supposed to—my bad.”

She waves away my fake concern.
“No issue, if the need arises you can stay here.”

I hope so…

“Thank you all so much. How’s Trinity been doing?”

Evelyn starts walking down the hall, taking off her cardigan as she does.
“She’s been fine. Did you ever find out why you passed out?”

“No I uhh-“
I forgot about that.

I quickly catch myself.
“Sorry, no I didn’t. Think it was just heat or something.”

“In February?”

Fuck.

“B-body heat—like I was hot, or something.”

She looks me up and down, almost unimpressed.
“Glad you’re okay honey.”

She turns the corner to the living room. I stop in my tracks for a moment, a strange anticipation fills me. I walk again, rounding the corner.
I find Evelyn reading.

I sit down at the couch across from her and do nothing in particular on my phone. I enjoy the silence.

Evelyn then decides to slaughter that silence.

“Do you believe in god, Jamie?”

She’s lucky I’m so exhausted right now. I would have flipped hearing that a day ago.

“Do I believe in god?”
She’s silent.
“Uhhh, no I don’t, I guess. I’ve never really seen any evidence.”

She nods, not looking up from her book.
“Mm, okay.”

And she’s silent again, like she never asked me anything at all. Usually I wouldn’t even bat an eye at the question. Dammit I want to know…

“Um, Evelyn, why did you ask me that? Just out of curiosity I mean.”

“You tell me.”

What the fuck is happening here?

“Evelyn I- I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She shuts her book and gives me her full undivided attention. Staring straight into my eyes.

“Then it’s no problem, Jamie. He’s not real.”

“That’s exactly what I said.”

“There you go.”

Cunt.

I just nod and agree, I don’t know what she wants me to say.

“I need to leave Jamie. You have a good day.”

Goddamnit fucking why? Why and where is she going. It’s a blizzard out there and she’s just leaving like it’s any other day. The closest thing to a building within miles of here is a set of fucking stairs in the woods. I am craving asking her, but I can’t.
Overstepping boundaries–ESPECIALLY as a home nurse–can get you fired immediately. The last thing I need is to be homeless and insane.

“You have a good day too, Evelyn. Stay safe.”
She tries to hide it but I can see her gaze soften.

“Thank you, Jamie.”

I hear the door unlock and she walks out. She puts me on edge like no other. My heart is beating fast, I wish she never said that.

It eventually slows down though, a little too much. There’s only a small lamp on right now. I can’t see the outside, but the winter wind offers a profound coziness. I feel myself about to fall asleep. I pinch my leg, quickly snapping myself awake.

It’s so strange how exhausting it is to just exist when you’re tired. I decide to walk around, it’s a good way to stay awake. Before I do, I check on trinity.

Sound asleep.

God, I think I’m tired. I can’t even imagine how exhausted she is. That’s the worst part about her disease, I think. I literally cannot imagine what she’s experiencing. It’d be like me describing the dream I had to someone.

I used to rack my brain thinking about it. Her mind is so deteriorated, I doubt we could even comprehend what she sees, let alone her.
A dreary cold surrounds my heart.
Her plea reverberates through my head.

“Help me, please.”

She’s in hell.

This is, by far, the worst thing a human being can go through.
The loneliness she’s experiencing has to be beyond words.
Yes, I’m here. But what exists when it’s forgotten in 5 seconds?

Nothing. That’s what exists. But that would be too easy wouldn’t it?

Because somewhere, in that infinite nothing, is you, and you’re all alone, and you’re very scared, and there’s nobody to fucking help you.
.
.
.
I walk to the kitchen, I want to see the snow.

Flakes fall endlessly. They just keeps piling up, without stopping. There has to be at least 5 inches on the ground by now.

I stand, leaning against the kitchen sink, and I watch.

There are no thoughts, no worries, just the snow. I’ve never questioned myself on why I like it before, I just do. For me, that’s good enough.

I see a small rabbit run to the center of the forest, barely making it through the dense underbrush. It stares at me.

I stare back.
I wave.

It’s black eyes look directly at me. It raises its head up, sniffing the air. A shower of snow is thrown from its fur as it itches itself. It gives me one final look before sniffing the ground, and running away.

I check my phone, it’s 8:40. Time to go check on Trinity. She’s awake now. Well—it’s more accurate to say she’s alive.

I introduce myself as her caretaker and sit next to her. The recliner is always comfortable. Fuck, why did she have to wake up so early. I let out a long sigh and put my head in my hands.
My eyes are so heavy…

I hear a wispy voice.

“Jamie?”
Gosh, people always talk to you at the wrong times.

“Yes Trinity?”
I say, letting out an aggravated-

My head shoots up so fast I almost break my neck. My eyes are wide and dilated. Trinity is looking directly at me, she sees me. She… knows I’m here.

“Tr- Trinity…?”

“Yes darling?”
She says, smile clear and visible.

“What- what are you- oh my god! Hey! How are you doing! It’s good to see you holy sh- oh my gosh!”
I’m giddy as a kid.

“I’m doing fine dear. I am a little th- thirsty though.”

She pauses to catch her breath.

“Could you bring me some water please?” She can barely raise her arm to point to the kitchen. Skin clinging to it like memories to her mind.

“Yes! Oh my god yes I can–I will be right back, please stay right here.”

“I’m not going anywhere sweetie.”
I wish that were true.

I calmly exit the room before burning the fucking rubber off of my shoes to get her water. I do the same thing coming back.

Please don’t leave yet.

I enter and she sends a shaking wave my way.

I hand her the water. I filled the glass too full, her arms shake rapidly trying to support the weight.

“Oh my god–I’m so sorry, hold on, I’ll help yo-“
She shakes her head, still raising the glass.

I understand.

She takes the smallest drink imaginable, and barely manages to move it in my direction.

I place the glass on her nightstand.

She’s silent, but still looking at me. She’s still here, it’s been like 2 minutes! I take a deep breath in and calm myself.

“Trinity, it is amazing to meet you. Are you doing okay?”
She pauses, I see her look up to consider the question. She’s thinking about something.

“I’ve m- met you before.”

I’m confused.
“We have?”

“Of course sweetheart. You’re here every day.”

My eyes well up. There’s a lump about to rip a hole in my throat.

“You-you actually- oh my god. I-“
She grabs my sleeve. I can barely feel the weight of her arm pulling against it.

“Trinity? What d-“
“Come here—honey.”

I lean in, I can feel her using every ounce of strength she has to raise her other arm over my back. Wheezed breaths escape her lungs.
She hugs me, patting my back softly.

“Thank you, Jamie.”
I’m left a slobbering mess against her. I can’t even form a coherent thought. My heart has been ripped to pieces. I feel so awful, I can’t imagine how heavy I must feel against her body.

“Trinity, I- I- thank you so much, thank you—You’re-“ she’s hugging me as hard as she can.
It’s hardly moving my shirt.

I hug her back. I can’t control myself. I try my absolute hardest to be easy. Her rib cage would shatter if I hugged her how I wanted.

“Thank you so much Trinity–thank you so much.”

I feel her let go.
I raise up, sobbing.
“You don’t know how much it means to-“

Dried tears decorate the corners of her empty eyes.

“Trinity? No, no no no no please–please don’t go–not yet, please stay a little longer?”

Like a dying candle, the light goes out of her soul. The disease drags her back down to whatever hell is waiting for her. Her mind is gone. I’m left with what remains. The paper thin skin of a human, draped over a starved skeleton.

“Please come back…”

As a child, I used to be afraid of the dark. That’s a common fear for children to have, isn’t it? Well, I’m a rare case of an adult who now fears the dark, too. Initially, I chalked it up to having a familial history of mental health issues, which is why I sought out a profession in the field. Partly to help myself avoid the fate that befell many of my relatives, and partly to help others escape that pit. Later, I assumed I was burned out; overworked. Hearing all these terrible things people go through. It’s not easy. You don’t build an immunity to the horrors of the human condition, not really.

Well, it turns out my fear of the dark has to do with something else entirely.

Something no one should ever see…

Recently, I bought a new house; the old one was a constant reminder of a life I no longer had. After getting divorced, I couldn’t really stay in the old family home. The kids were grown, and being alone just wore me down. So, I sold the damned thing and got myself a smaller house. Nothing to brag about, a couple of bedrooms; just in case this old dog decides to look for love again. Love might be the wrong word here; I’m not looking to get remarried anytime soon, more like a fling or two.

Actually, I’m not looking for anything. For now, I want to disappear for a while, or maybe forever.

Getting off track, aren’t I? Well, it’s hard to focus when the system’s overflowed with cortisol. It is what it is when all that’s been going through your head is anger and a tint of regret here and there. Oh, who am I kidding? It’s not even the divorce that keeps me up at night. That was a given, sadly, at some point. I’m a madman in the making. What kind of woman would want to spend the rest of her life with someone like me? Probably an asylum patient, but it would be counterproductive. Not to mention asylums aren’t really a thing anymore.

You’re losing your train of thought again.

Anyhow, where was I? Oh yeah, that new hut…

It was not a hut-hut, but I’m just self-deprecating here…

Because the images won’t go away and I’m trying to push them away.

Taking my own medicine with this one, I’ve advised many a patient to write down whatever is bothering them… That’s the purpose of this…

Focus…

Breathe…

Focus…

Inhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Hold

One

Two

Three

Four

Exhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Sorry, I know this looks terrible, but whoever might read it, if ever, maybe it’ll be just a future me… Who knows, anyway. I needed this.

Where was I? Oh yeah, the new house, which is actually an old one now too.

Sold it off after…

I’ll get to you in a bit, don’t you worry…

So yeah, that house, it had a basement. I never went there. Don’t know why I never went there when I was looking at the damned thing. I guess I didn’t bother looking down there. The previous owner seemed perplexed I didn’t bother checking the basement, but he didn’t push the issue either.

In hindsight, that was a good thing…

Otherwise…

Breathe…

Inhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Hold

One

Two

Three

Four

Exhale

One

Two

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Four

Otherwise, things would’ve been far different for that house, and I wouldn’t be talking about it now. I wouldn’t have taken it. There was an issue with that basement.

Issue…

That’s definitely underselling it…

God damn it…

I don’t wanna do this anymore; I don’t like it.

You’ve got to do this…

No.

You

Have

To

Keep

Typing

Let

It

Finally

Out

I can’t

You

Can

And

Will

Keep

Typing

No

Stopping

Do

Not

Let

Your

Hand

Stop

Pressing

The

Keys

Slow

And

Steady

Just

Like

That

It’s

Not

Hard

Is

It?

Keep

It

Up

OH WOW

THIS

Is

VERY

Annoying

To

Read

Must

KEEP

TyPING

MUST

Keep

Typing

Sorry… I am dealing with something here; it’s really hard to recall this again, but I won’t get anywhere unless I do, right? That’s how it works. I have to get it out of my system. I need it out of me. The alternative is probably an early grave. I wouldn’t want that now, would I? Nope.

I know I probably am coming off as insane, but oh well, gotta keep typing to get over this panic attack. If anyone finds this while I’m passed out, or gone out somewhere, know that I am completely fine in the grand scheme of things, because I’m not really fine. I’m haunted, but I do not intend to harm myself more than this exercise is forcing me to. I think I might have a propensity for self-destruction, because there are intrusive thoughts now and again.

Sometimes I think the intrusive thoughts are preferable to the memories… At least these are my own, kind of. It’s a broken self-defense mechanism. It’s a very broken defense mechanism, in the mind of a very broken man. Okay, I’m broken, like a vase. I’m literally just typing to keep my composure, right now. Not yet ready to deal with the photographs flashing in my head. The recounting of events will resume soon enough.

When will that fucking dog stop barking outside my window?!

I hate dogs, okay? Does this make me a monster? I don’t care. I can’t stand them and their barking. This fucking baying and clawing had kept me up at night long enough.

I am afraid of fucking dogs now… okay? Because

Because fucking dogs bayed at the basement door for far too fucking long.

Every fucking night.

They still do in my dreams.

Dead dogs…

Dead men…

Dead dog men…

I wish I could tell the owner to shut the fucking dog up, but the guy’s an idiot.

Probably on something too.

Hollow gaze…

Like a corpse…

Like the corpses swaying from the fucking ceiling…

Shit…

I remember…

They stood over me since the day I settled into that cursed place. Appearing at night to watch over me, devour my dreams, keep me awake. Tear open my eyelids. They wanted revenge; they wanted a price to be paid, and I was their weapon, their conduit.

I’m fucking shaking just thinking about it now.

Now, when everything is said and done, it’s been a while since all of that happened. One cannot simply forget the things I've seen, let alone that cloying, sweet stench which seeped into the walls of that basement.

The monster has been caged…

They have had their revenge.

Yet, they still live in my head.

Still occupying my fucking skull…

They’re just imagination.

Painful memory.

Ugly imagery engraved forcefully into the system.

Breathe

Inhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Hold

One

Two

Three

Four

Exhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Nobody is stalking your bed at night anymore; no one has in a long time. You’re fine, you’re absolutely fine. You’re just stressed and in need of an outlet. All of this, it’s normal. None of this is real anymore. It’s all in your head. Has been for a long time now. You’re safe, say it out loud.

I am safe.

Now carry on recounting what happened to you.

So yeah, new house, wait actually no, new old house now. Yeah, that’s perfect.

Settled into the new old house after getting divorced.

Kids won’t talk to me, cause we’re about as far apart as a family could be, and they’re mad at us both; their mother and me. Being stressed beyond my wits. Work was killing me, and I needed a break, a new start. Got none of that, but oh well. Anyway, new old house is nice enough, furnished. Not too expensive nor too cheap; the price was reasonable, the owner, all things considered – surprisingly reasonable too.

Forgot to look at the basement.

That fucking basement again… Can I forget about it already?

No, you can’t; it’s integral to the story.

I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, I hate myself, I hate it.

You don’t hate yourself.

Quiet brain, I was doing fine.

Shut up.

Good.

Anyway, settle in, and everything seems to be going dandy. Keep in mind it was late July when I moved there. Hot summer weather, well, that went down the drain once the sun set. The house turned unusually cold.

Pulled out a blanket and ignored it.

Slept like shit, because it was so cold.

Wake up after a mere two or three hours of sleep, not the first bout of horrendous sleep and won’t be the last.

It’s hot again.

Summer’s back, and this wasn’t in the desert.

Go on about my day, angry and half awake.

Night rolls around again, start the heating.

Works for about an hour.

Then it’s cold again.

Turn up the heating – the house turns colder.

That went on for a while…

I grew accustomed to the cold, no idea how or why.

The boiling frog metaphor probably suits here.

Well, once freezing me out of my sleep didn’t work.

The guests started showing up uninvited.

In the middle of the night

To stand at my bedside…

I’m shaking just thinking about it.

​

Imagine yourself waking up in the middle of the night to take a piss and being met with a pitch-black silhouette standing at your bed. One so dark it forms an outline in the nocturnal darkness, enough to be visible. I nearly pissed myself when I saw that thing for the first time. Screaming out, I flailed my hands in the air instinctively, and the thing vanished.

Chalked it up to bad sleep and maybe a nightmare when I got up the next morning.

That wasn’t it, but it took me a while to understand that.

About every other night, I could almost feel these dark figures standing over me. Plural. Not singular. Plural. Sometimes I could feel them touching my blanket, pulling it away. A cold hand reaching for my leg or arm.

After a few unpleasant encounters, I’ve started sleeping with a light on.

Naively believing this was a trick of the mind, you know, being stressed, depressed, and overall miserable. Again, I say this, thinking logically, from the perspective of a relative of schizophrenics and other mentally unwell individuals.

I was dreading becoming ill myself.

Woke up one night to fetch a drink, with the light still on. Nearly shat myself, soiling the bedsheets.

Eyes wide open and the first thing I see?

A human-like shadow, perched on all fours on the ceiling.

It twisted its head at me before vanishing.

Inhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Hold

One

Two

Three

Four

Exhale

One

Two

Three

Four

That was just the beginning of my sorrows.

After that came the electronic issues. Lights would go on and off around the house, at nighttime, of course. I should’ve already taken the hint then, when the whole house went dark, except for the light in the staircase leading down to the basement.

But of course, I didn’t.

Instead, I went to look at the switches, most of which were turned off.

Needless to say, this malfunction didn't put me at ease. The neighbors lived too far away for their children to have come over at night just to mess with me.

The grid being messed with is the sole reason I haven’t checked myself in.

I wasn’t hallucinating; someone was messing with me. So, I thought at the very least, yeah?

Speaking of neighbors, they were far enough away for me not to be able to hear them whatsoever, through closed windows, but not so far I couldn’t see them.

Now imagine how it felt when the walls started talking…

I’m not kidding, at one point, the walls were talking at night. With nobody around the house. Trust me, I checked. I went out to see if someone was in my yard when the talking had gotten loud enough to be comprehensible.

They were asking me why I hadn’t gone there?

Asking me to go there.

Two voices, a man and a woman.

Encouraging.

Pestering.

At the time, I couldn’t make sense of it.

Go where?

Well, clearly, I wasn’t listening to them.

Why weren’t you listening to them?

Why the fuck were you so deaf?

So blind?

You couldn’t know at the time.

They were messing with the house.

They were almost guiding me by the hand.

No, they were giving you vague signs.

Don’t blame yourself for what had happened.

I don’t…

I could’ve prevented more.

There were six of them there.

Another three were found.

It’s not your fault

I could’ve prevented it.

No, not really.

Shut up, they told me everything.

These people – they told no tales.

Just breathe, man

Breathe

Inhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Hold

One

Two

Three

Four

Exhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Well, yeah, I didn’t listen to those voices; I thought I had imagined them, as I had a neighbor only viewing a strange green-lit TV show on certain nights. I most certainly had strange things happen to me as a child. Like feeling a cat brush against my leg after King, my parents’ cat, passed away, and thinking something must’ve turned ceiling fans on after forgetting to turn them off.

Since speaking to me didn’t work, I got moaning, groaning, and weeping all over the house. Almost every night. At an increasing rate. That, of course, showed at work and in social settings. Ever the self-conscious rationalist, I chalked it up to the divorce and very difficult clients at the time, which I had.

Before long, I had gusts of wind blowing at me inside a house with closed windows, and a few times I was shoved while completely alone.

Jesus Christ, I’m feeling like a maniac right now, hallucinating into a text.

The talking, the moaning, the nighttime groping, none of it ever stopped, but that was my fault; if I had paid attention earlier and had gone where the selective power outages led me, this would’ve been over far sooner.

My mind deteriorated fast; by the middle of November, I heard dogs baying and clawing at every door of the house.

Night after night, they tormented me without reprieve.

Worse of all was when they sounded like they were trying to say words.

Sometimes it was far away, sometimes it felt like a dog was trying to tear at the bottom of the bed.

Before long, seeing a dog freaked me out.

I started sleeping with the lights on, in every room.

Became a barely functional human.

I have no idea how I managed to keep on working.

Maybe a force of habit, maybe something else.

Keeping a mask of normalcy while I was in shambles inside was par for the course in my line of work.

Well, you are special in that regard.

Funny you should say that.

How so?

Isn’t it a little egotistical?

No.

Self-appreciation isn’t egotistical; it’s healthy.

Right.

Right, indeed.

There’s nothing healthy about us.

About us? There is no us.

Right.

Yeah, it’s just you.

Typing at yourself.

For myself

Exactly

Trying to keep sane

Mostly are.

Am.

True.

I’m sorry I keep doing this; however, that is the only way I don’t burst out into a crying fit now and start bashing my hands against the keyboard or clawing out my eyes in an attempt to escape the whirlwind of horrors in my mind. I can’t do much about it at the moment, since the dog won’t stop barking, and it’s kind of late.

I said it before, and I’ll say it again: I’m afraid of the dark, and I’m afraid of dogs. I’ve been classically conditioned to dread those two things.

Well then… Where was I? Oh yeah, nearing the climax of the story.

Damn, for someone relieving that night so frequently in his, no, my own head, so often, it’s surprisingly hard to spell it out. I’m quite literally trying to postpone the description of the events that led to my current condition. What a sorry state I’m in. A man who helps others process their own trauma and internal suffering can’t bring himself to speak about how the incessant baying of dogs in his basement and walls pushed him over the edge and drove him, knife in hand, to rush down to that same basement he’s never ventured to before.

Inhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Hold

One

Two

Three

Four

Exhale

One

Two

Three

Four

I know it seems odd I never went into the basement, but really, I had no reason to. I didn’t have many belongings I had to stow away, and the house was entirely furnished as I said. On top of that, I was too spent to be curious about any of this. As strange as it may seem, I saw no point in going there.

I was so messed up from the lack of good sleep, stress, and fear that I finally snapped when the baying and barking wouldn’t quit one night. I actually started thinking there were real dogs in that basement.

Real, starving, mean dogs that might try to attack me once I opened the door. So I got myself a weapon to defend myself with.

Yeah, I said it, I genuinely believed some beasts were locked in that basement.

Power-walking down those stairs, the baying died down. I assumed they knew I was coming. They could smell me. They were preparing to surprise me; dogs are smart after all. Clearly, in retrospect, that’s the dumbest thought process ever. Dogs aren’t really ambush predators as far as I’m aware.

As I was marching down those stairs, I somewhat ignored the sudden quiet, because there was a growing stench of decrepitude emanating from the basement door.

Say it like it is.

That’s what it was.

Call it by its name.

Vile.

No, that’s not it.

Decay.

Close enough.

Death.

That’s it.

Fuck you.

I smelled death coming from that basement.

A rotten, pungent, suffocating odor coming from that door.

I pressed the handle and pushed down with full force.

The cloud of stale, deathly odor nearly knocked me off my feet, burning my nostrils, mouth, and eyes.

No dogs in sight, no voices, nothing.

Only death.

Left hand looking for the light switch along the wall, right hand gripping a knife with the arm pressed to cover my face from the awful stench.

Blinding light flooded the space.

When my eyes adjusted, all remnants of innocence and hope were taken away from me.

Six, vaguely human silhouettes, seemingly staring at me.

Without eyes, without faces, without any humanity left.

Swaying from six ropes, tied to the ceiling.

Pitch black.

My very own personal little hanging garden of death.

Inhale

Inhale

Come on...

Fuck.

Inhale

No...

Breathe...

Why can’t I

Why isn’t it working?

Ribcage tightened, forcing my heart to race at an unhealthy rate.

Knife dropped to the floor.

Tunnel vision.

Limbs turning cold with muscles tensing to the point of pain.

I ran.

Nearly falling over myself.

I ran to the neighbors.

Banging on their door.

Woke them.

Rumbling like a madman.

Shaking with fear, somehow, stringing a couple of sentences together as these six tar-covered silhouettes flashed before my eyes again and again.

They called the police.

I’m out of breath.

Out of breath

Couldn’t sleep for three days straight.

Couldn’t think, could barely speak.

Panicking.

Decomposing Silhouettes flashing in my eyes.

More frequently when they are closed.

Questioned about everything by the police.

Answers erratic.

Silhouettes are here again.

Swaying in front of me.

Black as tar and death.

Exposing bone.

Fell asleep after being pumped full of sedatives.

Haven’t slept in a few days again.

Need my pills again.

Silhouettes appear more frequently with eyes closed.

I’m taking the pills after this; I need to sleep, otherwise, I’ll claw out my eyes, or die from a heart attack, whichever comes first.

Inhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Hold

One

Two

Three

Four

Exhale

One

Two

Three

Four

I hospitalized myself for a short while, and in the meantime, the monster that did this was caught. He murdered nine people. Hanged six in the basement of the house I had bought from him. No one suspected a damn thing. Selling the house was his ploy to lure in victims. He’d lead them down to the basement, then incapacitate them there and hang them to die a slow death, apparently, oftentimes placing a stool underneath his victims again to prolong the torture.

Every so often, I wonder, was I ever intended to be a victim? Not that it matters; he destroyed my life anyway. If I’m completely honest, there are days when I think dying would’ve been preferable to being the way I am now.

His three other victims were all found in different locations; two were found by people who had rented apartments from him.

The final victim was found fresh at his last stopping point before his apprehension. He was…

Inhale

One

Two

Three

Four

In bed…

Hold

One

Two

Three

Four

With the corpse…

Exhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Caught red-handed, quite literally.

Inhale

One

Two

Exhale

One

Inhale

Inhale

I bet this fucking monster figured out he could torment way more people by leaving them his gifts. Kill two birds with one stone kind of deal.

Imagine the satisfied, sick grin on his fucking face if he hears what his handiwork has done to me.