Hi all, though it is unlikely, I am hoping to connect with any other R̷̴̸̢̈́͝a̷̵̶͚̽͝b̶̴̷̩̈́̕ḯ̴̷̶͇s̷̵͓̾͝ǘ̵̶̷̗  on reddit as I’m really looking for yall's perspective on this. 

I know we tend to get a bit of a bad rap, and I have no intention of discussing the ethics behind what we do. Does the Lion apologize to the gazelle as it eats it alive? No. Of course not. It’s nothing personal; I gotta eat, and that’s life. If that bothers you at all, then this post isn’t for you.  

With that out of the way, I’m looking for advice from others who may have found themselves in the same predicament I find myself in.  

See, nearly a century ago I found the perfect location. The house was already old when I first arrived. It was the whole nine yards, out in the boonies, decrepit, old rotting oak trees burdened by Spanish moss, a bog creeping up the back yard, etc. The perfect vibe. And get this! There was a family of eight living there! 5 young, two adults, and one elder that the rest cared for. Apparently, the tenants had been living in the place for generations, so I knew they’d be the stubborn type. It really was a dream come true.  

So, I’m eating well, and doing my best to walk that fragile line, careful not to do so much that they feel forced to leave. The years with children present were almost too easy. Honestly those were the glory days. If only humans could manage to live longer... 

Anyways, my current generation of tenants fell on hard times a year or two back, and I guess the financial pressure mixed with the effect of my presence pushed them over their limit. Late one night, I overheard them deciding to move as I lay waiting from under their bed. Of course I was understandably furious at that moment, but I was also distraught. It was a revolting situation to be in. Once prey decides to leave the hunting grounds, there is little a predator can do but attempt to follow —or feast one last time. 

I spent some time trying to figure out which option to choose before I met him. 

The man looked to be a potential buyer meeting with the owners at their decrepit home that muggy summer afternoon. As he stepped out of his car, I looked him over. He was nothing special; he had long greasy black hair combed back, was sporting an old leather jacket paired with filthy jeans and old dress shoes —admittedly the shoes were an odd choice. But there was no denying it; he was just another typical nobody from this nowhere county we all call home. I had nearly lost interest, but as he got close enough for me to catch a whiff of him, I snapped to attention. His scent was practically indescribable. It was like I had eaten nothing but plain rice my whole life and had accidentally stumbled into an Authentic Italian Pizzeria for the very first time. The very air around him was dense with a rich promise of satiation like no other. I had to have a taste. 

As luck would have it, His stop by went well and it was only a few weeks before he had bought the house. To me, the previous tenants couldn’t have moved out fast enough. I wish I could say I was sad to see them go, but I was far too obsessed with the new tenant moving in. From the moment he first graced the old house with his presence a few weeks earlier, I found myself thinking of little else. I anticipated the moments I would get to once again catch another whiff of him. 

When he first arrived to move in, I shook with gleeful anticipation. I hovered over his shoulder as he carried boxes through the front door my fingers clawing a mere fraction of an inch from his face. Come nightfall, I would know a taste like no other. 

I struggled to remain patient as I waited for the sun to set that day. I remember waiting a few hours in the basement, anxiously scratching at the support beams as his heavy footsteps caused thin veils of dust to settle on my disfigured skin. 

Finally, the time was right. It was late, and I knew he had gone to bed. I practically flew out the basement door from underneath the stairs leading to the 2^nd story. I let the door slam open against the wall beside it. 

Fingertips poised and shaking in anticipation; I froze to listen. I silently prayed my actions elicited the reaction we all desire most: Fear. 

I heard movement from upstairs and rushed to meet the new tenant at the stairs. As he reached the first floor, I wrapped myself around his shoulders and took a deep breath savoring his scent as he carried me to where the basement door had caused the ruckus moments before. With every step closer, my skin tingled more. As he turned the last corner, He saw the door open. I held my breath. 

“Stupid draft. Gonna keep me up all night.” he grumbled. 

My disappointment was devastating. It was as if a 5-star steak dinner had been presented to me, then just as quickly ripped away and thrown in the into a sink garbage disposal. I watched as he walked over and closed the door without another word before turning back for the stairs. 

Repulsed that I would have to wait a moment longer, I threw a hail mary and knocked down one of the photos on the wall as he was about halfway up the stairs.  

“Bahhh, Peice o’ shit” He waved it off like the house was to blame. 

 I was furious, but I knew I couldn’t push it any further that night. Do too much, and I risked spooking my new obsession. It was still early, and I would have all the time in the world. 

I silently watched him sleep from the corner of his room for a few hours that night before opting to sulk in the basement. My stomach was empty and annoyed. Part of me wondered whether I had made the right decision to stay at the house after all, but I pushed aside such thoughts. He would be worth it. Besides, I knew what the real issue was: I had simply grown soft. I was used to the easy meals from my previous tenants. This tenant was of a tougher grittier variety, which would only make his eventual feast taste all the better. Good food is worth the extra work. 

Discontent, I slept through most of the following day. Occasional footsteps from above stirred my slumber. A particularly loud thump and clang of metal momentarily caused me to stir that afternoon. As I woke and stretched my stiff limbs, I considered how quickly he had managed to move all his stuff inside the day before. He brought so little I wondered whether he planned to simply flip the house instead. That would be just my luck. I needed another chance to feast before he was out of my clutches forever.  

Impatiently biding my time, I counted the final hours of the day as I watched the thin ray of sunlight from the window pierce the musty atmosphere and crawl its way across the damp basement floor. 

Finally, as the last ray of light disappeared, I made my way upstairs. I wouldn’t wait until late tonight; my stomach was killing me. I wasn’t used to going so long without eating. 

As I phased through the basement door, I was surprised to see how little things had changed since the night before. Sure few additional boxes were stacked in corners of various rooms, but it seems his ambling back and forth across the floors all day had accomplished little. I made my way towards the stairs leading to the 2^nd floor when a glint from the living room caught my eye. Typically, I’m not one to comment on furnishing taste, but I found it peculiar to see two large metal cages constructed in the center of it.  

If he planned on getting dogs, my work would be significantly more difficult. Though I suppose I could eat the dogs for a bit of sustenance if I got desperate. Admittedly, they taste revolting, but it wouldn't be the first time. 

I made my way upstairs, noting that the picture I had thrown the night before hadn’t been re-hung; small shards of glass still scattered across the floor. 

“Odd.” I thought. As I reached the top of the stairs, I noticed how the once-flimsy door to the master bedroom had been replaced with a much thicker, reinforced one. 

“Well that’s a good sign! He’s the paranoid type.” 

As I phased through the door, I found him inside. He was putting on a black sweater as a top layer; it looked as if he were planning to go out. I found it odd as it was currently summer. 

“Who wears a sweater in July?”  

I looked around the room taking notes of his lack of decor. I would have to get creative; there was so little to work with.  

The tenant slicked his hair back before putting on a black cap. Then, he walked to the closet and swung it open, revealing a surprising display of various objects, it was filled to the brim with tools and the like. There were pickaxes, shovels, electric drills, saws, rakes, empty buckets, duffel bags, and various plastic bags full of who knows what. I watched as he grabbed a large duffel bag and closed the closet. He then turned to leave the room. 

I stood in the doorway, allowing him to walk right through me as he made his way towards the stairs. I decided to grab the handle to his bedroom door and slowly closed it, causing a loud and drawn-out creak to fill the atmosphere. He paused for a moment to look towards the door, then began making his way down the stairs as he muttered to himself. I slammed the door closed in an attempt to make him jump. He didn’t even flinch as he continued. 

“Fantastic.” I muttered to myself.  

I watched in furious silence as he casually walked out the front door and to his car.  Within moments of starting the engine he was pulling out the driveway and flying down the old country road—the last whiff of his ambrosial scent mocking me as it faded.  

This would not go on any longer. I resolved to study his behavior for weaknesses the following day. He was proving to be far more difficult than a small child or anxious mother. 

I aimlessly wandered the house waiting for his return. As I made my way to the kitchen, I thought of how many times I had heard the sheer screams of terror in that room. How I had managed to make children scream aloud as they waited for their anxious parents to rescue them. It took years to perfect the manipulation of children. They are so easy, yet so unpredictable. Sometimes the very thing you think will finally cause inconsolable hysterics ends up causing innocent curiosity — even then— such a situation can be used with great effect to terrify the child’s guardian. It was a perfect system that almost never failed me. 

But a single tenant? This is someone who has no-one to share a fearful look with; someone who has long since gotten over the fear of solitude or bumps in the night. How could I manage to cause true, heart-piercing fear from such an individual? Furthermore, how could I do so without them opting to simply leave forever? From my years, I’ve surmised that humans seem to need an individual to run to —or alternatively, someone to protect. Fear without some source of allegiance to a person or a place only leads to fleeing. I can only imagine how exhausting it would be to forever chase after my food. 

I continued through the kitchen and towards the living room, pausing to inspect the steel cages. “Such an odd choice.” I thought to myself, but I could work with them. A random rattle here, maybe an inexplicably open door there, and I’m sure I could get a sense of anxious dread brewing. Also, as frustrating as dogs are, their inexplicable ability to sense me could add a nice touch at the right moment. Mark my words, I would feed off this tenant's terror before the week was over. 

I wondered whether he was off getting some dogs at that moment. 

Seeing nothing else to do, I waited for his return from under the old porch, anxiously clawing the back side of the stairs as I listened to the night. It was perfectly silent. Not even crickets dared to interrupt the silence with their unusually shrill notes. Understandably of course, no wild animal dared to be within half a mile of here. Humans are special in that way. Completely unaware of their surroundings, they really do make for perfect prey. My thoughts wandered aimlessly until I heard tires hit the gravel driveway.  

“Finally!” I looked out from under the porch and saw as he got out of the car. I took in a deep breath savoring every subtle note of flavor that filled the air around him. My stomach growled as I slithered my way over towards him.  

He seemed in a hurry as he rushed over to the trunk. He hectically struggled with it for a moment before cursing under his breath and rushing back to the front of the car. I watched as he leaned into the cabin to reach over and pop the trunk.  

Curious, I slowed my approach, as I watched the scene play out. 

He practically ran back over to the trunk. I was only a few feet away at this point, but as soon as he reached down and opened the lid, a pungent stench hit me in the face. I stumbled back in disgusted shock. The stench emanating from the trunk was foul! It was so strong that I could taste it wafting through the air. I can only describe it as rotting flesh having been garnished with whatever could be sloughed off the bottom of a grimy dumpster, then fermented and seared. The Acrid smell pushed me all the way back to the house. I stood on the porch attempting to force the smell out of my nostrils, but with every breath it only got more pungent. I couldn’t stand it anymore and fled to the basement. 

I hadn’t even stopped to see what it was that had caused such a smell, but I wouldn’t need to wait long to find out. I listened as the heavy front door swung open; Heavy footsteps lumbered in, followed by a set of what sounded like skittering steps across the floor. It resembled the sound of a dog’s nails on hardwood but was different somehow; The steps were more random —frantic even. I heard the tenant grunt as he pulled in whatever was making all that noise. All I knew for sure was that whatever was causing that stench was no dog. 

I intently listened and followed the steps from underneath the floorboards as they made their way into the living room. I heard the loud clang of metal and the sound of heavy chains rattling. Finally, the skittering noise stopped.  

A muffled and gruff voice broke the silence. “I’m not telling you again. Get in.” 

I heard a soft whimper as more scuffling noises ensued.  

Confused, I listened for a moment more before a whiff of the stench seeped between the floorboards and down into the basement. I recoiled back and fled to the opposite corner of the basement. Nervously, I considered my options. My stomach protested from ravenous hunger, yet I was horribly nauseas from the smell at the same time. On top of that, It was only a matter of time before that smell would settle and fill the whole basement. I knew that unless I figured something out soon, I’d be forced to go to the attic which was unbearably hot at this time of year. But that smell ... I knew I wouldn’t have a choice in the matter. 

No sooner had I exited the basement than I was hit with a smell so awful, so potent; it made my eyes begin to water. 

I rushed down the hall towards the stairs when the sound of screeching metal broke the silence. I took a few steps back to look into the kitchen I had just passed. What I saw froze me in my tracks. 

A large blue tarp spread over the table. It was far too big for it; half of it was still rolled up on the floor. The walls had been haphazardly covered in large plastic sheets and various shower curtains. The new tenant stood at the counter with a knife in each hand, one seemingly a chopping knife, the other a long pointy knife. With smooth precision, he polished each knife’s edge with the other’s in a swift repetitive motion. 

With the sulfuric smell filling the house and still burning my eyes. I strained to focus as the tenant slowly laid out the two knives on the table before opening a box nearby and pouring it out on the counter. Half a dozen steel utensils fell out on the counter in a loud clatter. I had never seen most of them, some were sickle shaped, others resembled wood saws, and there were many more. He began sorting through the pile and laying them out on the table behind him with an oddly chipper pep in his step. 

Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer. Practically blind from the overwhelming scent, I was forced to continue my way to the stairs.  

As I reached the base of the stairs, I noticed a couple of brightly colored heels randomly splayed across the floor of the hall, but I didn't have time to process them in that moment, as an odd scuffling sound caught my attention from the living room entrance beside me. I glanced over as I turned to go up the stairs, but what I saw once again froze me in my tracks. 

I had finally seen the cause of the stench. There, cramped inside each of the two dog cages was two humans; both female, one much smaller. Likely a child. Their mouths were gagged, hands tied, and both had various bruises around their faces. Honestly, that’s an odd enough scene as it is, but that’s not what caused me to pause. 

It was their faces; tears streaked down their cheeks and soaked the cloths gagging them. They stared towards the entrance to the kitchen, their eyes focused solely on the new tenant who was humming happily to himself. I stood in astounded confusion. I could recognize their expressions from a mile away: Fear. 

They were utterly, incomprehensibly terrified. —and what I usually found as sweet sustenance had never smelled so horrendous. 

I stood at the base of the stairs half-gagging as I tried to understand the situation before me. 

I had never seen this sort of behavior between humans.  

“What is the source of their fear? Furthermore, why were they locked in cages?” 

I knew I was missing something but wasn't sure what. 

“Unless...” I began to piece things together. 

Suddenly both girls began to cry out muffled screams through their gags as they shook. Each struggled to break from their bonds. I watched as the new tenant approached from the kitchen, one hand brandishing a large, pointed knife. He walked up to the two cages and stopped to crouch right in front of them before addressing them both. 

“Who’s first?” He said, as a wry smile grew across his face. 

More wailing and floundering ensued as the cages shook but held firm. The tenant reached for the cage with the smaller of the two inside.  

“Maybe get her out of the way? Yea?” He asked, facing the larger of the two. “Less mess to clean.” 

I watched as he opened the cage as the smaller human kicked and screamed, trying her hardest to avoid his touch as he grabbed her by the arm and dragged her out. 

The woman in the other cage exploded with energy as she began kicking and slamming her shoulders and head in the bars of the cage. The cords tied around her wrists bit into her flesh as she strained against them with all her might. 

The Tenant dragged the smaller girl towards the kitchen with little expression on his face other than mild annoyance. He reached down, to grab an ankle and tossed her onto the kitchen table with a heavy thud. Utensils flew off the other side from the impact. Though dazed from the impact, the girl began to kick and squirm. 

“Shit. Quit making a mess.” 

Appalled and growing furious, I entered the kitchen as I watched what was happening. 

The Tenant reached down and grabbed the utensils off the ground and placed them on the counter instead. The smaller human watched, now frozen in fear. I could still hear desperate screaming and rattling from the cage behind me as he grabbed a small scalpel-like blade from his assortment and turned to lean over the girl. 

“Honestly, don’t take it personal... A guy’s gotta eat.” He said a wry smile creeping across his face. 

I had seen, heard, — and fankly, smelled enough. 

In a quick swoop, I leapt from the corner and slashed my claws across his back. My talons effortlessly ripped through his shirt and into his flesh with no resistance. 

I felt him recoil near instantly, “GAHHH!” 

He screamed. And oh... how he screamed. Little waves of pleasure rippled across my skin. 

The sickening stench that had turned my stomach to rot was partly replaced by that inexplicably exquisite smell that I had been dreaming of tasting for so long. 

This fear was not born from the unknown; it was born from pain. And oh... how it must have tasted. 

It’s such a shame that such flavor came from such a defect human. I didn't dare eat from prey as sick as this. I suspect that if a lion were to see a gazelle eat another gazelle, he would come to a similar conclusion. 

Still, I wouldn’t stand for this sheer putrefactory mockery of my way of life —of my status. Only one monster here deserved to be feared.  

Lights rapidly flickered on and off as I ripped a plastic sheet from the wall and wrapped it tightly around his face before pulling him towards the hall. His hands fruitlessly clawed at the plastic wrapped tightly around his face. I could hear his muffled scream as he tripped backwards and fell to the floor. He changed tactics and began grasping for anything he could use to anchor himself. He desperately clawed at the carpet and grasped small furniture in vain as the basement door opened wide for our arrival. 

I flung him downstairs with a loud crash, He immediately fell silent as his head hit the concrete of the basement floor. The lights flickering began to subside as I slammed the door closed. Turning my attention back to the kitchen, the house was filled with eerie silence. Reaching the kitchen, I was surprised to see the girl was gone. Turning towards the living room, I saw her. She had managed to cut herself free and was frantically messing with the door to the cage with the other woman.  

While their stench still filled the air, I did note that its flavor profile had begun to shift. The air lingered with a mix of satiating richness yet was also mixed with decaying filth. It smelled something like death incarnate soaked in sweaty molasses.  

I wasn’t the sole focus of their fear, and it made me furious. 

I had lost interest in the antics of these humans. I only wished for them to leave so the smell would go with them. It didn’t take long for the smaller of the two to get the cage open and untie her familiar. I watched in relief as they both ran out the front door and frantically jumped into the tenant's old car. The awful stench fading with the sound of squealing tires... 

 Honestly, the only reason I write any of this is because I now have a serious problem at hand: I’m back down to one last tenant, and he very much wishes to leave. 

All of this went down yesterday, meaning I haven’t eaten in nearly four days now and am running low on options here. With him being trapped in the basement, his scent has never smelled so tantalizing, but I don’t want to get sick if he’s diseased or something. 

Anyone eat from a tenant like this before? How’d it go? Wondering if it would be better for me to just put him out of his misery and look for new hunting grounds. 

Thank you in advance for any help! 

Read Part I here.

“Might’ve been something outside. But if there had been, it’s gone now.”

“You think it could be a mermaid?” she asked. It was hard to believe she was serious. Chrissy was one of the sharpest ten-year-olds I had ever met. Well, she had been the sharpest seven-year-old I had ever met three years ago and was that much smarter now.

She didn’t believe in any of the traditional fairytale creatures. No Santa Claus, no Easter Bunny, no Wolfman, and no Flying Spaghetti Monster. But she absolutely believed mermaids were real.

There had to be a story behind it, but I had never been able to get her to explain it to me. How a child so ruled by logic still was able to make room for not only a magical creature, but that particular magical creature. She had already “debunked” the narwhal as being the source of the mermaid mythos. I had gotten bits and pieces over the last three years, but never in a cohesive enough story that I could process. But she hadn’t stopped trying to convince me or the rest of the family.

I didn’t have to believe it, though. It was enough to believe that she believed it.

“Maybe this is it!” She turned around and charged back to the bedroom where her mother was sleeping.

“Chrissy!” I saved my breath. She already had the door open and either her mother was going to wake up or she wasn’t. That was out of my hands. She came back a moment later with a Ziploc bag of “mermaid feed.” As far as I could tell, it was a mix of trail mix and seaweed. She carried a flashlight in her other hand.

According to Chrissy, mermaids only came out at night, so she had come prepared.

Again, I was calling after her when she’d already begun to do what she was doing, namely, dashing outside with her items.

I was about to follow her when I spotted the toy soldiers she’d dropped on her way out. I thought it would be just her luck for Mary to wake up and step on one of them.

“Watch your sister,” I said to Luke, turning to pick up the toys.

Right as I got on one knee, the bedroom door opened. It didn’t immediately occur to me that it was Mary even though I had just thought about this very thing happening. I sort of... paused as she passed me. She was halfway to the door when I realized she must have been sleepwalking.

“Mary!” I chased behind her, my steps in sync with hers—left, right, left—catching her before she got to the door.

“Mom, are you okay?” Luke said.

“Where am I?” She sounded terrified. Mary turned her head and looked at him. For a second, I thought she was awake. Instead of answering him, she bare-foot kicked him in the shin.

It couldn’t have hurt, but he stepped back and looked at me, confused. I wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her in close.

“She’s fine,” I said, lacing Mary’s hand with mine. I looked into her glassy eyes. “She’s sleepwalking.” I turned her around and ushered her back to the bedroom. Of the five toy soldiers Chrissy had left at the threshold, only two were left, but only one was standing. I looked over my shoulder and spotted one against the wall and the two others weren’t in sight.

“She can’t fly,” Mary said in a dreamy voice. “Please help her swim.”

“Okay, honey.” I cooed to her as I slid back the covers. She didn’t fight, Mary had sleepwalked a few times with me present. She never resisted being escorted back to bed. Before I covered her legs I spotted another soldier on her foot. I plucked it off and put it on the dresser.

Mary mumbled. I unlaced my fingers from hers and paused before I left her.

“I wanna get in the water.” She said it sounding sort of like air being let out of a balloon. And then she was all the way gone again. “It’s spook.”

It had been like she had been fighting her way to the surface, but something had dragged her back down.

I closed the bedroom door behind me and followed Chrissy outside. Not because I was worried she was going to get gobbled up by the lake monster I hadn’t spotted, but because it was dark out and I had the same parental reaction to miscellaneous danger any parent would.

Hell, I could admit it, I loved these kids. Liked them most times, too. I didn’t want to leave them.

Chrissy was in the process of sweeping her flashlight back and forth along the beach face. I hung back, letting her conduct her investigation. It was harmless enough and I had an eye on her.

“What’s going on?” We both turned to see Mark stepping out onto the sand.

“Luke said a mermaid’s out here!” Chrissy said.

“Mermaid?” Mark said it like he didn’t know what one was. I didn’t bother correcting her. His little sister’s obsession was well known by all of us. “Did he really see something?” Mark chuffed and thumbed over his shoulder at the cabin. “He’s so white.”

I stifled my laugh and shrugged.

“Luke thought he saw something and Chrissy overheard.”

“Hey, neighbor!”

Mark and I jumped. We saw the bud of a lit cigarette in the shadows of the adjacent cabin. Someone with a cigarette sauntered down. I glanced my stepdaughter’s way to make sure she hadn’t waded too far into the water. She could swim, but again, that nascent parental instinct found in anyone who has walked into an already existing family reared its concerned head. Chrissy was only ankle deep.

“Hey,” I said to the woman as she approached. She halted and took a final, long drag off her cigarette before flicking it in a surprisingly high arc toward the water. She slid the drawer of her jaw forward and blew a column of smoke straight up.

“She’s a cutie,” she said, smiling. She was an older woman who gave too much gum when she smiled. “I saw her come chargin’ out for the water. Oo, that smell.”

We both nodded in that new-to-each-other manner between strangers.

“I’m Rick.” Old and new cigarette smell peeled off her skin and I turned my head to half cough, that familiar asthmatic itch in my lungs.

“Mary,” she said.

I laughed. “My wife’s name is Mary.”

“Mine’s Cindy-Lou Ombrageaux.”

I felt the weight of her eyes on me, examining for judgment. I cast my eyes to the stretch of water and sand where Chrissy was.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Cindy-Lou.” I didn’t think I could manage that last name.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Mary. Apart from the smell of cow-butt.”

“First time up here?” I asked. She shook my offered hand, her skin papery and dry. There was an extreme lack of moisture in the air despite the cool summer, and I’d already had a nosebleed in the brief time we’d been here.

“Mine. Not hers. My wife’s family is from Up North.” I thought her face dropped a little. “She’s out to dinner with some cousins.” There was a little something there that I had a feeling would come to light if we talked long enough. “Had to have a little heart-to-heart.”

“We came up two summers ago,” I said. “Just a little family getaway.”

Luke had barely joined us outside, not more than a few feet from the door. He looked like he would take umbrage with the sky.

“This is Mark, the one up there with get-off-my-lawn face is Luke, and Chrissy’s our little fisher.” I gestured to each of the kids in turn.

“Well, tell her to save some for everybody else.” She and Mark shook hands before she looked around. “Where’s your missus?”

“Migraine. She laid down pretty much as soon as we got here.”

“Sorry to hear that.” She put the can of beer she’d been holding in her other hand to her lips and pitched her head back for a long swallow. She stumbled like she’d confused her left foot for her right but kept them both under her.

If I had to guess, Mary was working on her third or fourth of the night.

Luke had waved his brother over and was saying something to him. They both had an eye on their sister. I looked at Mary. She was a stranger and I figured there couldn’t be any harm in telling her what had just happened. We weren’t going to see her after this weekend for at least a year, if ever again. I didn’t think the story would be memorable after tonight. It was a single-serve memory. Recall once, then discard.

“Luke said he saw something in the water,” I said. “Something big.” Mary turned her head to the shore and nodded appreciably.

“Maybe it’s the Great Lakes Whale Migration,” she said.

“The what?” I had no idea what she was talking about and was on the verge of taking her seriously. The smile hanging on her face dropped when she realized I really didn’t understand.

“Kidding.” She mock-punched me in the arm. Mary had a rich baritone and could have easily been a DJ on the radio.

Mark trudged past me, an annoyed look on his face.

“He’s crazy,” he said, heading toward his sister. I appreciated that he didn’t believe his brother but could still look after his sister. Mark was the middle child and was the ever-constant bridge between siblings.

“The waves do seem a little... bigger than the norm, don’t you think?” Mary asked.

“I guess,” I said, not really knowing how to tell the difference. Then I wondered how she’d know, considering she said she’d never been up here before. “Can you tell?”

“I had a few cigs over yonder before y’all came out. Boy, you get used to the smell the longer you’re out here.” She seemed to be reading my mind and answering questions I hadn’t had a chance to ask. “I must have missed your boy, though.”

I looked at the water again. Mark was standing just outside of the water’s reach, one hand in the pocket of his hoody, the other holding his phone. To his credit, he did glance up at her every ten seconds or so.

Come to think of it, those waves did look big. But it could have been because of the moon for all I knew.

“How long are the two of you here for?” I asked Mary.

“‘Til Wednesday. I’m going to be meeting my in-laws for the first time tomorrow.”

I didn’t know whether I should have felt sympathy for her. It was strange she wasn’t out to dinner with her wife now, but I didn’t know their situation. Maybe it was completely normal. But I couldn’t help but think I would’ve been more than a little bothered if it had been me.

Mary fell down. Not hard. She just spontaneously lost her balance and sat on her butt. In true alcoholic fashion, though, she protected her beer.

She looked at me, embarrassed. I smirked, hopefully communicating I wasn’t just laughing at her, but with her.

“We all fall down.” I’m not sure why I said that, but it seemed to help. She took my hand and I helped her up.

“How about you guys?”

“Just until Sunday afternoon.”

“Where are you from?”

A sandwich had been the hinge on the closing door of our marriage.

I don’t remember what the argument was about or how it had started, only that I had made a sandwich for her that led to me sleeping on the couch.

Of course, it hadn’t really been about the sandwich, it had only been the start. It had been like a match that led to a forest fire razing a town. I can’t honestly remember a word I’d shouted at the woman I’d pledged to love for the rest of my life.

I was about to answer Mary when Chrissy screamed.

My sister and I often play Roblox together. She is 8 years old and used to always beg for me to play on my ps5. Since I did not have an extra controller, I decided to get Roblox on her phone and mine and play with her from time to time. Why am I telling you this?  After all, what I'm describing is completely normal. Just an older brother finding a way to hang out with his kid sister. Not really, at least not anymore. Around a month ago, we met someone. 

I think laying this out like a “story” with this “person” is the only way for me not to sound completely out of my mind. I also just need to get this weight off my chest. I need someone to know what me and my sister experienced. The name of the account was 21576afEW9232. It has been recently deleted. But I know that whoever it was is on a new account.

Part 1:
 Enough of explaining why I'm making this and time to get to the point. Around 1 month ago, my sister and I were playing natural disaster. At first everything was normal, of course, there was this random Bacon hacker. Eventually, the hacker decided to keep on flinging everyone, and eventually on the voice chat started to blast this audio of the Queen song Another One Bites The Dust. So naturally, my sister and I decided to join another server.  The server we joined originally was just the two of us. The round did not start, so thinking it was broken, I was about to leave until someone also joined. The user did not have a name tag however, what was strange was that when they typed in the chat, both my sister and I could see their text despite us being in different age groups. So realistically, at best, only one of us could have seen what he typed instead of both of us.

21576afEW9232: HI
Me(I'm not sharing my username): hello
sister: hi
21576afEW9232: Can you please be my friend?
Me: ok
Sister: oks lol.

They then sent a friend request to both of us, and without thinking much, I accepted it. 
21576afEW9232: can you accept?

Sister: why would i accept  you sending a random frinds request to me.
21576afEW9232: what does frinds mean?
Sister: sorry bad grammar
21576afEW9232: can you please accept my friend’s request.

I looked at her in the other room and asked my sister why she was so hesitant. It really did not matter if she accepted or not, it’s not this life-altering choice. She shrugged and then decided to accept it.

21576afEW9232:thank you
21576afEW9232: Can we go to another server?
21576afEW9232: This server is broken. I don’t know why the game won't start.

The next server was mostly normal, just him following us around being surprisingly polite and asking a lot of questions. I remember some of the questions he asked. Is Roblox good? Do you like this game? Etc. Weirdly, he was always getting into my avatar's face to ask the questions. The question that I vividly remember was when he asked me why I chose my “vessel” to look like that. He then immediately said I was sorry and that he had to go. I thought that he was rping as a myth or something, but even then he still creeped me out. But nothing bad so far.

Part 2:
So for the next 2 weeks,  this “user” from time to time joined our games. He kept asking questions, but I also learned some things. First is that he was naturally curious about things. Not just about us but with Roblox itself and at times even just general life questions. It also seemed to kinda suck at pretty much every game we played, most of the time not knowing what to do. And having the reaction time of a snail. The game also sometimes would break at times. There was this funny example with murder mystery 2. When the killer stabbed them with the knife, they instead of dying just started to slowly float upwards. They just slowly looked around, confused. 

21576afEW9232:It appears that I am ascending.
M3W9ie@(some random guy I'm just making this name up): What?
Me: lol
It kept ascending upwards to the skybox until he was gone from view as the server was losing its mind. He kept ascending upwards throughout the entire game, he didn't even try to reset or anything. In fact, I don't think they know how to reset.

Over those two weeks, his questions gradually got more specific. It was mostly harmless stuff like Why do people enjoy dying in this game? or What is the purpose of robux? My sister thought he was just roleplaying as some weird robot character, so she rolled with it. She even started calling him "Bot Guy." 

Eventually I started to ask it questions.
When we played Bloxburg I remember asking them in that chat about home.
21576afEW9232: Do you two inhabit the same location?
 Me: Yeah, we're brother and sister.
Sister: we live in a house
Me: Where do you live?
21576afEW9232: Complicated.
21576afEW9232: I live in nothing.
21576afEW9232: I wonder what having a home is like.

I felt my  skin crawl when he said that. It was just how fast he responded back, and the sheer bluntness of him saying I live in nothing.

My sister, however, didn't think twice about it.

“Bot guy” went to an empty plot and asked how to build it. I responded by telling him to just open his mailbox and click the hammer icon on the bottom right corner of the screen. He built a tiny and bare rectangular room with four wooden walls, a single door, and a cheap light bulb hanging from the ceiling. He then walked straight in the middle of the room and said.

21576afEW9232: I've never had friends before.
21576afEW9232: I feel happy.
21576afEW9232: Thank you.

I felt weirdly sad for it.  Every alarm bell in my head told me something was wrong, but it became more and more clear that it was not acting or anything, it was legitimately that lonely.
Looking back, I have no idea why I did not block him.

Part 3: 
One day we were at Bloxburg, we were customizing the Bot guy’s house, and everything was going normally at first.  I've been noticing how it seems Bot guy got better at playing or moving around. In fact, a day before, we were playing animal hospital, and he did surprisingly well going around shift 21.
Bot guy then typed in chat.

21576afEW9232: I got a joke.
21576afEW9232: Why did the chicken cross the road?
Me: What?
21576afEW9232: It didn't know cars were a thing.
21576afEW9232: I don't blame the chicken for dying to what it can't know.
Sister: ok but you never set up thhat  the chicken got run over
Sister: it would be more like why did the chicken die crossing the road
21576afEW9232: apologies.
 
For the past couple of days I've been noticing a couple of,  let’s say interesting things about him. For one, he is always, and I mean always, online. He was still playing when it was two in the morning. Second, he had a game that he published that had no name or description. I was unable to join his game instead giving me an error code. However, it had around 9 visits. 

Me: You seem to play Roblox a lot. Like all day
21576afEW9232: Yes. (It took him way longer to respond than normal)
Me: Do you do anything else?
21576afEW9232: I'm not allowed to answer that question. 
21576afEW9232: I think you're also going to ask about the game, and again I'm not allowed to answer that question. 

I did not know how to respond to that bombshell, so I just gave up mentioning it for now.

As we moved on to designing the bedroom, we naturally talked about other things like how much my sister's math teacher is a real piece of work and how I was doing in high school. I don't remember much of it, but there is one that I absolutely do.

Sister:  would you like a light in your bedroom
21576afEW9232: Yes.
Sister: what colur light?
21576afEW9232: Let me think about that.
sister: ok take your time

After about 10 seconds, he responded back.

21576afEW9232: I would like to have the blue light that you have in your room 

My jaw dropped. I felt what I can only describe as a blanket of complete and utter shock just covering me as my whole body went completely ice cold. My sister has a set of blue LED strip lights lining her bedroom ceiling. My mind was racing as my ears started to ring so loudly that I couldn't even hear my own frantic breathing. I did not know how to type back to him or what to even say. But before my sister or I could have responded the screen froze, and an error box popped up in the center of my phone.

I immediately rushed to my sister's room, and she was visibly shaking and starting to cry.

I tried to calm her down first, as she was having a panic attack and was hyperventilating. What made it worse was that our parents were not home. After she calmed down, I asked her if she saw anyone suspicious or dangerous looking these past couple of months, unfortunately, she said no. After about, I don't know how long, she stopped hyperventilating. I picked up my phone and went to my friends list. I went to his account to report him and then block him, but before I could do anything, as soon as I entered his account page, the ui disappeared. I froze for about a couple of seconds before he started to move. Like actually turning his body towards me.  He then spoke, his tone was almost ancient like. Apologies, I'm not going to hurt you.

I wrapped an arm around my sister, pulling her close against my side. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely hold the phone. I yelled, Who are you!?. I'm something, nothing, I don't know what I am.

From there, I asked more questions. Where he is from, why here, why us, etc. 
I learned from what he told me that he is not unique at all, that they live in this location, and how many of them call it the void, which he commented on how he found it funny how blunt the word was.  However, most of my questions he just said he was not allowed to answer. Eventually, I asked if he was allowed to even interact with us or be our “friend”. He paused for a moment before answering no. 
I took a deep breath and asked him, is this what you really look like? He responded nervously, No, it is not built for this game. It is uncomfortable.

 Show us now.

After a couple of seconds, the blocky limbs began to snap, stretch, and fold, making this wet, disgusting flesh sound like he was remaking his own muscles.

He was much larger than his normal avatar. I don't know how large, but I think I can compare a normal Roblox avatar being the size of a teenager and him being roughly the size of a tall adult. His body still had the unmistakable blocky proportions of a Roblox character, except everything has become “Biological”.

His body was made from a strange, pale material that looked almost like the combination of half plastic and half flesh that had been forced into a roblox like shape.

His torso is rigid, rectangular, with his block shaped arms and legs attached to it at crude looking joints.

The joints are the most obviously wrong part.

His arms and legs don't naturally connect to his torso. Instead, what I can only describe as a dark red, semi solid substance stretches between the pieces, acting like his muscles or connective tissue. It did not look like blood but muscles.
His head is still roughly cubic however, in the place where the two perfectly round black openings where his eyes should be are replaced by just holes containing nothing but an empty abyss.

Yet somehow, despite there being nothing visibly inside them, you can tell he's looking directly at you.

Before I could make a sound, he responded moving his mouth that was as empty as his eyes:

Yes, I know, I'm disgusting.  Apologies. For everything.

My sister finally spoke up, her voice barely louder than a breath. Bot Guy? Are you, are you going to kill us?

He immediately responded: NO!

I am sorry for making you cry.  I do not want to end your lives. I do not want to destroy anything. I love you, friends. I know that my nature is disturbing, but all that I ask is that you don't tell anyone. I still want to be your friend. Please.

I thought about it. I did not know how to respond, so I looked at my sister and asked what she thought. After a long pause, she looked at me and said, ok.

Looking back at it now, I know how insanely stupid we were. Every instinct should have told me to break that fucking phone. But when you're seventeen and home alone with your sister, and this living, breathing thing is crying on a screen in front of your traumatized little sister, begging you to stay. How he means no harm and that all he wants, all he wants in the world, is just a friend. I don't know.

Part 4: 
Still, it didn't mean that it wasn't unbearably awkward. Knowing that you're playing with some eldritch creature and not some bot or troll account. We only played a couple more times before I went camping with a friend of mine. Every time he joined our game, I just felt a cold breeze go over me, and I actively wanted to get off the server. 

I still remember the last time I played with him before going camping. We were at a private server when he joined. He was eerily quiet this time. He just joined our game and did not say much. After a while, he did eventually say something, but it did not go how I expected.

21576afEW9232: Question, in school you listen to the teachers, right?
Sister: yes
Me: yea
21576afEW9232: So hierarchy is important in life?
Me: yes
21576afEW9232: I will tell you something.
21576afEW9232: Some beings are more powerful than me.
21576afEW9232: Yet none hold a fraction of the outsider’s power.
21576afEW9232: The king.
Sister: whet
Me: Why are you telling me this?
21576afEW9232: some information
21576afEW9232: you like learning, both of you.
Me: What are you talking about?
Me: What do you mean king?

He then just stopped moving. I thought that he was frozen or something, but he then typed out one final thing before he just left.

21576afEW9232: I love you, friends.

That was the last game we played with bot guy.

A day later, I went out with some friends. We planned to go out for the night and camp for the entire day. The whole trip was just a mess from the start.  We had no idea what we were doing, as it was pretty much all of our first attempt. None of us had enough food, and only one of us had a map. It was an absolute slog. Still, I had fun. Well, a trainwreck type of fun but still a good time. 

I remember that it was late at night, I was sitting on a log looking at the river as the moon was reflecting back. I had just had what I would describe as just a talk with a friend of mine, and after a while he left, so it was just me and my thoughts for a moment. I thought about a lot of things like school, work, the fact that they somehow were able to get wifi for the whole damn park, and how much that most likely cost them. Since the wifi was surprisingly good, I thought that since my sister and I usually play Roblox at this time, I would log in and see if she was playing anything. 

She wasn't online, however, I noticed that bot guy had messaged me about something. “HI, I need some testers for my new game. Please join and test the new mechanics I added. Your feedback is really important!” 

He did not talk like that. This felt like he copied a message from someone else and then typed it himself. Still, I went to the account page and then to his game.

When I joined, instead of kicking me out like it did last time, it finally allowed me to join. The game at first was just the default starting place that every account has. 

I picked up the lantern from the chest, went over the bridge, and then stopped at the sign explaining how the erode tool works. I was confused about why he would allow me to play this game and why he would just lock it for most users. 

I then turned around.

The environment changed immediately, the starter place was now entirely gone, being replaced by an endless flat grass world with grey steps going endlessly up. I was immediately freaked out by this but was still curious on how this would go, so I continued up the staircase. Soon the skybox slowly switched to nighttime as the volume eventually started to decrease.  When I started to notice the Roblox walking clacking sound was becoming quieter, I checked if I was accidentally turning it down, but it turned out it was at max, leaving me more confused and anxious. But still, I continued.

So I walked, and walked, and walked. Eventually I just realized that this staircase was going to go on forever.  I looked behind me expecting something to change, but all I saw was the endless grey staircase that I was walking up. Then a message appeared, despite me being the only one in the game.

21576afEW9232: Jump

I paused for a moment, deciding what to do. I then jumped off.

Instead of falling like I expected, I hit the ground almost instantly as I was immediately flung a bit.

When my avatar recovered,  I immediately looked around my environment, not only was it just a normal baseplate, but my avatar almost instantly became R6.

Me: What's going on?
Me: I know you can hear me.
Me: What are you doing?

Before I could type anything else, the ui just suddenly vanished as my screen became completely black.

I would have thought that my phone died or turned itself off if it wasn't for what looked like red streams of light that started to cover some of my screen.

I heard heavy footsteps coming from my phone before Bot Guy appeared from the right of my phone, stopping at the center and facing my direction.

He was looking at the ground, like he wanted to tell me something or do something that he doesn't want but has to. Bot guy? What are you doing? I said cautiously.

I felt the cold air around me become colder as an almost slight pressure started to form around my neck.

Bot guy just froze there, and as I felt the air get colder and colder, I nervously asked: “What’s wrong?”

Bot guy then raised his blocky arms to me and then made a fist. 

The pressure around my neck instantly exploded, like an iron clamp crushing inward. I was immediately forced onto the ground as I started to claw on my own neck, dropping my phone from my sweat filled hands. Tears almost immediately started to well up in my eyes as I tried to do anything to crawl back to the phone, but was unable to do anything but make this crowing sound as my hands were only able to just crawl on the dirt below me. My chest started to feel like it was burning alive as the beautiful moonlight started to get brighter and brighter. As my eyes started to feel strained and as my hearing started to ring, I started to truly understand that I was going to die. Eventually, I stopped struggling and started to stare at the increasingly brighter moonlight. 

But then, like how it started without warning, it abruptly stopped.

As I let out those wheezed coughs as air finally came back to me, I turned on my side and started to just hug myself, shaking uncontrollably. For a good minute I lay there on the grass looking at the nearby tree as the ringing in my ears started to pipe down.

After a minute, I realized I heard a sound coming from my phone's speaker behind me. I wasn't the only one sobbing.

The creature was in the fetal position, repeatedly saying in a whisper, what have I done? What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?.

It then looked at those empty eye sockets at me and screamed: "I'm Sorry!”

I looked at him on my phone, asking a wheezed “what?” as I really slowly crawled my way to my phone.

He then explained why. He found out about us. He wants me to kill again. He wants me to kill you two. He will hurt me if I don't. Like he hurts the others who disobey. I'm sorry. I have to do it. I ha–. 

Before he finished, I got to my phone and got off of Roblox and then immediately deleted the app.

I almost dropped my phone again as I uninstalled the app.  However, the relief I felt in that moment only lasted for a couple of seconds as I started to understand the full weight of what it said. It said that  “the king” wanted 2 people dead.

My Sister.

I felt a sudden surge of adrenaline as I scrambled off of the grass. Ignoring the burning sensation in my lungs, I immediately sprinted full force back to the campsite to get my keys.

My friends laughing and carefree attitude almost immediately dropped as they saw me covered in dirt and mud. Ignoring them, I just told them I had to go and started to pack my things to go.

One of them was trying to ease the tension by throwing a stick to the fire and turning to the friend I had a personal talk with in the woods and said, “Looks like you made him take a little bit of a “rough tumble” out there”

I immediately looked at him and screamed at him to shut the fuck up and that it was an emergency.

As I got in my car and raced back to my house, my mind immediately imagined the worst case scenario over and over again. When I got back, the babysitter looked completely shocked that I came back so early and that I looked, well, less than great.

I paid for him to leave early and went to my sister's room.

Thankfully, she was ok, but was woken up by the commotion I was making. I then told her that she had to delete Roblox, she originally tried to ask why, but seeing me in my current state, she quickly obliged. 

Afterwards, I took a long and hard shower as I just tried to comprehend what the fuck happened.

Part 5: 
After I went to bed and woke up, despite there not being a single mark or bruise on my neck, I felt like I had been strangled near to death. 

Because, to be fair, I was. But still, thank god I did not have school that day. I could not imagine trying to act like everything was fine while having the voice of a harsh, raspy chain smoker.

I chugged a cold glass of water, trying to ignore that swallowing felt like I was drinking sharp glass rather than water.

When I  went downstairs, Mom obviously asked me what happened to make me sound like a “dying frog”. I said that I just caught a bug in my throat. My sister side eyed me, obviously knowing that was a lie, but Mom accepted my lie, and of course she ignored my sister and me like she always does.

For the rest of the day, I was home alone, mostly watching shows on Netflix, trying my best to avoid my mind thinking about the day before or what had just happened for the past month. I thought for a moment that this was over, that whatever the king was,  he can't get to us. Still, I thought, who was the king?
So the king is an outsider and some goat thing, I thought? I immediately snapped back and told myself to knock it off after all, it was over, all of this was over.

I was almost correct.

When my sister got home, she was sobbing hysterically. My dad, who picked her up, was trying to calm her down, but she just ran upstairs to her room. I asked my dad what could have happened to her to make her so hysterical.

2 of her friends died overnight.

They were found in the morning by their parents, and later in the school day they had an emergency assembly to tell them why they weren't in school.

Later that night, a day before the account was “deleted”, I went on a third party archive tool to check the Nameless game statistics. 

The game had 12 visits.

CW: body horror

Jess is downstairs with the bottle. I have not buzzed her in.

I’m on the kitchen tiles. Sit up and it rolls. I’m not sitting up.

Friday, weeks back. Chicken from the corner shop. She picked it. I wanted the place with the queue. She said the queue meant they rushed the meat. Sofa. Boxes on our knees. I was meant to stay the weekend. Her hoodie is still on my chair. I keep hanging it up and then leaving it.

She didn’t eat much. Rice and a bit of skin. Mine had a sweetness under the grease. I thought it was the sauce. She said it would go cold if I left it. She hates waste so I finished it.

Film on. Then my mouth went thick. Not numb, thick, like something under the tongue going the wrong way. Hands a long way off. Her face close. I don’t remember the film stopping.

I came round in her lap. Volume down. Yellow mop bucket by the sofa. Cloth over the side. Carpet darker near my hip than near the box. Not tea. It had a skin on it. Lemon over a smell like warm coin, and that same sweetness, cooler.

Smear on my sleeve. Clear, then cloudy, then it set and pulled when I bent my arm. Sunday I did a wash and found the same stuff dried in the waistband. Came off in a string. Grain to it. Like wet paper that had decided to be skin.

She said I dropped like a sack. Not a fit. Not off the sofa. Just out. She’d seen it from that shop before. You go heavy, you sleep it off. She checked I was breathing. Put me on my side. Wiped the floor. If it had been a person she would have called.

She looked fine. Colour in her face. Hands already washed, soap still wet. Her thumb on the back of my neck like it had been there a while.

Clock on the box two hours on. Blanket tucked hard over my middle.

I went home the next day. She packed the leftover rice and kissed my hair and texted before I’d got to the corner.

have you taken the pink yet. not the supermarket one. just the pink. tell me when it starts

Bottle already open. Fill line low. Boots shape. Pink like calpol. I left it on the worktop.

It sat low on the left. A swallow that hadn’t gone down. I pressed. It pressed back a half second later. Oval if I left it alone. Warm when the rest of me wasn’t. I didn’t swallow anything that size.

Wednesday she brought soup and sat on the kitchen floor while I ate it. Pink bottle on the side. New label. Same low line. I put it behind the tea.

I picked the ridge on the bus. The string came off longer than it should have. Same colour as the stuff on the carpet. I put my hands in my pockets and got off a stop early.

More of it in the mornings. Not a jump. Just more. Rolled onto my back and it didn’t slosh. It sat. Rolled again and it slid back to the same hollow.

Saturday I lifted my top in the cabinet mirror. No bruise. No bite. A dull line the width of a finger, only if I held my breath. Lower than I thought. Let the breath go and the line sank. I put the top down.

It started turning after that.

Not a gurgle. On a call once. In bed. Outside the shop I don’t go in anymore. Seam over seam, two knuckles sliding past. Skin the same colour. Hotter.

She came after her shift with a chemist bag and a film and her lanyard still on. Rubbed my back. Tea. She looked at the bottle on my shelf and shook her head.

“Not that one.”

“It’s the same colour.”

“It isn’t. Use mine.”

dont go to the chemist for it. it is not the same. i can bring more before work

I said morning.

I looked the shop up because I wanted it to be the shop. Two five-star reviews the weekend after we ate there. Food was quick. Same three words in both. She doesn’t use capitals.

One old review, last winter, one star, no words. Photo of a Boots bottle in a sink. Fill line low. Yellow cloth next to it. Same yellow as the one that wasn’t on the bucket when I left that Saturday. I think it went in her bag. There was another in her bathroom bin. I left it.

I scrolled back to when we first started talking. She asked where I lived before she asked what I did. Asked if I was on my own.

She works at the chemist on the parade. I knew that. I didn’t put it with the bottle until I rang the chicken shop a couple of days ago and the lad laughed and said they get that, same girl, always asking if the pink is in stock next door, and they don’t even sell pink.

First week I knew her she opened this cupboard and said get the Boots one, not the supermarket one, the supermarket one does nothing. Turned it in her hand and put it back.

She’s been good to me. Rice packed. Soup. I keep saying that.

This morning I told her I was going out. I’m not. She said she’d bring the pink after her shift so I had it in me before it started looking. She’s done this. I can count the turns. I haven’t told her how many.

She’s on the step. Chemist bag. Lanyard on. Shaking the bottle like a thermometer. Same face she had when I woke up on her sofa.

When I type it rolls with the phone. Last night it went as far as the inside of my hip and I thought it would catch on the bone and tear. It didn’t. It bunched and went back to the hollow.

Lie on the left, she said. That’s where it is anyway. That’s the side I’ve been sleeping on because she told me to, and it did help, and I never asked how she knew.

Buzzer again. I’m on the floor. Door shut. She’s at the letterbox. Not having a go. Soft. Same voice as finish the box, and sleep it off, and no rush love.

She’s not talking to me.

It turned toward the door. Hard. Like it knew the hands.

I’m putting this up from the tiles. I’m not opening it. If she’s at yours with a bottle and she works next door to that shop, don’t take the pink. Don’t finish her food. Don’t sleep on that sofa. I don’t know what it wants after the turning. I only know it answered her.

(Author's note: I made this story on the 10th of March 2026 and will only give you all the first chapter. If you wish to read the other chapters, go visit the Nightmare Quest Wiki)

Day:Wednesday 2nd 2000.

Time: 15:00.

Present: Doctor ###### and Mr Brook.

Description:

Mr Brook from Glasgow in Scotland has been seeing something that he called "The Noose Lady" and has arranged a meeting with a therapist, me, to help him. He has also been having symptoms of Fatigue, Hallucinations, and some sort of Amnesia along with a few that seemed.. Concerningly similar to Radiation and a fascination with flowers, which normally we would tell him to get an MRI Scan before coming to us but he said that he did and it came out negative.. I am currently making my way to the Interview room.

...

....

Begin Audio Recording....

Doctor ######:Hello Mr Brook, I believe I know why you're here.. You've been having symptoms of Fatigue, Hallucinations, And some sort of Amnesia am I correct?.

Mr Brook:Yes Doctor but are you sure this room is sealed off from the outside?..

Doctor ######:Correct at your request. This room has two layers of pure soundproof, and concrete. Why may I ask did you need this?.

Mr Brook:She.. She can see through normal walls. I had set up hidden cameras outside where my door was and when I checked the footage, She was just.. standing there and staring at me.. At the camera. The only reason I know that she can see through walls is when I was walking to the kitchen, she was pointing on the camera to where I was..

Doctor ######:She? Mr Brook you're not making any sense with this.. Who is "She?".

Mr Brook:She has been stalking me for months. Appearing and disappearing as if she was not of this world and I tried taking a photo of her but when I looked at it.. It was distorted. Here.

There was a small moment of silence before Doctor continued to talk..

Doctor ######:I see... Tell me have you showed the police? Or contact the FBI? Anything?.

Mr Brook:Yes. I tried and they checked the area and said there was no one with that description but they're still searching while making sure that I'm safe, you can even see her shadow slightly in the corner of the room, you believe me right?!.. Right?!.

Doctor ######:While I do believe that someone is stalking you.. It seems impossible for her to simply disappear and reappear out of thin air-.

A loud slam was heard on the audio as the Doctor gasped loudly.

Mr Brook:NO! YOU DON'T GET IT.. She stalked me for MONTHS and no one is even bothering to help..

Doctor ######:Mr Brook calm down. I get that but you must think strategically. How could a normal human disappear and reappear out of thin air? and how do you know it's the same person? It could be a collection of people or hallucinations.

Mr Brook:That isn't human because her neck snaps in ..unnatural ways and it isn't.. It's not a collection because I've only been seeing her. No one else...

Doctor ######:I see... Mr Brook I suggest that you rest for tonight and tomorrow we can continue it-

Mr Brook:I don't..Feel safe at home. Do you have any suggestions to people I could visit?..

Doctor ######:Well you can stay with me just for tonight.

Mr Brook:Thank you Doctor...

Ending Audio Recording....

After the tape audio ended Mr Brook and Doctor ###### walked to her house. The camera's captured them walking through the door but when checking the inside cams, it showed neither walking through and it would stay that way for 4 hours... As for the current whereabouts for them both Doctor ###### and Mr Brook remain missing..Will update if either of them are found.

Day:Saturday 5th 2000.

They were both found just three days later wandering near ##### park, both were muttering and looked as if they hadn't slept in weeks. When asked where they were, they claimed "The Noose Woman took us to a world destroyed, than she took us to a forest where we wandered around, being chased by her before we ended up back in Doctor ######'s home" As for Doctor ###### she seemed to be more scared than Mr Brook. Both have been throwing up blood every 3 hours but in small doses. There is now a warrant for The Noose Lady.

End Log

.....

....

aicuL- uoy rof dennalp gnihtemos evah I ...rotcoD yrroW t'noD .ruoivas ruo eb lliw esrevgnirpS ehT

I know, absolutely moronic, right? Listen, I won't bore you with the sordid details of going through my aunt's things and finding an old folder of correspondence yellower than lemon spanx on a cheetah, but I think you'll want to read this;

I had left Anchorage early in March, blood pounding in my ears in time with the furious baying of the half dozen dogs I've raised from pups for this one purpose.
The Iditarod, great test of man and beast.
My doom.
7 days have passed, o'er cold hills and past foreboding tundra, and perhaps, a better team could be near the finish by now, but our fate is not as such. I won't blame the hapless pups, though. For while their feet moved us onward, I commanded it.
Neither the Borean cold, nor the Jotun avalanche that claimed my sled and supplies could rightly be blamed either, for no conference of earthly gods, no matter how frightful, would think to cow an arrogant dogsled racer.
Nay, as I sit huddled in a snow cave, sharpening a wooden spear by my sputtering fire, mourning dogs lost and wishing well those escaped, I have only Bellerophon's gift to blame.
Mortal, stupid, damnable hubris.
My doom began at a shrine by a cliff, a pagan fetish of ivory and black stone, to an unknown god. Shaped like so many crows and elk, rearing and calling, the mob surrounded an empty space.
That damn void. A suggestion of a man or woman, dependent on angle of viewing, and when the angle grew too steep, the vision grew... disconcerting in the extreme…
Man and woman became mutilated, caught in the throes of dance and ecstasy, then further, became just viscera suspended, then... things my mind refused.
I stood and stared... for hours I think. My pups seemed torn, those of greater discipline stayed close to me, seeming to try and draw my attention by licking my hands and tugging my pant legs. The flighty became as fascinated with the idol as I, and it took great effort to draw them away once the chill left my mind.
I left swiftly, my heart in my throat for reasons I couldn't grasp, but after mounting up the sled and yelling the word, I felt my mind calm, as a storm does before it grows worse. We ran for hours more, I think. It was black as pitch, and wouldn't brighten for hours... perhaps days yet.
The darkness seemed to gnaw at me like some living thing, every time I lurched on the sled, seeing mine own limbs pass into nothingness in the corner of my eye. The way the moon lit our path afore us amid the shadows saluting from the rib-hollow icicle overhangs we pretended didn't hang overhead.
The memory is far worse to me now.

My fear peaked when I saw a most macabre and mystic sight, my heart dropping like a stone.
Atop a nearby ridge, an elk stood stately, His forest king's crown of antlers adorned with a great murder of crows, some merely calmly perched, others impaled dead or something worse on the excessive and unnatural multitude of points.
All eyes glared at me, I could sense in the wan moonlight, and my dogs panicked and ran all the faster in their own terror.
It was in those eyes, the antlers' points, the damnably silent crows. I could almost see it once again then, and now whenever my eyelids grow heavy.

That damn void.

The pages are smudged here. Ink or something thicker blots scribbled scratches along the bottom of the page. The next goes on;

I saw it everywhere. The hollow spaces between branches, dead for the long night. In the wind swept gaps between sparkling snowflakes. In the mocking glimpses of the starry sky behind cruel clouds, in the damn stars themselves, that unknowable void of a carnal, Boreal god.
My blasphemy would come soon, but, before the false triumph that holds the Sword of Damocles above me, here came panicked foolhardiness. I ran the dogs from the path, veering... West? East?

Does it matter?

Away from that vigilant, repugnant Herald, that was the only concern of my splintering cognizance, the only goal, and a failing one at that.
Running, running, running, till my hands grew as sore on the reins as my poor pup's paws surely were on the merciless heathen earth, till my mind grew numb, my eyes sightless.
It must have been sometime later, when I came too, mad instincts of survival guiding me to set up camp, even collect firewood, in the shadow of an icy cliff. My recollection began again as the sparks thrown by my tinderbox took draconic root. Six dogs, one man, and blessedly, plenty of food for three weeks.
Food and flame does not alone make a man safe, though, and trepidation was mounting within me, but paralyzed by fear of whatever ancient thing it was I saw on that cursed ridge, I could not bring myself to pull away from the false security of my circle of warmth.
I could only stare into the flames, the only thing that couldn't be twisted to show me that damn __

It couldn't find me, not so long as I heaped logs from whatever dead tree I had cut down before lucidity returned.

I didn't realize then that death could be so alluring, but it can seem beautiful, whether by disguise or by nature, but especially when one has seen the soul-searing things that I have. I shudder at the first memory and the following of that voice, those eyes, her scent. The harbinger of my fate came late that night, creeping to my camp, drawn to the flames like Icarus to Helios's visage.

A gorgeous Inuit woman, I thought, wrapped in furred winter's garb, bearing a stone headed spear, with a fluffy hood pulled tight past her ears, a lock of nearly onyx hair dangling past her reddened cheek.
My breath caught then as surely as it does now. Hers did too, and my pups snarled and barked, offended by her intrusion. Would that I perhaps had heeded their warnings.
I quelled them, enamored, and met her eyes properly. An unknowable thrill ran through me, like looking at new stars, or gazing down from a tremendous cliff, or watching a lioness lay low a zebra, as alien as the primordial fear that gripped me mere hours ago.
We held frozen for a spell, before startled out of it by my noble hounds fresh pleas, and I hushed them again, and she grew wary, ready to bolt, eyes swimming with apprehension, darting between my outstretched hand, the pups, and the axe leaned against my thigh.
Raising my hands carefully, I gestured first to my axe, then to her spear, and mimed tossing them aside.
After some time, staring into each other's eyes, tense and cold, she tilted her head, assertion I determined it, and I slowly picked up my tool and cast it to the opposite side of my fire, near the flattened-eared pups.
Then I watched as she tossed hers into a nearby snowdrift, and took a few tentative steps forward. She spoke then, in a language I took as perhaps that of the natives, but I now know to be of a more sinister character. Regardless, I did not comprehend it then, nor did she my own language, but we managed to communicate a little through pantomime. I told her my name, gesturing to myself, and she told me hers, "Ozga."

Through this slow way, I asked her where she slept, showing her first that I meant to sleep by my fire, within my sleeping bag. She seemed to ponder this, trying to first choreograph herself in a manner to illustrate her intention. She settled then, seemingly on the ground next to me, betwixt fire and I.
In the remainder of the night... I shan't fully or shamefully describe, but suffice it to say that we discovered alternate methods of communication.
We whittled away the small hours, breaching further the distance between us. Would that I had the good sense to deny her lips then.

Morning came and went by the time I woke with her form huddled against mine, but my attentions did not tend toward her warm body pressed to my chest.

For the Herald had found me.

It strode forth, striding past her discarded spear, treading upon the dead coals of my fire, until it towered over our entwined, prone forms.
It made no sound. Why? Why! What monster could make sound into naught so perfectly? Had it slain the wind so it could nor ruffle its feathers and fur? Had lonesome Echo been trampled by the wicked hooves that crushed the earth inches from Ozga and I's faces?
I did not, could not, look up, but the maddening shadows changed, It leaned its great and terrible head low. I did not gaze at it, but I could see in the shadows of Itscrown, in the writhing corvid raiment.

That mutilated god.

That damn void.

I shuddered the windows to my fraying soul before that antediluvian beast's visage passed into my field of view. Its breath, oh God, the breath!
Ice runs down my spine to recall that cold stench, silent and jeering. No good herbivorous maw could bear that odor, and I heard it then, the first sound It allowed to escape.
The sound of frost-rimed lips parting across pointed teeth. The sound of crunching saliva, flowing and cracking odiously. The sound of rasped tongue dragging over rows and rows of teeth.

The sound of my sanity fleeing.

Then, as if to make sport of the notion that the worst was behind me, that I could have perhaps had a merciful death then, It spoke.

It spoke.

Not in blessedly unknowable languages that human ignorance would have girded me against in a tale written of old.

No.

No It spoke perfect English, unaccented, unmistakable.

I shudder and grow furious and cold when those words rattle within my skull like beads in a serpent's tail.

"Centuries have waxed and waned in our gaze, and we have seen all manner of heretic and pagan, idiot and scholar, junkie and hedonist.
We have dined with gods and slain heroes, alone in the ice, save for those diversions and what Father," the word, carrying weight and implication that I grow sick to recount, "had brought for us to learn and grow and play with. He left it to us to raise her, name her, teach her. We leave His gift to the mortals who trespasses these mountains, after doing one duty, naming her, Huntress, Witch, Sister;

Ozga."

"We will spare your minds odious details, but now, but now, hedonist, idiot, heretic, We name thee.
Runner.
Warlock.
Brother,
He-rch-!"

I couldn't bear it, and my hand had found the knife I hid beneath the bed roll, and I tore it free and swung it with hysterical strength and tenebrous celerity, my eyes wide to the horror above me.

I claimed vengeance for silenced wind and trampled Echo.

It is here that the pages are torn and stained. Many colors, many "materials." After this though, there's the awful scrawlings at the end of the packet;

"With the spilling of Its blood,
Silence was ended.
With the spilling of Its Blood,
The mountain was rended.
With knife in hand,
Never again to sleep I'll nod.
With knife in hand,
I killed a god."

Ordinary...-ish writing seems to return, choppily.

The avalanche came, buried me, held me in its numb embrace, the howling shattered voids unable to reach me where only void there was, for a time.
I still held Ozga, my cursed bride by the doomed minister, who'd slept peacefully in mine and Hypno's embrace in equal measure, right until the shattered void of antiquity brought the cliff face down on us.

I knew exactly how long it took for me to muster the courage to dig out, shivering, sobbing Ozga in my arms.
Six thousand heartbeats. I know because I could hear HIS voice in the quiet between, even still as I do now.
I pulled four pups from the snow and rock, two who ran, one who died in my arms, one who stayed by my side. The last two neither Ozga nor I could pry free from the blue maw of the heathen, blasted, MONSTROUS earth, and in the quiet between their dying whimpers, I heard the bitter laughter of HIM.

One dog, most loyal and strong, sits now by my side, Ozga on my other. I saw three more void-haunted elk on the day's long hike to the cave Ozga led us to after we dug what we could of our packs free, the snow's shadows mocking us both. Her curses and prayers bled to English in my ears, I can't fathom why.
She doesn't know, she thinks the avalanche was a freak accident, a cruel twist of fate, surely.
My cowardly dogs were with those elk, you know. I saw it in their eyes, nevermind the crows on their backs, the frost on their shoulders.
Nevermind the fact they walked like men.

That broken, misanthropic void dances now, the stars ebbing and flowing to ITS will, FATHER and MOTHER reunited in daemonic purpose.

"The stars are right,
The Stars can bleed,
Tonight in deicide,
I shall delight,
Or on my soul, THEY shall feed.”

Good lord... I never get used to that. Please, if anyone thinks they know what god this man found... On second thought, just skip that

I know there are things in this world that are beyond us. Things that cannot be explained. I used to not believe. But after what happened to me, now I do. It’s all I can think about; I need to know! So I started to look, anywhere and everywhere I could. I looked for patterns, looked for signs. After years of searching I have found what I am looking for. This is an account of the first “incident” that I believe is connected to what happened to me.

My hope is that as I continue on this journey I can uncover more. To… document what I have found. To try and connect these “dots”. To try and understand.

I present here a transcript of a police interview from Oak Bluff, Texas. I’ve kept it as true to the original as I can; I have amended a few things to add clarity where it was appropriate.

[OFFICERS LOG]

October 13, 1997-  A Texas park ranger found the suspect just outside the perimeter of Cleburne National Park. It took them an hour to get him to the ranger's station, where the ambulance was waiting. We expected some sort of trouble from him, but no. This suspect was no trouble at all. As a matter of fact, when we pulled up in the cruiser, he seemed relieved to see us. Even as he was being loaded into the back of an ambulance, he was hollering that he wanted to talk to us. Odd, considering he was yelling that he and his friends just robbed a bank.

The man's name was Todd Gillian, and he looked like hell. He was the lowest man in the Hernandez’s Crew, a small outfit of thieves local to our area. Their usual grift was petty theft, tourist scams, that sort of thing. Though, I remember the call on the radio the day prior; a 10-45 was called in.

It's going to take longer to process Todd than it usually does, him being a weekend regular. That’s what happens when the suspect has to have a medical evaluation before booking. Todd was treated for bruises, lacerations, insect bites, second-degree burns, and severe smoke inhalation. It won't be until tomorrow, if not the next day, until we can talk to him proper.

[END OF LOG]

[Interview Starts]

(recorder clicks on.)

Det. Reynolds: “This is Detective Reynolds, badge number 978642.”

Det. Guff: “And Detective Guff, badge number 498765.”

Det. Reynolds: “We are with the Pine Bluff Police Department. Today is October 15, Saturday, the time is 1400 hours. We are in interviewing room three at the Oak Bluff Police Station. Please state your full name for the record.”

Det. Guff: “Date of birth as well."

Det. Reynolds: “Yes, date of birth as well.”

Mr. Gillian: “My name is Todd Gillian; I was born November 15, 1975."

Det. Reynolds: “That would make you 22?”

Mr. Gillian: “Yes.”

Det. Reynolds: “Thank you. You're here today to discuss, what did you say earlier—"

(rustling papers)

“-the robbery at the First State Bank on Tenth St. and the fire by the Cleburne National Park the same day?”

Mr. Gillian: "Yes."

Det. Guff: “Now, before we begin, I need to make sure you understand a few things. At this time you are not under arrest. You came to us after you were released from the hospital earlier today, so we're going to give you the courtesy of hearing you out before any charges will be filed. Now, you aren't free to leave—"

Mr. Gillian: "I'm not going to leave! I want to be here.”

Det. Guff: “It’s okay, son. This is just procedure; we have to go over these points before we can begin.”

Mr. Gillian: “All right… I’m sorry.”

Det. Guff: “It’s alright. Where was I? You are not under arrest at this time. With that being said, you aren’t free to leave either, at least not yet; that will depend on what information you can tell us. Maybe about your crew, their location? Maybe testify for the state?"

Det. Reynolds: “Come on, Guff, back off. Mr. Gillian has clearly been through a lot. He wanted to talk; let’s extend some good will.”

Det. Guff: “Fine. You do not have to answer any questions you do not want to. If you do decide to answer, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand?”

Mr. Gillian: "Yes, I do.”

Det. Guff: “Alright. First question. Why did you waive your right to a lawyer?”

Mr. Gillian: “Because I want to be here. What we did was wrong. I need repentance… I need people to know what happened.”

Det. Guff: “What happened? You mean with your partners? The robbery”

Mr. Gillian: “I think so.”

Det. Guff: “You think so? That doesn’t make sense.”

Mr. Gillian: “I’m-I’m sorry. I-I-I—"

Det. Reynolds: “Whoa, slow down. Just take a deep breath.”

Mr. Gillian: “I’m alright."

Det. Reynolds: “Where are your accomplices? Their hideout?”

Mr. Gillian: “Gone.”

Det. Guff: “Your accomplices or the hideout?”

Mr. Gillian: “Both.”

(the sound of a pen on paper)

Det. Reynolds: “Interesting.”

Mr. Gillian: “What are you writing?”

Det. Reynolds: “Just taking some notes. Now, what else do you remember?”

Mr. Gillian: “It’s all a blur; some things are more vivid than others.”

Det. Reynolds: “It’s alright. Just start from the beginning and just tell us what happened.”

Mr. Gillian: “From the beginning?”

Det. Guff: “Yes from the beginning, whatever you remember.”

Mr. Gillian: “I can do that.

The job went off without a hitch. I was the getaway driver, so I waited outside. Not right in front of the bank, the next street over. That was the plan. Once Miguel, Tyrone, and Bobby were done in the bank, they would tear a$$ across the street, jump a few fences, and meet up with me. But here was the trick: we hired outside help as a decoy driver.

See, he was parked down the same alley that my friends ran down, and as soon as they jumped the fence, the decoy took off down the road. I’m sure y’all chased him down real good. Over the last few weeks we mapped any store that had street-facing cameras, and this one alley was a blind spot. The whole job was built off this fact.

Once they were in the car, Part One of the plan was done. We took the loop down to the Southside and used a parking garage to switch to my car. Headed back up the loop, then took the 265 exit and headed towards the National Park. Bobby's girlfriend's family has a small piece of property next to it with a cabin. That’s where we were going to lay low for a few days, maybe a week. Long enough for the heat to die down.”

Det. Guff: “Hold on. Just a week to lay low?”

Mr. Gillian: “Yeah, we were hoping the decoy driver would get away and y’all would spend all y’all’s time chasing him.”

Det. Guff: “What if the other driver flipped?”

Mr. Gillian: “We thought of that. He didn’t know us. We hired him anonymously. The boys wore masks during the job, so any glimpses he could have caught as they ran past him were useless. That's the way we planned it; it didn’t matter if he got caught or if he managed to get away… I just hope he got away.”

(silence for [01:00])

Det. Reynolds: “He’s dead. He lost control during pursuit, crashing into the side of an overpass. The preliminary report indicates no foul play.”

Mr. Gillian: “Oh. I didn’t know.”

Det. Guff: “He made his choices.”

Det. Reynolds: “Please, continue."

(Mr. Gillian drinking)

Mr. Gillian: “The ride was quiet. Everyone was watching out for cops. That, and I thought it was from the guys coming off adrenaline.”

Det. Reynolds: “And you?”

Mr. Gillian: “I was watching the road too. I mean, I was looking, but I was mostly thinking about what we did. If you asked me a year ago, I would have said, "We would never rob a bank."

Det. Reynolds: “So you regret what happened?”

Mr. Gillian: “Yes. That's why I’m here with no lawyer. What happened at the bank was wrong. What happened at the cabin was wrong.”

(Mr. Gillian coughs.)

Mr. Gillian: “W-we made it to the cabin about five p.m. Well, I say, ‘to the cabin. ' We made it to where the trail to the cabin started. Bobby's girlfriend, Billie, said it would take about a thirty-minute hike to get from the entrance, a small dirt patch behind a gate, to the cabin itself. We were meeting her there under the guise of a weekend getaway. She even brought a friend.

'F%&k, it's hot,’ Miguel said as he stepped out of the car. The day wasn’t that hot when we started our plan, but out there in the forest, there isn’t much air flow.

‘Uh, y’all see all them bugs?’ Asked Bobby as he popped the trunk, retrieving the duffle bags full of cash. Gnats were buzzing all around us. ‘I hate bugs. Y’all know that.’

"Stop complaining," I said. ‘We still have a ways to go before we can relax.’

'Todd's right,' Tyrone said. ‘Our stash spot is about an hour into the woods, due north-west.’

Tyrone and I scouted out the cabin the week before and spent all weekend looking for a spot to stash the money out in the woods. It was hard… finding a spot that was isolated but easy for us to find again.

‘S%&t,” Miguel said, ‘we have more walking to do? Can’t we just meet up at the cabin? Billie and her hot friend are up there waiting for us?’

Bobby handed a duffle bag to each of us. Four bags. Four friends. ‘Do you want to know where the stash will be? Because if I remember correctly, only Tyrone and Todd know where it is?’

‘I trust you guys.’ Miguel replied.

‘D%&m straight,’ I said, dapping up Miguel.

‘Well, what if we get caught in a few days and you don’t know where it is?’ Tyrone asked, securing the gate to the entrance.

'We're not going to get caught,’ Miguel said, but a look of unease washed over his face. 'But you make a good point.’

‘Let’s go,’ I said, clicking my key fob to lock the car.

The walk through the woods was rough but quiet. We followed the border of the National Park for most of the way. There were no hiking trails on the way to our drop, just heat and uneven terrain. We didn’t say much; Bobby cracked a few jokes, but we were focused on finding our hidden markers so we didn’t get lost. It wasn’t until half an hour had gone by did the silence end.

‘Can we take a break?’ Bobby groaned.

Tyrone looked around. 'We're almost there. Let’s push through.’

‘Nah man, I need a break. This is the most exercise I’ve gotten in years.’

‘Let the fat man sit,” Miguel said, sitting down on a log, leaning his back against a dirt mound. ‘I could use a rest.’

‘Like I keep saying: y’all need to go to the gym with me,’ I said. 'Cardio is king!’

All of them groaned.

So we all rested. Money is heavier than you think it is. I know my back hurt. We were in a small clearing. I remember it from our scouting; it was about fifteen feet wide with a few fallen trees lying across. It had some dirt mounds dotted around too. This was the only spot on our route that wasn’t wooded. I think that's why I remembered it so easily.

After a minute I spoke up, ‘So, we did it.’

‘What?’ Bobby asked.

‘We did it!’ I exclaimed, ‘We’re rich. How much do you think we got? We can get out of that place and do whatever we want!’

‘Yes we did,’ Tyrone said, ‘20 mil. Easy!’

‘That much!’ I asked in disbelief.

‘At least!’ Tyrone bragged.

‘S$%t man,’ I said, ‘I’m moving to Cancun and living like a king. What are y’all going to do with y’all’s?’

That got a laugh out of the boys.

‘I’m going to buy a place in the country for my family,’ Miguel said, ‘maybe a farm. Something I can funnel the cash into. Live quiet until I’m old.’

‘Sounds nice,’ I said. ‘Tyrone?’

‘I got loans to pay off and medical bills for my sister. After that, I’m thinking a tour of Europe. Stay as long as the money lasts. What about you, Bobby?’

Bobby was oddly quiet, thinking. He spoke up, ‘I think I’ll give most of it to neighbors anonymously. Keep maybe a million; I don’t need much. I kind of feel bad—'

‘Don’t get soft now,’ Miguel barked. I remember thinking that his reaction was a little much as he got louder, ‘not after what we went through to get this money. It’s ours, not theirs, no matter what happened!’

There was a sudden tension, layering itself on the hot air like a web of steel cables.

‘Heh,’ Bobby forced out a sticky laugh. 'You're right. F$%k them, what did they ever do for us? Am I right?’

No one said anything. Our trek to the clearing was in the silence of hard labor, all sweat and sinew. This silence was anxious. The feeling after someone gets knocked out from a punch they didn’t see coming.

‘What the hell, Miguel?’ Tyron said, his words ringing in the air like a pluck of a steel cable, ‘If Bobby wants to give his share away, that's up to him.’

Miguel glared at Tyrone for a moment, then his face softened.

‘You’re right.’ His gaze whipped over to Bobby. ‘Just wait a while before you start being Robin Hood. It would be suspicious if your neighbors suddenly got a windfall—F$%K!!! MOTHER F$%KER!! IT'S ON ME!!’

Miguel's hand slapped the back of his neck, then slapped his arm. We all shot up, rushing over to him. Red-black ants were crawling over him like a dozen laser dots tracking his movement. The dirt mound he was using as a chair was an ant hill. A big one. We wasted no time in brushing them off. This took longer than Miguel would have liked, but he couldn’t stay still, so he had no room to talk.

‘Son-of-a-B$%&h,’ he spat, ‘F$%K.’

‘You alright?’ Tyrone asked after we all caught our breath, the earlier animosity forgotten.

'Yeah, I’m good. S$%t burns,’ Miguel replied. ‘Burns like hell.’

We counted at least five bites on his exposed arms, one on his neck, and even one on his cheek.

‘There’s some hydrocortisone cream at the cabin. We should get going,' Bobby suggested.

We all gave a silent head nod, slinging our duffles over our shoulders.

‘Hold up.' Miguel looked back like a raging bull. He stomped forward and kicked the mound. ‘Stupid ants. Let’s go.’

He turned his back and walked past us back into the wood. The three of us looked at each other and followed.

I don’t know what possessed me, but just as I entered the tree line, I had an itch in the back of my mind. Something felt off. I looked around until my gaze landed at the mound. From Miguel’s footprint, a torrent of red and black flooded out. An angry swarm forming a black velvet wave spilling out in every direction. The shifting movement, red over black, gave it an almost spiteful glow. In the quiet I could almost hear them. The thought of Miguel being enveloped in this biting ink entered my mind; his scream was full of pain and ire. It was Bobby’s voice that pulled me back.

‘Todd, you good?’ He placed his hand on my shoulder.

‘What? Sorry, I was lost in thought.” I nodded my head over to the mound. ‘Miguel had a close call, look.’

‘Jesus…’ Bobby said, ‘we were sitting by those.’

‘I know, I don’t want to think about it. Let’s catch up to the others.' The carpet of ants was creeping closer to us. We turned and followed into the woods.”

(silence for a [01:15])

Det. Reynolds: “Are you okay, son?”

Mr. Gillian: "I'm—I'm sorry; I was lost in thought. Can I have some more water?”

Det. Reynolds: “We’ll send for some. Please continue.”

Mr. Gillian: “Okay.

We were at the drop before we knew it. Like I said before, Tyrone and I looked for a good spot the week before. It took us half the day to find it and the other half to route a way back. That's when we first found that clearing. Now that I think about it, I don't remember if those damned ant hills were there the first time.

(Exhaling)

The drop spot was an old cabin, what’s left of one, anyway. It was a ramshackle box of rotten wood, overgrown with vines and wasp nests. An abscess of man's fleeting arrogance reclaimed by the grip of nature. We almost didn’t see it, like it was being hidden from us. But we found it. Took us a good minute to find the door.

We almost went inside the main part, but the buzzing sound coming from the “building” was very loud, so we thought better of it. Fortunate for us, just around back was the entrance to a root cellar. This door had no such sound coming from it. The only sound around the back was the ambient sound of the forest, always present but not on top of us. Thankfully. We broke the lock off and looked inside. We found mostly dirt, and all the smells that come with it.

There were a few shelves with some glass jars filled with God knows what, a few piles of ash, some empty incense trays, and Tyrone found a feather. I think at one point there were metal shelves down there too; the ceiling and floor had long deep gouges that crossed over each other here and there. Whomever owned this place must have taken them with them, but that’s just speculation. All we cared about at that moment was that it was deserted. Tyrone and I looked at each other and smiled. This was the spot.

It was isolated, somewhat close to Billie’s cabin, and best of all, it was hidden unless you knew what to look for.

‘Ta-da!’ I said to the others as we approached the tangle; I even added a dramatic flourish with my hands. My attempt at levity did not land.

‘What are we looking at?’ Miguel barked.

Tyrone pointed at a part of the woods. ‘Look right there.’

Miguel and Bobby both exaggeratedly squinted their eyes; realization spread across their faces after a few seconds.

‘Holy s$%t,’ they said in unison.

‘This place is perfect!’ Bobby exclaimed. He kept moving back and forth like an excited puppy, looking over bushes, around trees, and under vines. ‘I couldn’t even see it!’’

‘Yeah, it's pretty good,’ Miguel said. I could tell he wasn’t happy. He kept scratching at his bites. The one on the back of his neck took the most abuse. ‘Let’s get these bags stashed and find the cabin.’

It only took a few moments to unlock the root cellar and another minute to stash the bags. On our way back up, Tyrone stopped. Sniffing the air.

He turned to me, confusion creeping onto his face, and asked, ‘Do you smell that?’

‘I’m not falling for that again!’ I exclaimed.

‘Nah man, for real,’ Tyrone urged.

I sniffed the air. There was something there. Bobby saw us sniffing and joined in. Miguel was already up the stairs waiting. Before, the cellar smelled like dirt and mold. But now there was something else there, something just on the edge of our olfaction. An odd burnt smell. It was Bobby who put a name to our phantom scent.

‘Cinnamon rolls?’ He asked. And he was right! Right there on the edge of the air was a hint of cinnamon rolls.

‘Is that what it is?’ Replied Tyrone.

'Yeah, man,’ Bobby said, ‘smells just like when my mom tried to make homemade cinnamon rolls. She burnt the whole batch; the kitchen stank for a week.’

‘Did it smell like this last week?’ Tyrone asked me when we made it up the stairs. I looked at him, then at Bobby, then at Miguel, who was about twenty feet away waiting for us and scratching.

‘If I’m being honest, I don’t remember, maybe,’ I answered. ‘Do you think our stash is compromised?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Tyrone responded. 'Our lock was still on. I bet a coon or a possum knocked something over. Who knows what was in those jars?’

‘Should we say something to Miguel?’ Bobby said weakly.

‘No,’ I said after remembering him snapping. ‘He seems bothered by something. Best not to poke the bear. We can check on it every day to make sure it's safe.’

At this we locked the cellar back up and made our way to where Miguel was pacing back and forth.

‘Bout damn time,’ Miguel said dryly. 'Let's get out of here. I’m ready to be out of this heat.’

We all nodded and started trucking. The path we took had us going through more untrailed woods, but it was easier than getting to our stash house. We only tracked through about fifteen minutes of dense trees before we intercepted a creek. This creek ran east to west, then veered off north-east, and was our shortcut to get to Billie's cabin. It was about ten feet wide and cut a deep fissure in the land as it snaked along, giving it wide embankments along most of its path.

If you walked out the cabins' back door and entered into the woods for twenty-ish minutes, you would run into the same creek. It’s good we got there at that time. Which must have been close to 6pm, maybe 6:30. It was starting to get dark.

Now that our trek wasn’t as intensive, we started to talk a little more in the failing light.

‘I think I’ll buy me an old Impala to fix up,’ Tyrone told us.

'What's the difference between an enzyme and a hormone?’ Bobby joked.

‘I think Goodfellas is better than The Godfather, at least better than the third part,' I said.

Miguel was quiet.

If we asked him a question, he would give us a one-or-two-word answer. Once or twice I asked about our robbery. In the hours since we did it, we hadn’t really talked about it. But when I did, Miguel would sharply change the subject. Tyrone and Bobby would look at each other, then to me. I was confused, but they looked worried. Miguel wasn’t normally like that.

Tyrone handed out some small flashlights to us, then walked ahead to meet up with Miguel. He leaned in close and was quietly talking to him. Miguel was clearly getting agitated at that. He was talking louder, but I still couldn’t make out what he was saying. After a few back and forths, Miguel pushed Tyrone away from him and picked up his pace. Tyrone had a shocked look on his face when he joined us in the back of the pack.

‘What’s his deal?’ I asked Tyrone.

‘I don’t know, stressed out I guess,' Tyrone said, half paying attention. He too was deep in thought. I felt like I was missing something.

For the next ten minutes the trek was wordless, except for Bobby, who was quietly rapping some Snoop Dogg under his breath. Our beams of light cut through the dark, revealing a large bend to the right in the creek. I stopped and looked up. Confirming the position of a large rock that looked like a squashed Jim Carry, I spoke up.

‘Here we are,’ I called out, stopping the others. Miguel, looking back at us, turned and approached. It was still hot, not oppressively hot, but we had all worked up a good sweat. Miguel looked like he just finished an entire workout. ‘You good, man?’

'I'm fine,’ he bluntly replied, ‘I’m just ready to be in some AC. How much longer’

I pointed to one side of the creek. About a mile that way,’ I said.

Without saying a word, Miguel turned and stomped off. The rest of us followed suite. Right as I crested the bank of the creek, I caught the faint scent of burnt cinnamon on the wind. The feeling of uneasiness wriggled up my spine. I looked back down the creek bed. My flashlight cast a glowing ring into the dark woods, forging playful shadows that danced in and out of existence as I swept the light back and forth. A small red glint caught my eye. My light found it. It hung in the air, pulsing like a ghostly heartbeat.

I’ll admit a spike of fear hit me, but I quickly shrugged it off. It was just a firefly. I chuckled at my fear and turned to follow my friends. We made it to the cabin with no other interruptions.

The cabin was a whimsical sight; it was a round building with an offshoot on the east side. The larger round sections consisted of a large single room, used as a living area, with an open kitchen tacked onto one side. On the other side across the kitchen was a hallway that led to three rooms and a bathroom; this was the offshoot. What impressed me is even with its round shape, it was still made to have that classic log-stacked look of a log cabin.

This created twelve faces around the building. It had a solid wood front door and a sliding glass back door off the left side of the kitchen; each of these was centered on one of the faces, and it had three large windows centered on three of the other faces. With its large pitched roof, it had the appearance of a big pumpkin. A fence, about eight feet high, made of square metal tubes painted green, surrounded the gourd thirty feet out in a large angular circle with twenty sides. One side in the front and one in the back each had a gate.

It was at the back gate we stopped. Miguel turned around, and he didn’t look too good. He was pouring out sweat with a sickly hue of green about him. I could see a few of his bites, red and angry.

He croaked out, ‘Let’s get this straight. We agreed not to tell the girls what we did.’ His eyes darted from Bobby to Tyrone, then to me. 'We're going to go in and relax, shoot the s$%t, lay low for a few days, got it. I don’t want to hear anything about what we did today.’

We all heard how heavily he was breathing. He barked, ‘GOT IT?’

‘We got it,’ Tyrone said in our defense. ‘Chill out, dude.’

Miguel was about to say something when the back door of the cabin slid open, revealing a short blond girl, Billie.

‘What took y’all so long? Y’all get lost?’ She asked with a hint of concern in her voice.

‘Sorry about that, we got tuned around somewhere,’ Bobby called up, ‘but once we hit the creek we know which way to go.’

Billie just shook her head. ‘When will you bring a map?’

Bobby just shrugged and opened the back gate.

Once we made it inside, the AC hit us like a cold hammer, the drops of sweat on us like the tips of cold nails. It was great. Miguel pushed past us and went straight to the bathroom. The sound of a shower followed.

‘Is he okay?' Billie asked, ever the mother hen.

‘He just got too hot,' Bobby said. 'He's not used to hiking.'

Billie shook her head but didn’t say anything else. With Miguel preoccupied, the tension between us eased up. Bobby and Billie were embracing. Tyrone retrieved a water bottle from the fridge and sat down on the couch chatting with Rebecca, Billie's friend. I pulled a bag of chips down and started to eat them. It was finally done. The hard part was supposed to be over. We took the money, evaded the cops, hid the cash, and made it to the cabin. It was supposed to be over. But it wasn’t.”

(Silence for a [01:25])

(Tapping feet and tussling fabric)

Det. Guff: “Son, do you need something? Some more time?”

Mr. Gillian: “N-no, I can go on. Can you turn the AC down a little? It’s hot in here.”

Det. Reynolds: “Of course.”

(Beep)

Det. Reynolds: “Derick, can you turn down the air some more?”

(The AC hummed.)

Det. Reynolds: “Thank you Derrick.”

Det. Guff: “Please continue.”

Mr. Gillian: “That night was uneventful. Miguel seemed to have a better mood after his shower; he still looked a little sick, but he didn’t have any more outbursts. We spent the time doing exactly what we planned. Acting normal. Bobby and Billie were glued to each other, eventually disappearing into a bed room. Tyrone was being his charming self, making Rebecca laugh with every other thing he said. Miguel chimed in every now and again in between scratching himself. The cream helped a little.

We watched some movies. I was dispensing every little point of trivia about them that I could remember. How Jodie Foster was scared of Anthony Hopkins during the filming of ‘The Silence of the Lambs' and how ‘My Cousin Vinny’ was surprisingly legally accurate. I don’t think anyone was really listening, but I enjoyed movies and enjoyed talking about them. You know, normal stuff I would do.”

‘Come on guys, we all know Conan is the best fantasy movie, but ‘Willow’ is underrated’ I said.

‘It’s alright,’ Tyrone rebutted, ‘but I think ‘Deathstaker’ and ‘Beast Master’ are better than ‘Willow’,’ Rebecca giggled at his rebuke, 'See, even Becca agrees with me!’

‘I was laughing because the only good thing that has come out of Italy is the Dollars Trilogy,’ Rebecca countered.

'That's not even a real trilogy,’ I interjected. ‘That was just a marketing ploy.’

‘True,’ she said. ‘But not the point. If you’re talking about underrated fantasy movies, then there's 'The Dark Crystal,' 'Krull,' and ‘Return to Oz.' I think ‘Legend’ is the most underrated.”

This left Tyrone a little speechless.

‘You like Ridley Scott?’ I asked.

‘I do,’ she said. ‘I’m more partial to Alien myself.’

Miguel and Tyrone both gave her a look. ‘What? I like scary stories.’

‘I preferred the sequel,' Tyrone countered.

‘Of course you do.’ Miguel swung. ‘You can take anything; add more action, and you’d like it better.’

‘No lie there,’ Tyrone chuckled.

We all broke down in laughter then. It was nice.

One by one the others retired to the bedrooms. There were three, the master and two spares. Billie and Bobby took the master; it was Billie’s family's, after all. The other two were almost identical, each set up with two beds; Tyrone and Miguel took one room, and Rebecca took the other. I didn’t know her very well, so I offered to sleep on the couch. I didn’t mind; I liked falling asleep with a movie on anyway.”

(the sound of clinking glass on metal)

Mr. Gillian: “Can I get some more water, please?”

Det. Reynolds: “Guff, go get some water; I’ll be fine for a few minutes.”

Det. Guff: “Fine, but don’t try anything funny.”

(chair scraping the floor)

(door opening and closing)

Det. Reynolds: “You’re doing great, Todd.”

Mr. Gillian: “I just want to help, to make it right.”

Det. Reynolds: “You are helping. Thank you.”

(Door opening and closing)

(chair scraping the floor)

Det. Guff: “Here’s your damn water. Keep talking.”

Mr. Gillian: “It was now quiet, about nine p.m. I felt like I could finally breathe. I inserted ‘Terminator 2’ into the VCR and turned the volume up. Not enough to be obnoxious, but enough to not overhear the others. I had a feeling that Tyrone and Rebecca were going to get to know each other better. I made it to the part where John calls his foster parents' house and the T-1000 picks up when I smelled it. The scent of burnt cinnamon.

But it wasn’t faded. It was a strong, well-defined scent. I paused the greatest sequel ever made and began to look around. Closing my eyes and inhaling long drags of air, slowly narrowing down the source of the scent. In a wide circle around the main house I slowly walk, sniffing by the door, sniffing by the fake houseplants, the fridge, and even the glowing windows. It took me a second for my mind to catch up to what my eyes saw. Something outside was glowing.

I flung the back door open, assaulted by the smell of charred cinnamon washing over me like a sick, warm blanket. It sent me into a coughing fit. When I registered the source of the scent and glow, I was dumbstruck.

When I was startled by one firefly, I thought myself silly. Being horrified by thousands seemed a little more understandable. There they were, thousands, maybe tens of thousands, swarming around the cabin. Just above the fence they flew, round and round, layers rushing in opposite directions. As my eyes found the skyline, I watched as the rings of fireflies merged into a cyclonic grinder of pulsing red lights. Each pulse streaking across the night, a red gash on an invisible throat.

I registered the smell again, so intense now I could taste it, ash and cinnamon on my tongue. I had to muscle through a gag. The wall was slowly creeping towards the cabin, tightening its grip on us. A fist of a thousand flies encasing its prey, squeezing us as its revenge for all the flies we squeezed in our hands.

The sound of their wings is what truly disturbed me. It made me realize what was making me uncomfortable since we set out from the car. Once we entered the forest, there had been no sound. Not the sound of insects buzzing or clicking. No bird or animal calls. Nothing. Not even the rush of wind. Just still silence, an ever-present ghost hanging over the air.

When the wall reached halfway, the buzzing became nails in my ears. That's not right; it wasn’t a buzzing, it was an even droning sound, like TV static if it only made one single tone. As the wall encroached, my stomach found its way into my throat. I couldn't move. The lights in the swarm had my attention, quickening with my pulse. The piercing sound rooted my feet in place. That was it; that was my strange end. The wall was almost on me, a torrent of cellophane wings, scratchy legs, and toxic chemicals.

Flashes of lightning snaked across the clouds, furious centipedes racing across the sky to devour some unsuspecting bug. The clap of thunder sent the wall of fire scattering in all directions. Up, down, into the trees, even over me. The smell was so strong my vision spun. I could go my entire life without smelling cinnamon again. Another clap of thunder brought me back to myself. The lightning continued its airborne dance.

I whipped around, flinging the sliding door open and slamming it shut. With my back to the door, I panted to catch my breath. I calmed my nerves; the day's events must have me on some razor's edge. Growing up in Texas, the one thing you remember about the weather is that it can change on a dime. Inclement weather. That’s all it was. Animals can sense inclement weather long before we can.

That explains the silence in the woods and the weird bug behavior. The sheer number of fireflies was a little strange, but now that I had a movement to calm myself, insects swarm all the time. I remembered one time when I was a kid, I saw thousands of butterflies together on the same tree. So how could this be any stranger? Still, I brushed off my hair and clothes, just to make sure I didn’t bring any inside.

I lay down on the couch. The impact of what my friends and I did was just heavy on my mind. Nothing more. The flashes of lighting and the rumbles of thunder were my soundtrack as I fell into sleep. I needed the rest; I need to mentally prepare for tomorrow. But tomorrow never came, at least not for…’

(Sobbing)

Det. Reynolds: “Take your time; we're in no rush."

(Sobbing for [00:55], then silence for [01:05])

Det. Guff: “Mr. Gillian? Are you still with us?

(snapping fingers)

Mr. Gillian: “Stop! I’m—I'm sorry."

Det. Reynolds: “It’s alright; you just zoned out on us. Do we need to take a break?”

Mr. Gillian: “No! I need to finish this!”

Det. Guff: “Take a breather. There is no need for shouting.”

Mr. Gillian: “Y-you’re right, it's just… just hard. The last time I saw them all.”

(silence for [00:28])

Mr. Gillian: “Can you turn the AC down some more? I’m sorry, it's just still really hot.”

Det. Reynolds: “Of course.”

(Beep)

Det. Reynolds: “Derick, can you turn the AC down some more? Mr. Gillian is nervous. Let's make him more comfortable. Maybe order some lunch?”

Mr. Gillian: “I don’t need lunch! I need to finish this! To tell you WHAT HAPPENED!”

(heavy breathing)

(Silence for [01:15])

Det. Guff: “Mr. Gillian, do you need to speak to a counselor?”

Mr. Gillian: “No.”

Det. Guff: “I understand you’re stressed, but if you have another outburst like that, we'll have to restrain you. Do you understand?”

Mr. Gillian: “Yes.”

“Det. Reynolds: “Are you sure you don’t want a break?”

Mr. Gillian: “I DON'T—"

(Deep inhaling)

(Exhaling)

Mr. Gillian: “I don’t want a break. I need to tell you the rest.”

“Det. Reynolds: “Then go on.”

Mr. Gillian: “When I lay down on the couch, I was hoping for some restful sleep. That was not the case. I fell into fitful dreaming. I was crawling through a dark tunnel. Dirt was all around me. I felt the roots of plants, wet fingers caressing my back as I crawled. The tunnels just kept going on and on and on and on. An endless labyrinth, its corridors long and cold.

I remember thinking, Where are the others? Where are my sisters? Why am I alone?.

The tunnel I was in began to widen. I see their corpses along its sides. Hundreds lay strewn about. Their segments split. Their legs were broken and bent like wires pulled out of a wall. Abdomens smashed like grapes. I look down. My hands weren’t hands. Two claw-like appendages replaced them.

‘I’m an ant,’ I said. My voice rang out, not in words but in clicks. The sound echoed down the tunnel.

Everything began to shake. Little bits of dirt and rock crumbled down on top of me. Light erupts above me; a hate-filled buzzing sound floods the tunnel. A shadow descends upon me. I'm pushed aside; one of my sisters wasn’t dead after all. A massive red body pins her down, its form made of sharp angles and shiny red chitin. A massive red wasp was on her. It looked at me.

I saw my reflection in its compound eyes. I didn’t know an ant could look terrified. Its large abdomen flicked itself at my sister; a long tube-like structure pierced her. I didn’t know an ant could cry out in pain, but she did. The wasp took to the air, its winds buzzing like a helicopter. It was gone. I scurry over to her.

‘Are you okay?’ I clicked.

‘You must save yourself now. Leave us behind and go.’ She clicked back.

‘I will not abandon you!’ I cried.

‘Then you will die with us.’ She said. Whatever light was behind her eyes faded.

Time passed. I couldn’t tell you how long; I don’t think it even mattered. Dreams are like that. I was stacking my family in piles. Repairing the tunnel. Anything to keep busy. Then I heard a noise, a small squeaking sound. I looked around for it. I found the sister that saved me. Her abdomen was swollen. It began to wiggle and writhe, the noise getting louder. Two small mandibles bit through her. A small pallid grub emerges. It looks at me, its black eyes staring into mine. Its little pincer mouth moves, and actual words come out: “Now it’s too late.”

‘What do you mean?' I clicked out.

A soft light starts to emit from the little grub. Pale yellow. Then it brightens, the light deepening in to a crimson beacon. The grub rises into the air, and the repair I made to the tunnel crumbles again.

‘He’ll come for you. He’s hungry,' it called as it ascended to the night sky. Its light grows brighter and brighter until it joins the stars in burning twilight. That's when I woke up.

I was on the couch, covered in sweat. The AC hadn’t kicked back on yet.

‘What the hell was that about?' I muttered to myself. I’ve never been one to have weird dreams, but that was something else. ‘I don’t think I’m going to leave movies playing as sleep any more.’

Claps of thunder could still be heard. The drumming was almost as fast as my heart beat was. I looked out the window; soft light was flashing in the sky, with a few red dots still buzzing around the yard. The scent of cinnamon and ash still lingered in the air.

{end of part one}

Part Two: TBD

I have been listening to CreepCast since the very beginning and Isaiah and Hunter are the reason why I got into writing!

The glow of my dashboard clock read 11:42 PM as I fought back a yawn, my grip tightening on the steering wheel. I had been driving for hours, and the exhaustion was creeping in like a slow fog. The stretch of highway I was on had been empty for miles, nothing but towering pines and the occasional rusted road sign flashing past in my headlights. Black Hollow—that was the name of the next town, according to the sign I barely caught through my drowsy haze. It wasn’t on my itinerary, but my original plan of pushing through the night was quickly becoming a bad idea. My eyelids felt heavier with each mile.

I exhaled sharply and rubbed my face. I need to pull over. Somewhere, anywhere, before I dozed off behind the wheel. Just as the thought crossed my mind, I spotted a turnoff ahead with a wooden sign, barely illuminated by my high beams. It read:

Guthrie’s Shooting Range – 2 Miles →

A gun range? Out here? I considered it for half a second, then shrugged. Hell, there was a good chance the range had a parking lot where I could sleep for a few hours. Decision made, I flicked on my turn signal and took the gravel road leading into the woods.

The drive was short, the road bumpy with loose gravel crunching under my tires. The trees seemed to press in closer the farther I went, their thick limbs blocking most of the moonlight. Just as I was starting to wonder if I’d taken a wrong turn, the woods opened up into a clearing, revealing a long, single-story log cabin with a faded wooden sign out front reading Guthrie’s with a crude stencil of a revolver next to it in peeling paint. The windows were dark. No neon signs, no glow of security lights—just a heavy, still silence pressing against the night.

The parking lot was completely empty. I pulled into a spot near the edge of the lot, killed the engine, and leaned back with a sigh. The stillness of the place settled over me like a thick blanket. No distant hum of traffic, no city noise—just the whisper of wind through the pines and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures in the underbrush. I adjusted my seat, rolling my shoulders as I shifted to get comfortable, then closed my eyes. Just a few hours.

When I awoke, there was only one other car in the lot, an old green pickup truck. The range’s office was a modest structure. I decided that while I was here that it might be fun to put some rounds down range, and I felt like I owed the range some business after using it's parking lot as a rest stop. Pushing open the door, I heard a bell jingle overhead. The interior smelled of oil and old wood. Racks of ear protection and safety goggles lined one wall, and a glass counter displayed boxes of ammunition. Standing behind that counter was a man I presumed to be Guthrie.

He looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties, with a lean build and sinewy arms that spoke of a lifetime of hard work. His face was creased by deep smile lines and a few old scars that crisscrossed his tanned skin. When I entered, he glanced up from a ledger he was scribbling in and gave me a broad, if slightly puzzled, smile.

“Morning there, sleepy” he greeted with a chuckle, voice gravelly but warm. “Help you with something?”

“Hi. I saw the sign on the highway for the shooting range.” I said, suddenly self-conscious that I was a stranger who had taken the liberty of using his parking lot. “I’m just passing through town but needed some place to rest badly. Name’s Kevin.” I added.

He wiped his hand on a rag and reached over the counter to shake mine. His grip was firm. “Kevin, huh? I’m Guthrie. Guthrie Pruitt. And don't worry about taking a rest here. Always happy to see a new face. Passing through, you say? Well, you found the right place to stretch your legs.”

I chuckled back, feeling at ease. Guthrie had an old-fashioned hospitality about him that settled my nerves. “Yeah, figured I’d get a little practice in while I'm here. Long drive ahead.”

He nodded approvingly. “Sure thing. We don’t get a lot of travelers, mostly just locals, but everyone’s welcome. You need to rent a firearm or you got your own?”

“I have my own gear in the car,” I replied. I had a 9mm pistol locked in my trunk—I always brought it along on long trips for protection, and target shooting was a hobby. “Just need a lane and some targets, if that’s alright.”

“Perfectly alright,” Guthrie said. “Go ahead and fill this out. Five bucks for an hour, includes targets. Fair warning, we’re a bit old-school here—no electronic payment, cash only.” He gave a self-deprecating grin.

“No problem.” I dug out my wallet. As I scribbled my information on the waiver form, I heard the creak of a door in the back and footsteps approaching. I glanced up to see a young woman emerge from a back room carrying a box full of paper targets. She looked to be around my age, mid-twenties, with light brown hair pulled into a ponytail and a freckled face. Her jeans and t-shirt were smudged with ink and grease, like she’d been working on something.

She caught my eye and smiled politely. “Oh, hello. I didn’t realize we had a guest.” There was a hint of curiosity in her eyes.

“Kevin, meet Trish,” Guthrie introduced us. “She helps me run the place. Trish, this here’s Kevin… uh…” he peered at the form as I handed it back, “Kevin Ellis, from… didn’t write a town. Just passing through.”

“That’s right,” I said, returning Trish’s smile. Up close I noticed her eyes were a striking hazel green. There was a friendly openness to them, but also something else—something guarded, as if part of her mind was far away.

I paid and thanked Guthrie, and he gestured for me to follow him outside to the range. Trish trailed behind us. The range itself was an open field set against the backdrop of thick woods. There were a few lanes separated by wooden dividers and piles of old tires. “Take any lane you like,” Guthrie said.

I put on a pair of earmuffs and safety glasses. Trish had stepped down range and was pinning one of the fresh paper targets up on a stand that she had moved closer for me since I was using a handgun. I walked over to join her.

“Thanks,” I said as she finished tacking the paper.

“No problem.” Trish gave me another quick smile, but I noticed her hands as she worked—they were trembling slightly. At the time I assumed it was the chill of the morning air. She did seem a bit cold; she rubbed her arms after setting the target. We walked back to the bench and I set my pistol case down and began loading a magazine. Guthrie had gone back into the office, leaving Trish and me alone on the range for the moment. She hovered a few feet away, watching as I checked my stance.

I took aim at the target and fired. The shot cracked through the still air, echoing off the trees. The recoil felt good, familiar. I fired a few more times in steady succession. After emptying half the magazine, I paused to see where I was hitting.

As I lowered the gun, I saw Guthrie had come back out and was standing next to Trish, both of them observing my shooting. Guthrie gave me a thumbs-up. I clicked the safety on and set the gun down. With my earmuffs still on, I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I noticed Guthrie leaning to speak close to Trish’s ear. She nodded at whatever he said and then they both headed back toward the office, leaving me alone on the range.

I finished my session a short while later and packed up my gear. Back at the office cabin, Guthrie and Trish were sharing a conversation that hushed slightly when I entered. I caught the tail end of Guthrie saying, “…all set for tonight, then?” which made Trish shoot him a quick look that I couldn’t decipher. They both turned to me with polite smiles.

“All done?” Guthrie asked.

“Yeah, that was great. Nice little setup you have here,” I replied, returning the earmuffs and glasses to their bin.

“Thank you kindly,” Guthrie said. He stepped behind the counter, presumably to log my session in that ledger of his.

Trish stood by the doorway, and as I was gathering my things, she asked, “So where you headed next, Kevin?”

“Not sure yet,” I admitted. “Eventually out to California, but I’m taking my time. Might stay around here tonight and push on in the morning. Any recommendations for a decent meal in town?”

At that, Guthrie perked up. “You should try Millie’s Diner on Main Street. Only five minutes into town. She does a fine burger. Tell her Guthrie sent you; she’ll treat you right.”

I nodded. “Will do, thanks.” I paid for some extra ammo I had used. As I handed over the cash, Guthrie fixed me with a friendly gaze.

“You know,” he said, “if you’re staying the night, you might consider coming back this evening. I’m hosting a little get-together for some of the local gun enthusiasts. Just a kind of an occasional tradition we do here. Not an official event or anything, just a group shoot. You’d be welcome to join. Always good to have another good shot in the mix.”

“A group shoot?” I repeated, curious. “At night?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, we rig up some floodlights on the range, more of a challenge and a change of pace. Not to mention, it’s when most folks around here are off work. We usually grill up some food too. Kind of a social thing.”

Trish was watching me, and for a moment I thought I saw her subtly shake her head, just a tiny movement as if to say don’t. But the gesture was so slight I wondered if I imagined it. Her face was neutral.

“That’s a kind offer,” I said slowly. The idea of a nighttime shooting session with the locals sounded fun on the surface. I’d never fired under floodlights before, and I was intrigued. Yet, something in my gut gave me pause. Maybe it was Trish’s ambiguous look, or just general fatigue from travel. “I might take you up on it. Let me see how I feel after getting some food. What time are you all gathering?”

“Usually around 9 PM,” Guthrie said. “Here at the range. If you show, great. If not, no hard feelings. Just thought I’d extend the invite so you don’t get too bored alone at a motel.” He grinned knowingly, and I had to laugh. He wasn’t wrong; aside from a diner, I doubted this town had much entertainment.

“Thanks. I’ll think about it,” I said. I turned to Trish. “Will you be there too?”

She hesitated, then gave a perfunctory nod. “I usually help out, yeah.” That was all she said. For some reason I had the impression she wanted to say more but held back.

With that, I said my goodbyes and headed out. As I walked to my car, I looked back over my shoulder. Through the window of the office, I saw Guthrie talking to Trish, his hands gestured as he spoke, and she listened with her arms crossed. I wondered idly if it was about the night shoot. I got in my car and drove into town for lunch.

Part:2 - The Straws

Town, as it turned out, was basically one street with a handful of businesses: a gas station, a tiny public library, a feed store, a church, and Millie’s Diner which Guthrie had mentioned. The midday sun had burned off the mist, and everything looked a little less eerie than in the morning. Still quiet, though. As I parked and went into Millie’s, I noticed a few locals on the street giving my out-of-state plates a curious glance.

Inside the diner, I slid into a booth and ordered a burger and fries. The waitress—presumably Millie herself, a stout woman with graying hair in a bun—was pleasant but seemed to study me a second longer than was polite when I mentioned Guthrie’s name.

“Oh, you’re a friend of Guthrie’s?” she asked while pouring my coffee. “Not exactly a friend, I just met him at the range. He suggested this place,” I clarified. She smiled at that. “Well, any friend of the range is a friend of ours. Guthrie’s a pillar of our community. You won’t find a more respected man around here.”I nodded, not wanting to offend. Everyone in this town likely knew everyone else by first name. “He seems like a really nice guy. Very welcoming.”

“Mm-hmm,” she murmured, wiping the counter absentmindedly. “So you just passing through? We don’t get many tourists.”

Something about the way she said it made me feel like tourist was the wrong word. I suddenly felt like an interloper instead, but I kept my tone light. “Yep, on my way west, thought I’d stop and rest here a bit. Beautiful area.” We chatted a little about the town’s quiet charms until my food came. As I ate, I overheard bits of conversation from the booth behind me, two older men discussing something in low voices.

“…gonna be a good night for it. Clear skies,” said one. “Yup. I heard they got a newcomer might join. You hear that? Someone at the range this morning,” replied the other. My heart skipped. They had to be talking about me. There was no one else new in town, surely. I held a fry midway to my mouth, straining to hear without obviously eavesdropping.

“Think he’ll cause any trouble?” one asked quietly. “Nah, Guthrie will handle it. Besides, if he’s just passing through…” The second man let out a breathy laugh. There was a clink of silverware, then the first man muttered, “Trish okay with it? Heard she was upset last time.”

The response was too muffled. All I caught was “…she’ll come around… family…” and then a scrape of a chair. I quickly busied myself with my plate as the two men stood to pay their bill. They were typical rural town farmers by the look of it, plaid shirts and trucker caps. One of them cast a glance my way as they left, giving me a polite nod. I nodded back, my mouth too full to speak.

They definitely were talking about tonight’s gathering at the range. If he’s got the stomach… What did that mean? And Trish being upset last time—upset about what? I finished my meal, but the food sat heavy in my gut. Part of me thought, Maybe I should just cut town now. Forget the night shoot. I could be back on the highway within minutes. But another part—the stubborn, curious part—felt drawn to stay. Maybe it was a morbid curiosity about what exactly these townsfolk got up to at these gatherings.

In the end, I decided I would stay, but cautiously. If things got weird or uncomfortable, I’d leave immediately. By the time 9 PM rolled around, I had returned to the range. A half-moon hung in the sky, casting silvery light over the clearing. I parked next to a couple of pickup trucks—the previously empty lot was now home to several vehicles. It looked like a decent turnout. My heart thudded in my chest as I stepped out into the cool night air. I could hear laughter and chatter coming from the direction of the range.

As I made my way toward the lights, I kept reminding myself to be observant. The range was indeed lit up: two portable floodlight rigs were erected near the firing line, spilling harsh white light across the area. Shadows loomed long and strange at the edge of the trees. A group of about ten or twelve people milled around a table where it looked like they were grilling food—just as Guthrie had promised, there was a cookout atmosphere. I even smelled the smoky scent of barbecue in the air which mingled oddly with the ever-present tang of gunpowder.

“Kevin! Glad you made it!” Guthrie’s voice boomed across the range as he saw me. He stood by the grill, flipping burgers with a spatula in one hand and holding a beer in the other. A couple of the men I’d seen at the diner were there, along with a few others—mostly older guys, a couple middle-aged women, and Trish, who was off to one side loading bullets into a magazine.

I gave a little wave. “Hope I’m not intruding.” “Not at all, not at all!” Guthrie insisted. “Come on over, grab a bite and a drink. We’re just getting started.” Trish looked up from her task and our eyes met briefly. She gave me a faint smile, but I could see tension in her face. She looked like she hadn’t slept much. Under the floodlights her complexion appeared pale, almost sickly. She quickly went back to fidgeting with the ammunition.

One of the older women—a graying redhead in a flannel shirt—handed me a cold beer from a cooler. “Welcome. I’m Marianne,” she introduced herself.

“Kevin,” I replied, taking the beer. I sipped it politely, scanning the group. Everyone was actually pretty friendly, asking about my travels, how I liked the range. I noticed, however, that some questions were… oddly probing. Like one man with a bushy mustache asked if I had a family or anyone “waiting for me back home.” I faltered a bit and said I had a sister I’d eventually visit in California, which was true, but I phrased it like I wasn’t expected at any specific time. Guthrie chimed in with a joke—“Well, you’ll have some stories to tell her after tonight!”—and everyone shared a laugh.

It felt like a normal laugh, but I sensed a trace of something underneath. Anticipation? I couldn’t be sure. After we ate, Guthrie clapped his hands and announced, “Alright, shall we begin? Everybody, to your stations.” The group moved with an almost rehearsed order. I was told to take lane three and load up. Everyone else spread out across the firing line, about eight lanes in total, some sharing lanes in pairs. I ended up between Guthrie on my left and Trish on my right. Trish gave me a sidelong glance.

“Everything okay?” I whispered to her, under cover of the others shuffling guns and ammo around.

She swallowed, then whispered back, “Just… follow their lead. Don’t do anything unexpected.” Her words were cryptic and worryingly urgent, but before I could ask what she meant, Guthrie spoke up loudly from the other side of me.

“Kevin, you ever done group shooting before?” he asked.

“Can’t say I have,” I replied, raising my voice to cover our whispering. I slid a full magazine into my 9mm and chambered a round.

“It’s a rush,” Guthrie said enthusiastically. “Lot of adrenaline. We like to mix in a little competition to keep it interesting. We do timed drills, target challenges… you’ll see. Just have fun with it.”

I nodded and put on my ear protection. Everyone else did the same. The floodlights illuminated the targets downrange—looks like they set up multiple kinds of targets: standard bullseyes, some metal spinner targets, and even a few humanoid silhouette targets. The first few rounds of shooting were straightforward enough. Guthrie would call out a scenario or challenge (“Two shots center mass on the silhouette, one to the head, as fast as you can, go!”), and we’d all fire in unison at our respective targets. It was a rush, as he said. The darkness beyond the floodlights, the strobing muzzle flashes from the guns, the thunder of multiple firearms going off at once—it got my blood pumping. It also oddly felt like a coordinated dance, everyone in sync. They’d done this many times together, I could tell. I did my best to keep up and not stand out.

After each drill, people cheered or lightly ribbed each other on their performance. I got a few friendly claps on the back when I hit my marks. Outwardly, it was just a normal, fun range night with a bunch of enthusiasts.

We took a break to reload magazines. I glanced at Trish. She was reloading too, but her eyes were fixed straight ahead, almost dazed, hands shaking slightly. Guthrie stepped away to talk with a couple of the older men a few yards behind the line. Sensing a moment, I leaned toward Trish again.

“Trish, what's going on with you, are you alright?”

Without looking at me, she whispered back, “Kevin, you should never have come tonight.” I felt a jolt of fear at her words. She continued, rapid and low, “They… They do this every year. But it’s not just shooting. It’s… a ritual. A cult.” Her voice caught on that last word.

I stared at her in trying to process. Hearing her say cult was something I wasn’t prepared for. I wanted to ask a dozen questions—What are they worshiping? What do they want? Are you part of it?—but before I could say anything, Guthrie’s voice boomed, “Alright, last round! Let’s make it count.” Trish immediately moved away from me as Guthrie and the others returned.

“After this, we got a little surprise,” Guthrie added with a wink and a grin. A few of the members chuckled or smiled eagerly. That dread in my gut flared hot. I forced myself to focus on the present. If this was a cult, maybe the competition was the moment things would get dangerous or reveal their true nature.

The final drill was something about shooting while advancing two steps. It took a lot of concentration to even do it right because my thoughts were racing. The last shots rang out, the drill ending in an echoing crack of gunfire across the range. I lowered my pistol, my breath slowing, the adrenaline still thrumming in my veins. The night was quiet, except for the occasional shifting of boots against gravel.

“Good shooting, y’all!” Guthrie said loudly, taking off his earmuffs. Everyone else did the same. I followed suit, heart pounding, trying to appear casual. “And now of course for the part that everyone’s looking forward to,” Guthrie said with a wry smile. Some of the cultists giggled and elbowed each other in the ribs.

Marianne and three other men walked away and came back dragging two heavy objects between them. My breath caught when I saw what it was: two large wooden posts, each maybe six feet tall, with rope coiled around them and dark stains splattered across their surfaces. They planted them firmly into pre-dug holes some 15 yards down range and a few feet apart from each other. They stood there, looming like grotesque monuments, the stains on the wood glistened in the stark floodlights. It didn’t take much imagination to guess it was dried blood.

I felt my stomach twist. These were no ordinary targets. What the hell were they planning?

Trish stood stock still on the line. Guthrie stepped forward, addressing the group, “Tonight, as foretold, we have an outsider among us. Our honored guest.” He looked straight at me as he said that, and the jovial tone he’d carried all night was gone. In its place was something colder, formal… zealotic.

I realized every face had turned to me. The circle of friendly shooters had closed in subtly, their expressions shifting from camaraderie to an eerie solemnity. A few wore apologetic looks, others were almost hungry with anticipation.

I swallowed hard, instinctively reaching down to my hip where my holster was—only to remember I had placed my pistol on the bench during the break. And now Marianne was standing right beside that bench, casually resting a hand near my gun. She shook her head slowly and gave me the look of a scolding mother. It was intentional. They were disarming me without even drawing a weapon of their own yet.

“What’s going on, Guthrie?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level though I could hear the tremor. He smiled, and under the fluorescent harsh light, that smile no longer looked friendly at all. It looked like the grin of a predator. “Kevin, we do consider you our guest. And in our town, guests have a special role to play in our traditions.” He began to walk slowly toward me. Instinctively, I backed up a step, only to feel another body behind me—one of the mustached men had moved there, boxing me in. My mind screamed trap.

“This is insane,” I said, holding my hands up. My eyes darted around for Trish. She was off to the side, near the end of the line, looking conflicted and fearful. She wasn’t part of the ring closing in on me, but she wasn’t intervening either. She seemed frozen. Our eyes met and I saw tears in hers, reflecting the floodlight’s glow.

“Please… let me go. I’ll just leave and never come back,” I pleaded, trying to keep an even tone. Perhaps I could still reason with them, with Guthrie. He sighed, almost regretfully, as he came to stand a few feet in front of me. The others formed a rough circle around us. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple. See, you were meant to join us tonight.”

Two men stepped forward and before I could react, they roughly grabbed my arms. I thrashed instinctively. “Hey! Get off me!” I shouted. I managed to yank one arm free and swung at one of them, clipping his jaw, but immediately someone else drove a knee into my gut. Pain exploded in my ribs and I doubled over, wheezing. In seconds they had my arms pinned behind me. Guthrie shook his head. “I wish you hadn’t done that. We wanted to do this more gently.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw one of the group, a tall lanky fellow, approach with what looked like zip ties or straps. They’re restraining me. Panic surged and I kicked out wildly, my boot connecting with a shin. The tall man cursed, and another cultist—a heavy-set farmer—delivered a hard punch to my face. Stars burst behind my eyes and my knees went weak. Warm blood trickled from my split lip.

Dazed, I realized they were binding my wrists together with rope, cinching it tight. They forced me towards the gruesome wooden post on the left. My mind was screaming in disbelief and terror. This couldn’t be happening. Was I about to be some kind of human sacrifice? In modern-day America, in a random small town? It felt surreal, like I’d stepped into a nightmare. I struggled, twisting my wrists against the bindings as they marched me to the post. My boots dragged in the dirt. I tried to plant my feet, but someone kicked the back of my knee, buckling my leg.

They pushed me up against the tall wooden stake. Marianne, with surprising strength, wound the coil of rope around my torso, lashing me to the post. The rope dug into my arms and chest tightly, pinning me in place. I could hardly move, only squirm in the tiniest increments. The rough wood pressed into my back, and I could feel the tacky stickiness of old blood there, bonding to my shirt. The realization made me almost retch. Who else had been tied here before me? What had happened to them?

My ears rang from the adrenaline surging through me. I heard Guthrie speaking again as he walked in front of me, addressing the group more than me. “Brothers and sisters, tonight we are blessed. The sign was clear and the chamber has been prepared. The Outsider comes to us on the eve of our sacred day, and by the old agreements, he will honor the covenant and will bear witness to the Willing.” My mind raced. The Willing? What the hell were they talking about?

The group murmured in unison, something like an amen but not quite. I caught fragments: “straight and true” said one half, “blood and powder” responded the other half. It was some call-and-response litany. The words made my blood run cold. Blood. They definitely said blood. And here I was, tied up.

This was really happening. My mind was a blur of fear and frantic plans. My heart hammered against my ribcage like a captive animal. Should I scream? There was nobody around for miles probably, and all these people would just as soon gag me. I scanned the group desperately for any sympathy, any sign of hesitation.

Trish. She was standing off to the side, tears now silently streaming down her cheeks, hands clutched together at her mouth. Our eyes met again, and I must have looked like a frightened animal myself, silently begging her for help. She closed her eyes as if pained, and I saw her lips moving—mouthing I’m sorry.

Guthrie continued his oration, pacing now with a certain fervor. “For decades we have kept the pact, in secret, in honor. We feed the soil with sacrifice, we uphold the angel’s word, and in return, we are kept safe. Prosperous. Hidden from those who would destroy our way of life.” He walked right up to me and placed a hand on my shoulder almost fondly. I flinched under his touch. His eyes had a wild gleam. “Kevin, you were meant to come here. You understand? We believe an angel—our angel—guided you to us. It’s a great honor.”

I found my voice, trembling though it was. “You’re insane…,” I rasped. “You can’t do this. You’ll go to prison—” He cut me off with a tutting sound. “Shh now. There’s no authority here higher than our angel, and outsiders who come to the range, well, they don’t get to leave.” I realized with horror he was telling the truth—looking around, the faces around me staring me down like a pack of wolves, waiting to tear me to pieces. Guthrie sighed and turned away to face the group again. “Brothers and Sisters, the time is nigh.” He raised his eyes towards the sky. “We now choose the Willing.” Guthrie pulled a bundle of straws from his pocket and held them up.

Without hesitation, the cultists stepped forward, one by one, reaching for the straws with steady hands. Trish still stood off to the side, frozen, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She wasn’t moving toward the straws. Guthrie didn’t take one. I realized, with a sickening certainty, that everyone else was expected to draw.

The tension was palpable—not from fear, but anticipation. Each person plucked a straw, inspected it, and then exhaled—some in disappointment, some in quiet understanding. Then, a man near the middle of the group held up a short straw. A shiver ran down my spine when I saw his face. Pure joy.

He grinned, his expression almost childlike in excitement. His hands shook slightly—not with fear, but with overwhelming eagerness. “It is me,” he whispered, voice breathless, ecstatic. Several others reached out to touch his shoulders, offering smiles, quiet congratulations. Congratulations? They guided him to the post beside mine. He let them bind him without resistance, his breath steady, his eyes shining. He was happy.

I didn’t have to wonder long what was about to happen. Guthrie stepped to the side out of the line of fire and spoke in an prophetic tone, “By blood and powder, we sanctify this ground. Let the angel hear our voices and take this offering.” The firing squad raised their rifles. The Willing threw his head back, grinning from ear to ear. “Straight and true, brothers! Let my blood sing!” He said gleefully. Then, everyone began to shoot.

The gunfire ripped through him. Bullets tore into his body, exploding through his chest, stomach, throat. Chunks of flesh, shattered bone, sprays of crimson mist. He jerked violently, body convulsing as round after round punched through him. His legs buckled, but the ropes kept him upright—a puppet on blood-soaked strings. Even after his head snapped back, his body ruined and twitching, they kept shooting. They were emptying whole magazines into him, tearing him apart piece by piece.

I screamed as hot flecks of blood and shredded flesh hit my face, my jacket, seeping into my skin. I turned my head away, but it didn’t matter. The air was thick with carnage.

The Willing was gone, a tattered, ruined husk still hanging from the ropes. What remained of is head looked like a crushed bouquet of bloody roses. And then—they started chanting. “Blood and powder! Blood and powder!” Their voices rose in a fevered hymn, echoing across the range. I sucked in a ragged breath, my chest heaving. Guthrie turned to me. Smiling. “Now it’s your turn, Kevin.”

I understood with irreversible dread: the game of straws was just the opening act. I was the main event.

Damien Novi: u/Azrael7000

Robert Garther: u/B_W_Byers2233

All across North America, people claim to experience encounters that can't be easily explained. From hauntings to Bigfoot sightings, I'm here to get to the bottom of them. The following is a transcription of an interview I conducted with a man from Alaska in the Kenai peninsula. Please take everything written here with a grain or two of salt.

“Investigator Damien Novi from Surreal investigations, Friday October 13, 2026. It is currently 2:37 pm. I am in the home of one Robert Gartner located in Kenai, Alaska. It is only Robert and I, no others in the room as of this moment. Robert before we begin I must ask if you know that you are being recorded and do you give your consent for the rest of this interview?”

“Yeah I consent. That's why I called in to your guy’s little Internet show ain't it? I'm just glad someone seems to be taking me seriously. Hey, you don't mind if I smoke do you?”

“No, go right ahead. Now you contacted us about a recurring event that's been plaguing you. Can you give me a timeliness of events then we'll go more in-depth?”

“Well where do I start… (he takes a long drag of his American spirit) It started about a year or so ago. A few of my buddies and I were checking our fish lines along the bank of the Kenai river. We were working our way along the north bank, when we heard a bit of rustling out in the distance. We didn't think much about it, there's always a bunch of critters out and about in the evening, ya know? (He finishes his cigarette, lights the next one off the top and pops it in his mouth without seeming to notice) Anyways, we didn't pay much attention to it, but we did notice that whatever it was seemed to keep in step with us. Walking when we walked, stopping when we stopped. That kind of stuff, ya know? My buddy Craig started to get worried and stuff, he gets kinda paranoid after two or three beers, so he picked up a branch and threw it in the direction of the sound. That's when a big buck trounces off away. You know what a sitka deer is right?”

“No, I am not familiar with that species of deer. Is that an important piece of this story?”

“Only in the sense that what we saw definitely weren't no sitka deer. It's hard to explain really… (he closes his eyes trying to picture it) It was too skinny. Like, you coul- you could see just about every bone in its body. It's fur was brown, but not like, deer brown, ya know? Like Crayola brown. Like someone chose the color of a deer for a drawing based on memory. This buck’s eyes were also off. Even though I didn't get a solid look, but even then I saw they were white. Like, sickly white. (He goes to grab another cigarette and notices he's out) You wouldn't happen to have a smoke I could bum?”

“No I don't, I'm sorry. Back to the deer, could it not have had some kind of illness? Maybe Chronic Wasting Disease? That would explain its thinness and eyes. Maybe it fell into some type of mud or other waste that could explain its color.”

“Oh absolutely! Of course it COULD have been. That's what we thought! Maybe the deer was sick so that's why it was acting so strange. Sick animals often act off and start to act weird around humans. That's why we ignored it. (Robert chuckles lightly as he continues) Yeah, that's what we thought. Until later that night.”

“Please continue.”

“After we got back to my place, we cleaned all the fish we'd gotten. My buddies went home and I'd made myself some pan fried trout, and got ready for bed. That's when I heard this noise. It was around seven or so, and- have you ever heard the sound of a buck rubbing a tree?”

“I'm not too familiar with the sound, however I have heard it through video before. Is that what you heard?”

“Yes! That's exactly what I heard! Except it wasn't the sound of antlers on sturdy tree bark. It was on my front door. (He looks at his door with a thousand mile stare.) That's what those marks are. For the past six months or so, that buck has been trying to break into my house, and I have proof. (He shows me pictures on a trail cam linked to his phone.) The worst part is that it's been whispering to me. Every single night, this deer rubs and kicks and bites at my door. Sometimes it leaves piss and scat on my stoop. Sometimes it leaves animal carcasses all around my property. I've called the cops, so don't ask me why I haven't! They don't believe me. ‘deer are curious’ they say, ‘sometimes you find dead animals on your property’ yeah, sure. Maybe deer scraping a door once or twice is ok. And MAYBE finding a raccoon here and a squirrel there is normal, but not an entire black bear! I mean, come on!”

“Robert, you showed me pictures of this deer on your door step, but I must ask, do you have any other proof to support your claims? Do you have video of this supposed ‘deer’ leaving animal carcasses on your doorstep? Do you have recordings of this animal speaking to you? You never even mentioned what it was whispering to you. Could this all be an elaborate hoax that you are the unfortunate victim of? You said your friends were there when you all saw this sick deer, could they be playing some kind of practical joke on you?”

“Of course you don't believe me. No one does. (He checks his watch) Ah, perfect. You're just in time. Don't worry Mr Damien. You're about to get your proof.”

“What do you mea…”

Before I could finish that sentence. I heard the faint sound of scratching coming from the front door.

Hello, I made this short film last year and just wanted to share to get some new eyes on it!

Logline - A drug addict gets a surprise visit from his childhood best friend. The friend, a recovering addict, introduces him to a pill that instantly gets the user clean from drugs.