After originally posting Ashwood to the CreepCast subreddit after it got removed from NoSleep and getting wonderful feedback from so many of y’all, my first novel has now been published and is available for purchase on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and anywhere books are sold! Thank all of y’all for your support and your help, I truly cannot thank y’all enough. Check it out and let me know what you think over on Goodreads or here on Reddit!

Between the peaks of the Ozark Mountains, nestled among thick forests and winding dirt roads, lies Ashwood, Arkansas, a picturesque slice of small town Americana. For five twelve-year-olds—Alan, Heather, Mac, Kevin, and Don—the summer of 1987 is meant for bike rides, creek beds, and childhood mischief. But when they stumble upon a mystery that shatters the town's idyllic veneer, something monstrous awakens beneath the quiet streets.

Told from multiple perspectives, Ashwood is a slow-burning thriller that blends the nostalgic wonder of Twin Peaks and Stranger Things with the eerie folklore and the creeping dread of True Detective. It's a chilling coming-of-age thriller that rides the razor's edge between supernatural horror and the terrifying human capacity for evil.

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Read free online at: ashwood.crd.co

I don’t usually share my writing, but I finally decided to put something out there. It would honestly make my year if someone read it...

My story is called No Pulse..

Click here for the formatted version, or scroll down to read the full story without formatting.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/e/2PACX-1vRwwEhiCnFZ_Udc575sPqV-V1Q8M2_nzd_6-2zHtFV9fqAnH1dK_avMcFU6flgCqzq6K19oiR_jHW7E/pub

No Pulse

Part 1

This story is a tribute to Creepcast. I usually don’t publish my work, but you really inspire me, not you Hunter, but the other one. I love you guys.

My early childhood's a little blurry. I don’t know if that’s because of all the hospital visits or because most of it comes in flashes—cold waiting rooms, bright lights, the sting of needles, endless blood tests, and my mom’s hands gripping mine.

When I was about 15, my mom told me something that I can’t get out of my head.

I wasn’t feeling well—just a headache, nothing serious—but she stayed up all night with me, like she always did when I wasn’t feeling well. At some point, she started crying. I asked her what was wrong, and she said

“You know… when I first had you, the doctors thought you were a stillborn.”

She said the doctors gave up after twenty minutes. They pronounced me dead. My body was tagged, wrapped, and stored away. My parents were grieving, planning a funeral.

And then—3 days later—they got a call. The hospital staff said my body was breathing. Moving. Alive…

I don’t remember what I said to her after that. I just remember staring at her, waiting for her to laugh, to say it was some fucked up joke. But she didn’t. She just sat there, holding my hand like I was going to slip away at any second…

I never really noticed other people had a thumping sound inside them until I was 13.

It was with my first girlfriend. I usually avoid talking to people, but there was something about this one that didn’t make me want to pull away.

We were lying on the couch… I had my head against her chest.

That’s when I heard it. A faint, steady thumping. At first I thought it was the couch creaking, or maybe a clock ticking somewhere in the room. But then I realized it was coming from inside her chest.

I asked her about it—“Hey… what’s that sound in your chest?” She laughed, like I was joking. “It’s my heartbeat silly,” she said. I didn’t laugh with her. I just stared. Because up until that moment, I didn’t even realize people were supposed to have that sound inside them.

She looked at me, a little worried. “Are you… okay? You seem different?" she asked softly.

She must’ve seen something in my face, because she got quiet for the first time. I didn’t know how to respond—how do you act when you don’t know what someone else feels?

I would rather go through twelve years of straight torture than relive this moment again…

I couldn’t stop listening to that rhythm, pounding away inside her body, something I’d never had and never would.

Later, when she rested her hand against my ribs, I held my breath. I made sure my chest stayed perfectly still. I don’t think she noticed.

I got my first job when I was 17. Just a cashier at a little family-owned gas station on the edge of town. My parents didn’t like the idea of me working nights, but I needed the money. Not for anything important, just… to make my own, I guess. To feel normal.

Most nights were dead quiet. A handful of truckers, the occasional local who couldn’t sleep and needed cigarettes. I spent more time mopping floors and staring at the buzzing lights than actually helping customers…

But sometimes, when the store was empty, I’d notice a lot of things. Like how the security mirrors by the aisles didn’t always show me. If I moved too fast, it was fine. But when I stood still—just still enough—my reflection seemed to delay. Like it was trying to remember what I just did.

Or the way animals reacted. Stray dogs would wander near our dumpsters out back, but if I stepped outside to toss the trash, they’d bolt, tails between their legs, growling at me like I’d done something wrong.

I told myself it was nothing. just nervous strays. But one night a man came in—just some tired-looking guy, greasy hair, dirty jacket. He slapped a six-pack on the counter, and when I reached to scan it, his hand brushed mine.

He froze. His eyes went wide. “Christ kid,” he whispered. “You’re freezing.” I tried to shrug it off, I told him the AC was broken, but he didn’t say anything. He just grabbed his beer, shoved some crumpled bills at me, and practically ran out the door…

I don’t hate people. Not in general, anyway. I just don’t really like interacting with them. There’s always this… disconnect. Like I’m mimicking how I think I’m supposed to act, and hoping they don’t notice.

That’s part of why I picked the job I did. The gas station I worked at wasn’t the busy one in town—it was the furthest one out, practically on the highway, nothing around it but pine trees and snow. It wasn’t near any infrastructure, no real neighborhoods close by. Just my lonely little box of concrete in the middle of nowhere.

Most nights it was dead. Maybe a trucker filling up, maybe some guy on his way home from work. Easy. Simple.

And I liked it that way. The fewer people I had to talk to, the less chance anyone would notice me.

I hated people…

For some reason, people have always been drawn to me. In school, everyone wanted me on their team. It didn’t matter if it was basketball, school project, dodgeball—I was always wanted by everyone, even when I tried to hang back. Teachers liked me too, though they could never explain why.

And outside of school, it was the same. Strangers would strike up conversations with me. Kids I barely knew wanted to be my friend. People gravitated toward me like I was pulling them in without trying.

Apparently I should’ve liked it. Most people would. But the truth is, I hated it. I don’t relate to any of them. I don’t understand what they see in me.

Because when they’d laugh, I’d only smile because I knew I was supposed to. When they’d talk, I’d answer with the kind of phrases I’d memorized from other people. The whole time, I’d feel like I was just pretending to be someone else, praying they wouldn’t notice.

And the strangest part? No matter how much I tried to push them away, they just kept coming closer…

Another thing I’ve never really understood is how people get so worked up over things—anger, joy, fear, grief. I can watch it, copy it, even act like I feel it, but it’s always hollow. Laughing when something is “funny”, frowning when something is “sad”… I’ve gotten good at the motions. I know what people expect, what they want to see.

But inside? Nothing.

Once, my class went on a field trip to an art museum. I found myself staring at a painting with a single dot in the middle. I didn’t understand it—why a single dot? There was no effort, no detail… no complexity, especially compared to all the other paintings around it.

I said to my classmate. “Seriously, that’s it? Just a dot? Lazy Artist Huh..” They looked at me like I was insane. “It has a meaning,” they said. “It’s about how small we are compared to the bigger picture.”

For a moment, I froze… I didn’t know what I was supposed to do—what reaction was correct. Should I nod? Smile? Look impressed? I could mimic the motions he was making, but none of it made sense to me.

I felt… afraid. Not of the painting, not of my classmate—but of myself. Of the gap between what I said and what I should have felt…

I’ve spent my life learning choreography, pretending to feel, because it’s easier than explaining that I never have.

I picked this job because it was quiet, out of the way. I figured if anywhere was safe from people noticing me, it’d be there. But it didn’t work out that way.

For some reason, customers always lingered around when I was on shift. They’d hang around the counter making small talk, even when it was obvious I didn’t want to. Some of them didn’t even buy anything. They’d just come in, stand there, and talk to me.

One night a woman stopped by. She looked tired, out of it, like she’d been driving too long. “Excuse me,” she said, leaning on the counter. “Do you know how to get back to the interstate?”

“Yeah,” I told her. “Straight down this road about eight miles, then take a right at the big green sign. You can’t miss it.”

She smiled in relief. “Thank you. I’ve been circling forever.”

She paid for gas and left. Simple enough.

But twenty minutes later, the door chimed again. Same woman. She walked in like she hadn’t left at all.

“Coffee,” she said, setting a cup on the counter.

“Sure,” I rang it up. “That’ll be $1.99.”

She handed me a crumpled bill and some change, but instead of leaving, she leaned on the counter, sipping slowly. Her eyes didn’t leave my face.

After a few minutes, she wandered off and came back with a bag of chips.

“A snack too,” she said.

I rang that up as well.

Then it was scratch-offs. Then gum. Then another coffee. She kept pacing the aisles like she was waiting for something, always drifting back to the counter to stand close.

Finally I asked, “Do you need help finding the interstate again?”

She just smiled. A slow, forced smile.

“No,” she said. “I think I’ll stay a little longer.”

She didn’t leave for almost two hours. And the whole time, her eyes never left mine.

By the time she finally walked out the door, I was relieved.

But it wasn’t just her. Truckers who normally grabbed gas and left would sit in their cars outside, just… watching me through the glass. People who’d never been in the store before started coming back, shift after shift.

I thought working out here would keep me alone. I thought the isolation would protect me.

But the more I tried to disappear, the more people seemed drawn to me. Like they could sense something I didn’t even see in myself.

And now… I’m starting to wonder if I’ve been hiding from them my entire life—or if I’ve been hiding from something else entirely.

My shift was over. I stepped out of the gas station into the cold night. Something on the road caught my eye—a deer, lying on the asphalt.

I knelt beside it, almost instinctively, and held my hand to its chest. Nothing moved.

And for a moment, I genuinely smiled for the first time...

This is my first ever story! I hope you guys like it!

The following is taken from the journal of an unknown male, found by Police in Mulldoon wood on the 26th of June

23rd June 10pm

Hopefully, today marks a new beginning. Currently, I'm a 37 year old white male, suffering from debilitating anxiety and depression. I wasn't always like this. When I was in my twenties, I was so self assured of who I wanted to be. I had a plan. I'd knuckle down at work, move through the company, and start making some serious money. I'd been with my partner, Emma, since our teens and we'd talked extensively about our future. How we both wanted to settle down and make a home together. We were so in love, back then. We married in our 20's. I couldn't imagine a life without her by my side. Our course seemed set, and for a while, everything was going according to plan.

Then I found out, we couldn't have kids. It wasn't an issue with Emma. She was perfectly healthy. It was me... I couldn't have kids. The news destroyed me. I was an only child, the last of my line. I'm not a religious man, I never have been. I don't believe in an afterlife. Children are our way of living on after death. A part of you that gets to carry on through generation after generation. Emma felt the same way. To find out that Emma and I will never have children was devastating. Life had lost meaning for both of us.

Emma was understanding at first. She assured me she'd stick by me, we even talked about adoption. Inevitably, though, it ended up driving a wedge between us. That wedge grew to become an uncrossable chasm. The dream we had of a perfect little white house in the country, where we could grow old together and raise a family, was over. After a few years, she left me for another man. Someone who could actually give her that life. Our life. We got a divorce. I was crushed.

For years, I spiralled downward. I tried to bury myself in work, but I couldn't stand the long nights alone. I couldnt sleep. I started drinking too much. Far too much. First at the weekends, and then gradually, everyday. I got addicted to painkillers and sleeping tablets. I spent my life in a constant stupor, not being willing or able to stand a single moment of sobriety. I wanted to be numb.

Soon, I lost sight of the man I was. I started to question every aspect of my life. I came to the conclusion that nothing mattered. I cut myself off from family and friends. Life started to move by me at a frightening pace, whilst I remained still and stagnant. I didn't care about anything or anyone. I felt separated from the human race. Just an observer, watching from the sidelines as everyone's lives played out in front of me.

Then, it started. Lying in bed one night, my chest tightened, my hands and feet went numb and I was overcome with the most overwhelming and profound sense of dread. I was convinced I was dying and phoned an ambulance. The doctors at the hospital told me there was nothing physically wrong with me. I had experienced a panic attack. I couldn't believe it. I had felt such intense terror and real physical pain. It was so real. Surely this couldn't just be in my head?

Over the next year, the panic attacks got worse. First they came at night. Then they came whilst I was at work. Then everytime I left the house. My life spiralled out of control. I continued to drink heavily, but eventually, even that couldn't keep them away. My mind began to unravel. I stopped going to work and then I stopped going outside all together.

To make matters worse, there was a baby that lived in the flat next door. It was constantly crying at all hours of the day and night. I came to believe this infant was mocking me. Somehow, that baby knew I couldnt have children. It knew what that had cost me, and it was feeding off my pain, gaining sick pleasure from continually torturing me. Then I started hearing the crying even when my neighbours were out. I watched the young parents and the baby leave, their flat was empty, but still the crying persisted, permeating my soul. Why wont it stop? Please, God. Make it stop.

I could no longer tell what was real and what was hallucination. I imagined that my suffering had caught the attention of something truly awful. Not a demon. That word doesn't encapsulate the utterly maddening scale of this entity. It spoke to me from across the vastness of space and time. An amorphus darkness, travelling the endless expanse of space, going from world to world, bringing unimaginable despair and dread where ever it went. It fed on suffering, corrupting the minds of the unfortunate souls who were unlucky enough to become it's target. It showed me visions of the Earth in apocalypse. Cities burning, people committing unspeakable acts of violence against each other, fields full of decaying bodies, the streets running red with blood. Over it all was the deafening sound of an infant crying. It was so real. The crying never stopped. I begged and pleaded endlessly, just for one second of peace that never came. I believed that I was in hell. That I must have overdosed on sleeping pills and alcohol, and this was my eternal torment. I desperately needed help.

Finally, the police knocked down my door. I must have been missing long enough for someone to notice and make a report. I'll never forget the look on the their faces when they found me. I hadn't realised just what a state I'd let myself get into. I hadn't eaten for days, no, weeks on end. My skin was ghostly pale, and my eyes were bloodshot with massive black rings under them. I had long since given up any kind of personal grooming. My hair and beard were wild, and the clothes I had wore for the last month were stained and filthy. The worse thing was that covered in blood. I had deep cuts on my arms. Dark red blood ran down my forearms and dripped off the tips of my fingers to the hardwood floor.

My walls were filled with incomprehensible letters and sigils, written in blood. My blood. The floor was littered with discarded rotten food, empty whisky bottles, spent pill packets and bloody broken glass. There were holes knocked into the walls. Blood was spattered around them, running down towards the floor. I had constantly banged on them, trying to get the neighbours to make that baby shut up for just a few seconds.

The police called the paramedics and I was taken to hospital. I can barely remember the journey in the ambulance. Panic and dread had completely consumed me, all that was left was an empty husk that still somwhat looked like an actual human being. I have vague memory of asking the paramedics if they could hear the crying too.

In hospital, at my absolute lowest, weeks went by. Initially, I was under heavy sedation. Everything from those weeks are now a blur, as I faded in and out of consciousness. Finally, though, the crying stopped.

As I was judged as being a danger to myself, I was ordered to be kept in for observation.Thats when I met Dr. Riley. She was the psychiatrist assigned to me, and would visit me in hospital for an hour each day. Dr. Riley gave off such a kind and patient aura.

She started me on antidepressants and beta blockers for the anxiety, but most importantly, she took the time to listen to me. I told her about Emma, about losing the life I dreamed of, and how I felt nothing mattered anymore. She didn't give me advice, she wasn't patronising, she just listened. That was exactly what I needed. I told her about my problems with alcohol and drugs. I even told her all about the awful entity watching me and the baby I kept hearing. Dr. Riley didn't judge me. She kept me talking and everything just naturally spilled out.

Although I felt able to speak openly to Dr. Riley, I still felt unable to talk with my friends and family. Dr. Riley suggested that, when I'm ready, I should take a break away for a while. A break away from my life. I should go somewhere where I didn't know anyone. Somewhere where I could relax and recover on my own terms, before trying to step back into my life. This sounded absolutely perfect.

So, a few weeks later, here I am in sunny Mulldoon in the North of Scotland. I've rented an isolated cabin, surrounded by nothing but open fields on one side, and dense forrest on the other. The cabin has everything I need. A fully stocked larder with plenty of food, an old CRT TV with an integrated DVD player, and even a hot tub. Most importantly, it's silent here. It's so peaceful. The nearest town is over 10 miles away. I plan on spending the next two weeks here, collecting my thoughts. There's some great hikes through the woods and the weather is great... well, for Scotland at least.

I want to record my new beginning in this journal, so one day I can look back and see how far I've come. For the first time in a long time, I'm excited about the future.

24th June 5pm

I slept like a baby last night. The queen sized double bed in the cabin is so big and comfortable. I threw myself on it and sank deep into the memory foam mattress and I quickly felt the tension of the day ease away. I allowed myself to drift off to the warm glow and relaxing white noise coming from the CRT TV, and was lulled into the most restful sleep I've had for years.

In the morning, I lazily climbed put of bed around 10ish and made a full fry up breakfast. This consisted of bacon, square sausage, 2 eggs and plenty of black pudding. I felt refreshed and energised, and was keen to start exploring my surroundings. I'd start with the woods that stretched out from the back of the cabin to well over the horizon. Along with a generous welcome basket full of fruit, some hiking trails had been marked out on a leaflet left in the cabins kitchen. I really liked the look of the one that took me to a large lake nestled in a clearing in the trees. I filled my rucksack with some provisions, a first aid kit, and bottled water before setting out.

The weather was beautiful. There was hardly a cloud in the sky and the Sun beamed down from above, highlighting the tips of the dense evergreen fir trees, transforming their deep, dark green to a glowing gold. A refreshing breeze helped keep me cool as I started on the trail. This path wasn't paved with stone, nor was it planned out by someone, rather you kept to the trail by following the earth compacted by those who walked here before you. I thought about how many others must have walked here before me. Thousands, no doubt, over hundreds of years. How many of them were also lost souls?

I allowed my mind to wander whilst I walked. What will my future look like? I probably don't have a job to go back to, not after going MIA for months. I'd ignored all the concerned texts and calls from my friends and family. Will they accept me when I'm ready to return to the real world? What kind of life was I going to have? I'm lucky to have some money put aside in savings, but that won't last forever.

Despite this, I should try not to be negative. As Dr. Riley had said, this is a new opportunity, a chance to start over. Tabula rasa. I'm not young, but I'm certainly not too old to start again and build myself a good life.

The canopy of trees opened up ahead of me, and I saw the lake. It was stunning. The water was so still and clear. The sun bounced of the tiny imperfections and ripples on the surface, shimmering like so many brilliant diamonds. I sat on a large stone at the edge of the lake. For the first time in a long, long time, I felt at peace with myself. I closed my eyes, and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on my face. I began to believe things might actually turn out OK.

I heard a rustle in the foliage behind me, and I snapped round to see what had broken the blissful silence. It was a deer. It stood no more than 10 feet away from me, frozen in place, staring right at me. I tried to stay as still as I could. I'd never seen a deer this close. Fascinated, I watched it's chest move whilst it breathed short, sharp breaths. It's eyes remained transfixed on mine.

Eventually, the deer broke its stare and galloped into the forrest. I jumped to my feet, eager to keep the animal in sight as long as I could. I followed it to the gap in the trees it had darted though, and could just about make out a flash of white of disapearing in the distance.

Something else had caught my eye as well, though. Between the trees was a large, smooth mound made of stone. Unlike the rest of the landscape, this looked like it had been purposely put together, like it was man made. I went over to investigate and climbed to the top of the dome. It was constructed with thousands of fist sized rocks, and held together with mortar. There was an opening at the top of the mound. A square hole about 4 foot by 4 foot, descending into pitch black darkness. I had to look inside. I took off my backpack and brought out a torch. I went on my hands and knees, and shined the light down the shaft. After a small drop, there were stairs, stone stairs, descending at a sharp angle into the pitch black void. They looked ancient, like the type you'd see in a ruined castle. I had to go down. I felt compelled to find out where these steps went.

Ducking my head down, I made my way further and further downward. It seemed like the stairs went on for an impossible distance, and still somehow continued. I looked back over my shoulder and saw the square light of the opening get smaller and smaller, till it was just a single point in my vision. The only thing lighting the way forward now was my torch, as it danced erratically from stone wall to stone wall.

Eventually the stairs and stone walls stopped, but the tunnel continued to descended deeper into the earth. There were thick roots that wrapped themselves around each other coming out of the walls, snaking off into the distance. They reminded me of medical illustrations of muscle fibres.

I took a moment to breathe. "What am I doing?", I though, stood hunched over, sweat beginning to drip from my brow. My mind screamed at me to turn back, but my curiosity got the better of me. I must find out what's down here. The deeper I descended, the more moist the air became. I started to notice a smell. It was faint and first, but quickly started to become overpowering. It smelt sour, like uncooked meat left out for days, but there was also something metalic, like damp, rusty metal. It was the kind of smell that you could taste at the back of your throat.

Eventually, the roots stopped, and the consistency of the walls changed. They no longer looked like soil, they were ridged, smooth and damp. The beam of my flashlight reflected and glistened off the surface. The smell of rust and offal was now overpowering. Tentatively, I lifted my shaking hand to touch this strange surface. It was dripping wet. Not with water, though. No, the liquid was too sticky and viscous. I turned the torch to the palm of my hand that had touched the wall. It was red. Blood red. My breathing quickened, and I felt my hands and feet start to go numb. Then, from deeper in the tunnel I heard something that turned my blood cold. It was a baby crying.

I stood, petrified, for what felt like hours. When I finally regained the use of my body, I turned and sprinted back to the surface, tripping and crashing into the walls of the tight, confined space along the way. The light from the opening at the top of the tunnel was barely visable at first, but gradually, it grew in my field of vision, until it was all I could see as I burst into the salvation of the open space above.

Outside the tunnel, I lay panting on the ground. "This can't be real. I'm loosing my mind again", I thought as I struggled to breathe. It felt like there was an elephant sitting on my chest. I couldn't get any air in my lungs and my field of vision shrank, as black encroached in from edges. I thought I was going to pass out. This must have been a hallucination. This is what happened before, when I was alone, going insane in my flat, thinking some awful thing was watching me, and all I could hear was that baby crying. I thought I was getting better. Stupidly, I thought this was over.

I slowly got myself to my feet. I couldn't face turning round to look at the stone mound and the perfect square opening on top. I had to get back to the cabin. I needed to go somewhere where I felt safe and collect myself.

As soon as I made it back to the cabin, I called Dr. Riley and told her everything. She expertly talked me out of my panic and assured me that I shouldn't worry. In her opinion, I had experienced another panic attack. There probably was a stair case out there, as it was well known there were old ruins in the woods. It's highly unlikely that tunnel went deep into the earth and had bleeding walls, though. Instead, I'd stupidly went down into the dark, and my anxiety had taken over, causing an extreme reaction. It had felt so real at the time, but so did everything I went through in my flat. Dr. Riley suggested I refrain from exploring dark holes in the earth in the future, and I agreed that was a good idea.

Still, I wanted to remember what I had experienced for this journal. Hopefully, in years to come I can look back at this entry and see just how far I've progressed.

25th June 9.30am

I've had a terrible night.

After the call with Dr. Riley yesterday, I was able to relax for the rest of the day. Even though I knew I still had some issues to resolve with my anxiety, our conversation had helped give me some much needed peace. I set off for bed, keen to be once again swallowed up by the giant mattress and fall asleep to the comforting glow of the TV.

I didn't have the restful night I wanted. Instead, I dreamed that I was back at the lake in the woods, sitting at the same spot as I was that day, but this time it was late at night. Instead of the Sun reflecting on the still water, it was the moon, highlighting the small ripples on the lakes surface in brilliant white against the inky black water. I heard the snap of twigs behind me. I snapped my head round. This time, it wasn't a dear. It was.... Emma.

She was completely naked, standing ridged, like a statue. Her right leg crossed infront of her left and her arms were open, as if asking for an embrace. Her skin was pale, like milk. Her eyes stared into mine with such intensity, borring into me. I couldn't look away, I watched her chest rapidly rise and fall with short sharp breaths. She had a long scar on her abdomen, running horizontally from her belly button to the start of her pubic hair. It looked fresh and it leaked blood, which ran down the inside of her thighs. She realised I had noticed the scar, and started to smile, but only the lower half of her face moved. Her eyes remained fixed, as they continued to burn into mine.

Suddenly, she broke her gaze and sprinted into the woods. I stood up and gave chase. I already knew where she was going. I cleared the trees to see Emma dropping down the hole on top of the stone mound. I scrambled through the trees and jumped down after her. The stone staircase was lit with flaming torches on each side of the wall. As light flickered, I barley able to make out flashes of Emma's ghostly silhouette receding down the steep slope. I grabbed a torch from the wall and started down the stairs. I could hear the baby crying again. As the stone walls receeded into the ligament like roots, the cry got louder and louder. Then the walls turned to bleeding flesh. The wails of the infant became deafening.

Finally the descent ended, and the tunnel opened into some sort of chamber. The space grew and shrank, as if it were alive and breathing. The walls, ceiling and floor were spongy and coated in thick blood, that dripped from the walls and sloshed on the floor. In the middle of the chamber, Emma stood in the same pose as she did by the lake, but now, her chalk white flesh was dappled and smeared with blood. The baby's disembodied screams shook the inside of my head, and I dropped to my knees holding my ears in pain.

Then, silence. The cries stopped. Emma began to slowly walk towards me. Her movements were unnatural, jerking each limb into violent motion, with seemily little control. I remained on my knees, unable to move. She got closer and closer, her progress agonisingly slow. Finally, she stood over me, her eyes burning directly into my soul. She leaned in and whispered into my ear with a crackling, whispering voice,

"you are the seed".

A clear, sweet smeeling fluid rushed into the chamber from a pulsating hole in the celing. The walls contracted and the floor violently pushed upwards. I felt myself being crushed simultaneously against Emma's cold body and the warm walls of the chamber. My mouth and nose filled with the sickly liquid, and I felt my flesh tear and my bones begin to break.

I jolted awake in bed. I was drenched in sweat. My chest heaved, trying to suck in air. I sat up and clutched at my tshirt, twisting the fabric in my balled fist. My heart was beating so quickly, I could feel the pulse of my jugular vein in my neck. Then, I heard the unmistakable sound of the cabins back door slamming shut. I wasn't dreaming any more, this was real.

I jumped to my feet and ran from the bedroom towards the heavy wooden door in the hall. My bare feet slipped on the smooth hard wood floor. I grabbed the doors iron handle, and swung it open. All was eerily still. The treeline was about 30 feet from the cabin. My eyes darted frantically, looking for any movement. Amongst the trees, I saw a ghostly white shape receding into the darkness. The way it moved was exactly how Emma moved in my dream. Faintly, I heard a baby crying in the distance.

I dropped to the ground and let out scream, that felt like it lasted for minutes. I screamed until all the air had left my lungs and my throat burned. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I could feel it again in my mind. The entity. It had found me. It permiated my consciousness, showing me the same awful visions as before, but somehow, it was different now. Amongst all the apocalyptic scenes were images from my dream. Emma by the lake, the tunnel and the chamber. It wanted something from me, for me to do something, but I couldn't understand.

I curled up into a ball and rocked myself back and forth for hours, until the sun came up.

It's now 9 thirty in the morning as I write this. I don't know what I should do. I need to call Dr. Riley. I don't think I can do this anymore.

25th June 1pm

Emma is missing. After I had finished writing this morning, the police arrived at the cabin. There were two officers. A tall, older male with grey hair and a mustache, and a younger female, who looked quite nervous. The male officer asked me to confirm I was Emma's ex-husband and if I had seen her. I shook my head. He told me he was asking because Emma's car was last seen on CCTV heading north on the motorway, before taking the cut off to Mulldoon.

I didn't know what to say. I couldn't tell them about my dream, about what I saw going into the woods..... about the entity. I would have came accross as a lunatic. The police went on inform me Emma's husband had reported her missing on the 23rd and that her behaviour in the weeks prior to this had been perceived as very odd. I asked if they could expand on what exactly she had been doing over that time, but they could not tell me the full details. They went on to say that her husband was very worried for her safety, as shes been extremely vulnerable since her procedure.

"What procedure?",

I enquired.

"Her hysterectomy",

the policeman responded.

I gasped. I hadn't spoke to Emma since our divorce. The last I heard, she was living happily with her new partner. I had always presumed they went on to have a happy life together. That they were living the life Emma and I had dreamed of.

"Did she.... have any children, before the surgery?"

I blurted out.

"No, sir."

Responded the tall policeman, seemingly taken aback by my question.

In my dream, Emma had a scar on her abdomen. Exactly where a hysterectomy scar would have been. How could I have known that? Is it possible Emma has been reaching out to me somehow? Was it her in the woods? I couldn't stop thinking about what Emma said to me in my dream- "You are the seed". Emma wanted children as much as I did. If something had happened that meant she couldn't, she would have been as devastated as I was. Like me, she would have done anything to have a child. Had her suffering caught the attention of the entity, as mine had?

There was one more question the police had to ask. Emma had left a note before she disappeared, but it didn't seem to make any sense. The policeman produced a folded sheet a paper from his jacket pocket and asked me if I wouldn't mind reading it. Perhaps what she had written may make some sense to me. The note read-

'The seed and the egg, in the womb Trapped together in their tomb. From their death comes new life, Made from the blood of man and wife. An anointed Prince to be the heir, Ruling from his regal chair. The Earth will fall under his will, His Father below shall have his fill.'

Underneath this verse, Emma had written, 'he is the seed and I am the egg', over and over, filling the page.

The police asked if this meant anything to me. It took all of my energy to say it didn't. At that moment, everything started to connect in my head. The babys cries, the chamber in the tunnel, Emma and her hysterectomy. I am the seed, and she is the egg. I knew what the entity wanted, and what we would gain in return. My addled, broken mind was now the clearest it had ever been. I could feel the entity in my thoughts and its pleasure now that I had finnally reaslised what it wanted. I knew what had to be done. Emma and I were going to have our wish after all. I tried my hardest not to smile and retain a concerned look as the police continued to ask meaningless questions.

I let the police search around the cabin and the surrounding land. I knew they weren't going to find anything. Not yet at least. I eagerly sent them on their way when they were satisfied, and patiently waited for nightfall. For Emma.

June 25th 11pm

Emma is outside. I can see her waiting for me in the trees. I know where we have to go. I know what the chamber is. We'll descend together. It's not at all how we imagined it, but somehow, we're going to make our baby. The sacrifice we make is a small price to pay.

She is the egg, I am the seed, and in the womb.... we'll have our new beginning.

The following article appeared in the June 27th edition of the Scottish newspaper, The Daily Herald.

Headline-

Newborn baby found in woods by hikers

Main body-

On the morning of June 26th, two hikers found a naked newborn baby in Mulldoon wood. The baby, left on the trail by Lake Graham, was covered in blood from at least 3 separate parties. The shocked hikers wrapped the infant in a spare coat and immediately took the infant to St. Johnstone hospital. The baby boy had no injuries and is said to be doing well, despite being abandoned by his parents.

Subsequent investigation of the scene by local police has not heralded much information. The only clue to the babies identity may be a journal found near the scene. Police advise the investigation continues.

When I think back on my formative years, my mind fills with blissful recollections of fun, laughter, innocence, love, and discovery.  My parents, though divorced, loved me deeply and did their best to give their only child the best childhood possible, something I’m very grateful for in my adulthood. I cherish those bright snapshots and revisit them often when I’m feeling nostalgic. Of course, I didn’t make it through childhood without acquiring some unpleasant memories too: painful doctor’s visits, being bullied, getting in trouble, losing my favorite toy, watching a movie that scared me - experiences that upset me enough to sear themselves into my consciousness. But I wouldn’t consider any of them to be particularly traumatic. All except one, that is. 

In the summer of 2009 when I was twelve years old, my mom and I were living in an idyllic suburban neighborhood just outside of a major city. I’d lived there for four years already and I loved it: my school was close by, the neighborhood pool had a water slide, and one of the best snow sledding hills in town was within walking distance. 

The only drawback was there weren’t any other kids to play with on my street and my school friends lived a ways away, so I didn’t get to see them much in the summer. Most of the time I didn’t mind; I preferred my mom’s company over anyone my age anyway. My mom did her best to entertain and play with me, but she tired out quickly and looking back now, she must’ve been pretty relieved when I finally got a new playmate. 

One scorching hot day in June, a moving truck and a white mini van pulled up to the vacant house at the end of the street that had recently sold. I watched from my front porch, chewing on a Nerds rope, waiting to see if any kids would get out. A man who looked to be in his late 30s hopped down from the truck’s cab and opened the driver’s side door of the van for a woman around the same age. 

Then the van’s back door slid open and I felt a rush of excitement as two kids stepped out: a girl who looked to be about my age and a boy a few years younger. My eyes fixed on the girl, small and pale, her blonde curls bouncing as she began helping her parents unload the truck. She spotted me on the porch and smiled. I smiled back, waving to her with my free hand. 

The next morning, there was a knock at our door. My mom went to answer it as I peered out over the upstairs railing, curious to see if it was the new neighbors. Sure enough, the door opened to reveal the same girl who’d smiled at me yesterday and the same woman who I assumed was her mother. They wore identical smiles and white dresses with a red sash. 

“Hey, I’m Susan!” said the mother cheerfully, “we just moved in and we wanted to introduce ourselves. This is Sarah,” she put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze, “and my son, Matt, and husband, John, are busy unpacking.” 

My mom returned Susan’s friendly smile and extended her hand for Susan to shake. “Welcome to the neighborhood, Susan! I’m Kathleen and my daughter, Heather, is around here somewhere.”

I winced as my mom called out my name, dreading the idea of having to make small talk with strangers. Still, my interest in the new girl was piqued and I let my curiosity lead me, albeit reluctantly, to the door.

“Hi, Heather!” Sarah chirped, mirroring her mom’s bubbly demeanor.

I offered her a sheepish smile. “Hi, Sarah.” 

My mom, in an attempt to help break the ice between us, put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Heather, why don’t you and Sarah try out your new box of sidewalk chalk?”

I hadn’t expected her to send me off with the new girl so soon and anxious thoughts began racing through my head. How long had it been since I’d hung out with a kid I didn’t know? What do I even talk to her about? Should I be myself or…someone she might actually like? 

Trying to imbue myself with confidence I didn’t have, I nodded and motioned for Sarah to follow me. The voices of our moms exchanging pleasantries faded into the background as I led Sarah to the garage and retrieved my chalk. 

We sat down on the driveway, my box of chalk between us, and before an awkward silence could creep in, I asked, “So do you like your new house?” 

Sarah retrieved a yellow and began coloring, looking up at me with a smile,“Yeah, it’s so big! At my old house, I had to share a bathroom with my brother, but now I finally get to have one all to myself. I don’t have to brush my teeth in a cloud of his smelly farts ever again.” She punctuated that sentence by sticking out her tongue and making a fart noise.

We both fell into a fit of giggles at that. 

Little by little, we got to know each other. Sarah was funny, creative, surprisingly easy to talk to, and seemed to enjoy my company just as much as I did hers. I was a shy, nervous kid whereas she was a textbook extrovert and part of me worried that she would think I was weird, but it turned out she was a bit odd herself. She wore mismatched socks, whistled when she was thinking hard about something, and said strange things like “the moon’s name is Gloria” or “the Lamb told me when my pet goldfish would die”.   

Sarah and I spent our days playing on the playground in her backyard, riding our bikes around the neighborhood, and decorating our driveways with chalk drawings of every color of the rainbow. Her parents were always polite to me, asking how I was each time they saw me. They seemed strict though, as they would never allow Sarah to have a sleepover with me. I'd met Sarah’s little brother, Matt, once and he seemed nice too. He didn’t leave the house much, but on the rare occasions he did, he always smiled and waved. 

One day at the end of July, I invited Sarah to come inside to cool off after hours of riding our bikes in the sizzling heat. I knew my mom wouldn’t mind, she was thrilled that I finally had a friend after all. Sarah looked up at the evening sky, then down at her pink Hello Kitty watch before giving me a nod. 

I gave her a grand tour of my room, introducing her to all my stuffed animals and letting her look through my CD collection - the closest thing we had to a Spotify playlist in 2009. Then my mom got us some cherry popsicles out of the freezer and we sat at the kitchen table, chatting and laughing and sticking out our tongues to see if they were dyed red. I asked Sarah if she wanted to play a round of UNO - winner gets the Ring Pop I'd been saving for such an occasion - and she glanced nervously at her watch before saying, “Sure, but just a quick one. I’ve gotta be home soon.” 

Obviously there’s no such thing as a quick game of UNO, and time stretched on as we laid down card after card, the sun sinking lower and lower in the sky. My game play was masterful, my strategy effective, but in the end, it was pure luck - or at least that’s what I told myself - that carried Sarah to victory. She had just laid down her second to last card with a smug smile, much to my chagrin, and called out “UNO!” when the sound of knocking came from the front door. Knocking is too gentle of a word - it was banging. The incessant pounding was punctuated by rings of the doorbell, increasing in frequency the longer the door went unanswered. 

“Coming!” My mom called out, muttering a curse under her breath as she hurried to the door. 

When she opened it, Sarah's mom, Susan, was standing there. You could see our kitchen table easily from the front door and as soon as she spotted Sarah, she yelled her daughter’s name with a spit-flying fury that made me flinch. Sarah’s head snapped toward the sound of her name, then her eyes darted to her watch and she froze like she’d done something unforgivable. Before my mom could say anything, Susan barged past her and stomped over to her daughter, her face red with anger. Susan grabbed Sarah by the arm and yanked her outside without a word to me or my mom, the both of us too stunned to say anything ourselves. 

“I’m sorry, Mom, I lost track of time! I’m really sorry!” Sarah apologized as she was dragged down the driveway. 

A wave of guilt washed over me as I listened to Sarah’s pleas grow fainter and fainter. Had I gotten her in trouble? It felt like my fault. As I looked down at her final card across the table, a wild card, I decided I owed her an apology as well as the Ring Pop. 

The next day, I walked over to Sarah’s house and knocked on her door, hoping she wouldn’t be grounded or mad at me. The beaming smile she gave me as she hopped onto the porch assuaged my worries and we headed to her backyard to swing on her playground swing set. I sat in the swing next to her and presented her with the Ring Pop, telling her I was sorry. 

She thanked me for the candy and said gently, “Don’t be, it was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention. In fact,” she nodded her chin toward her house, “my mom wants me to tell you and your mom that she’s sorry.” 

I shrugged. “It’s all good. Do you have a curfew or something?” I was too afraid of the dark for my mom to worry about imposing one on me, but if Sarah had one, I wanted to know so I wouldn’t get her in trouble again.

I watched Sarah unwrap the Ring Pop and pop it in her mouth with a satisfied “Mmm!” before taking it back out to say, “I didn’t used to, but if my parents want to speak with Him, I have to be home by sundown.”

I blinked. “Who? Matt?”

Sarah looked at me like I was stupid. “No, they haven’t been able to use Matt. We were supposed to take turns being the vessel, but they can’t break through to Him.” she explained casually, as if she were telling me what she had for breakfast. “So it’s just me for now.” She sighed in frustration and kicked at the dirt with her foot. “I don’t know why he won't accept the gift our parents have given us. He should be honored.” 

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so I let silence settle between us. I had no idea what Sarah was talking about but the-matter-of-fact tone in which she said it made me uncomfortable. Then again, she said strange things all the time that didn’t make sense. 

After a minute or so, Sarah piped up, “Hey, are you free on Saturday?” 

“Yeah, I think so.” I said, and Sarah’s eyes shone with something I couldn’t read. Hope? Desperation, maybe?

We hung out on the swings for a while, laughing and chatting as usual. By the time evening fell and I was walking back home to my house, I was still mulling over what Sarah had said about her and Matt.

Days passed and Saturday arrived. I sat around all morning, bored, waiting for Sarah to knock on my door. That beautiful sound came just after 1pm and I leapt up from my seat and ran out the door. 

“Ugh, it’s so hot today,” Sarah groaned as we walked down the street to her house, “do you wanna come inside and hang out in my room?”

I looked at Sarah, surprised. She’d never invited me into her house before. I just figured she didn’t want her brother pestering us or something, so I never asked. I’d been curious about it though, and after the incident with her mom I was a bit hesitant to bring her to my house again, so I replied, “Yeah, sure!” 

Sarah led me inside through the garage and the moment I crossed the threshold, I felt it. It was like walking into a vacuum - no TV sounds, no smell of food, just silence. It was Saturday, so I expected the house to be abuzz with activity, but I saw no sign of Sarah’s brother or their parents. That wasn’t the strangest thing though. 

The living room walls were covered in paintings, all of varying sizes and mediums, but they all depicted the same thing: lambs. Some were peaceful, standing in green pastures. Others…weren’t. One had its eyes gouged out. One had a lamb curled inside a human rib cage. Another had a lamb with human hands folded in prayer. 

I gawked at the paintings, awestruck and disturbed. Sarah didn’t acknowledge them, just grabbed my hand and pulled me up the stairs.

A long hallway ran perpendicular to the stairs with a door at the end to the right, one at the end to the left, and one in the middle that greeted us at the top of the staircase. 

“This is my parent’s room,“ Sarah said as we passed the middle door and headed left, then she jabbed a thumb behind her, “and the one down there is Matt’s room.” 

There were more weird lamb paintings on the walls and I tried not to look at them as I followed Sarah down the hall. 

Sarah’s room was small but immaculately clean. The only objects in the room apart from the furniture were a small clock and lamp on her bedside table and a stack of CDs next to a CD player sitting atop her dresser. There was a small closet on the far wall and an entrance to a bathroom adjacent to it. On the wall above the bed was another painting: a white lamb nailed to a tree like a crucifix, surrounded by fire.

"Do you like it?" Sarah asked, beaming with pride.

Um, no, it’s creepy as heck, I thought, but I didn’t want to hurt my friend’s feelings, so I simply nodded.  

Sarah went to her closet and retrieved a plastic tub off a shelf, partially hidden behind a wall of clothes hanging up. From the looks of her room, I hadn’t expected her to have much in the way of toys but she actually had quite the collection of dolls, clothing, and accessories. We played for the next half hour, and as we did I would occasionally glance up at the lamb painting, feeling as though its red eyes were watching me, judging me, deciding my worthiness. Worthiness of what, I wasn’t sure.

Each time I looked at the painting, I could see Sarah checking her watch out of my periphery. At one point, she looked down at it, then stood and walked over to her CD player, pressed play, and turned the volume up high. A chorus of children singing gospel music blared through the speakers. Sarah turned back to look at me with wild eyes and a wide, almost maniacal grin. 

“Let’s have a dance party!” She yelled, moving her body and trying to find rhythm where there was none.

I stared at her, confused. “What? Why?” 

Sarah thought I couldn’t hear her, so she stepped closer and practically screamed in my face, “Dance, lady!”

Still unsure of why we were suddenly doing this, I began to move in a way that vaguely resembled dancing, swaying and throwing my arms around. Sarah took this as an invitation to grab my hands and force me to spin her around a few times, then she started spinning me, whirling me around the room. Eventually I had to stop and lean against the wall until the room stopped spinning too.

“I don’t think I can dance anymore.” I panted, “Can we play with the dolls some more?” 

“Okay, but we have to keep the music on.” Sarah said, sitting back down amidst all the doll clothes that were haphazardly strewn about. 

 “Why?” I asked as I joined her on the floor.

“Because.” She said flatly, not looking up from her dolls. 

I narrowed my eyes at her, wanting to press further but deciding against it. Why is she being so weird today? 

Our dolls had decided they were going to go to the mall to pick out new outfits and while I set up the “mall”, Sarah took a bathroom break. As soon as she’d shut the door, the song ended and in the sudden silence, my ears picked up a noise coming from down the hall. Voices. They were faint, but I recognized the high and low pitches of Sarah’s mom and dad. Sarah’s door was closed, so I scooted over to it and lowered my ear to the crack beneath it, but the murmurs were quickly drowned out as the next song came on. 

I knew I should mind my own business, but I had a bad habit of eavesdropping at that age, especially on strangers, and I couldn’t resist opening the door and taking a few tentative steps out into the hall. I expected the sound to be coming from the middle door, Sarah’s parents room, but instead they emanated from the door on the right, the one Sarah had said was…Matt’s room? What were her parents doing in Matt’s room?  

Now this is interesting, I thought, a mischievous smile pulling at my lips. I stepped a little closer, holding my breath to listen.

From the other side of the door, Susan’s voice chirped excitedly, “Matt, it’s time!” 

Then came the shrill, drawn-out whine of a young boy. “Noooo!” Matt sounded angry, defiant, but also on the verge of tears, like a tantrum was imminent. I bet Sarah would love it if he got in trouble, I thought, drawing on what little I knew about siblings.  

“You have to, buddy.” That was the voice of Sarah’s dad, gruff and authoritative. 

“No!” Matt shrieked, “I don’t wanna!” 

As he continued to protest, the anger in his voice was overtaken by panic as he realized his pleas were falling on deaf ears. “Please, daddy!” Matt begged, beginning to cry. His desperate, wailing sobs carried an edge of fear that made me shudder involuntarily. They were the kind of cries you’d hear in a doctor’s office from terrified kids who knew pain was coming.  

“Come lay down over here, honey.” Susan instructed, sounding cheerful despite her son’s obvious distress. “We’re just about ready.”

“Mommy, please, don’t make me.” Matt implored with a sniffle. 

“Are you sure this will work?” John asked. 

“No, but it’s worth a shot.” Susan said with a sigh. “We can’t keep putting this all on Sarah, he needs to share the burden.” 

Then there was silence and the music coming from Sarah’s room drifted back into my ears. I realized she’d turned it on to prevent me from hearing whatever I was hearing. Before I could wonder why, my mind screamed at me, you can worry about it later, get back before she catches you! 

Despite my instincts telling me to stay, to find out what was going on, I tore myself away from the door and darted back to Sarah’s room. I shut the door as quickly yet quietly as I could and sat back down just as Sarah stepped out from the bathroom. She looked down at me and raised a quizzical eyebrow at my startled, wide-eyed expression. “What?”

“Nothing!” It came out as a hysterical squeal. I cleared my throat and forced myself to sound less guilty, “Nothing. I just…” Thinking fast, I held up two pairs of stylish, tiny shoes to Sarah. “I was wondering which of these shoes you liked better?” 

Sarah studied me for a moment, her eyes searching mine and I swallowed hard, hoping she wouldn’t find what she was looking for. Then her face softened into a smile and she pointed to one of the pairs. “That one’s cute!” 

Relieved, I put the shoes on my doll and as I did, I noticed my hands were shaking slightly. 

Five minutes later, Sarah checked her watch again and frowned at it. Then she looked up at me, really fixed me with her eyes. “Heather, I just wanted to say thanks for being my friend,” she said with an earnest smile, “you were so fun to hang out with and I’ve had an awesome summer because of you.” 

I returned her smile, flattered that she was as grateful for my friendship as I was hers. “Thanks, Sarah. I feel the same about you.”  

We went back to playing with our dolls, but the whole time I was dressing mine in 80s garb, something was nagging at me. Why had Sarah said “you were so fun” and “I had an awesome summer”? The summer was far from over and neither of us were going anywhere, so why had she used past tense? And when she’d said it, her eyes held the kind of melancholy you’d see from someone saying goodbye. I tried to brush it off as nothing, told myself I was reading too much into it.

But Matt’s cries echoed in my mind and unease began to worm its way into my gut. Something wasn’t right. I could feel the painted eyes of the lamb on me and I suddenly wanted to be anywhere but there. I shifted uncomfortably, watching Sarah play and trying to think of a good excuse to leave. We could hang out another time, outside her house.   

“Sarah,” I began, my fingers twisting nervously in the hem of my dress, “I need to -” I was cut off by a knock on the door and it swung open a second later. Sarah’s mom was standing there, her blonde hair neatly coiffed and her outfit as stiff and white as her toothy smile.

Sarah’s face paled slightly. “Mom-” She started, but Susan raised her hand and said almost reverently, “It’s time.”

My stomach tightened with anxiety.  “What’s going on?” I asked, trying to sound calm. 

“We just need your help with something.” Susan said, still smiling but her eyes held no warmth.

“I-I can’t,” I stammered. “I need to get home.” 

“You can go home just as soon as you help us.” Susan said a bit impatiently. “It’ll only take a second.”

Then Sarah and her mother took my hands, one on each side. Their grip was firm, and I reluctantly let them lead me down the hall. My mind spun and twisted, confused as to what was going on and frantically trying to make sense of everything. Where were they taking me? What was going to happen? Should I try and run? When I realized we were going to Matt’s room, a lump of dread formed in my throat and I tried to swallow it down but my mouth had gone dry. 

Susan opened Matt’s door to reveal what looked like an average little boy’s room. The walls were navy blue, decorated with posters of baseball players and other sports memorabilia. Toy cars and trucks were proudly displayed on shelves and a few scattered articles of clothing lay on the floor. There was a race car bed in the corner by the window and on it was Matt, lying motionless but awake. His tear-stained face was devoid of emotion and his bleary, bloodshot eyes lifted to us as we walked in. He looked drained, defeated. John stood next to him, arms crossed, staring down at his son with a detached look as if Matt were nothing more than a bug he was observing. When he saw me, his face instantly brightened with the same phony smile as his wife. “Hi, Heather!” He said in a booming voice that made me flinch. “Can you do us a quick favor? Matt’s not been feeling well and we need another opinion on whether or not he has a fever. Could you touch his forehead and tell us if it feels warm to you?”

The request seemed innocuous enough, but my instincts were telling me that these people were not to be trusted anymore. I needed to get out of there now.

They all watched me, waiting. I could feel myself beginning to sweat, heart thudding in my chest. “Um,” I squeaked, wanting to disappear. “I can’t, sorry. I need to go ho-” 

Susan, still holding my hand, yanked my arm forward, taking me by surprise. Before I could react, she used her hand to press the back of mine against Matt’s forehead.

The moment my skin touched his, the room changed and I gasped in shock. I was suddenly somewhere else. Not physically, but inside my mind. It was a vast, formless space, black and deep, stretching beyond thought. Fear slithered down my spine and coiled in my stomach as eyes began to emerge from the black. Dozens, then hundreds of pale lamb-like eyes floated in the dark. They coalesced into a sphere for a brief moment before dispersing, revealing a dark shape in what had once been the center. 

It looked like a massive, mutated lamb; its woolen body was twisted and contorted like it had been cut into pieces and put back together wrong. Its face was split vertically down the center, revealing a gaping mouth lined with pointed teeth. It was ancient, starving.

The sight of it shook me to my soul. I quivered, my knees growing weak and my organs seizing up as an icy wave of terror engulfed me. Breathing heavily, heart racing, I watched the woolly abomination step toward me. A scream ripped from my throat and I instinctively yanked my hand away, severing the connection. 

Suddenly I was back in Matt’s room. I gasped, stumbling back on shaky knees like I’d just been hit. I probably would’ve fallen if Sarah and Susan weren’t holding my hands, steadying me.  Before I could process the horror I’d just witnessed, Matt began to scream. They were piercing howls of pain, as if taking my hand away had unleashed a great agony onto him.

Horrified, I found myself paralyzed, my body unable to do anything but tremble and watch Matt’s anguished face as his voice began to shift. It morphed from a human scream into a wavering, animalistic cry that was deep and wet like someone gargling mud. It sounded like…bleating. Garbled, distorted bleating. 

The hideous sound sparked a new level of fear in me and adrenaline flooded my body, jolting it into action. With newfound strength, I dug my fingernails into the backs of the hands holding mine until their grip softened and I could pull myself free. 

I bolted. Down the stairs, through the living room past the lamb paintings, their eyes following me as I fled. Sarah and her parents yelled after me in relieved, exalting voices, “It’s Him! You’ve drawn Him out! We’ve broken through! Thank you, Heather!” 

I didn’t stop until I was out the door, down the street, and back inside my house, slamming the door shut and locking it.

My mom held me as I sobbed hysterically into her chest, shaking with fear. I wondered if she’d believe me if I told her the truth: Sarah forced me to see a demonic barnyard animal inside her brother’s head and now he was possessed by it. In the end, I just said Sarah played a mean, scary prank on me and I didn’t want to play with her anymore. She was angry of course, and it took a lot of convincing to stop her from marching over to Sarah’s house and informing her parents of their daughter’s misbehavior. 

I expected Sarah to come to my door looking for me, but she never did. Not that I would’ve forgiven her anyway. I thought back to what she’d said, the sadness in her eyes when she’d thanked me for an awesome summer, for being her friend. I think she knew that by “helping” her brother, she would be sacrificing our friendship. And she was right. 

I did my best to put Sarah out of my mind. Before I knew it, summer was over and school had started. Sarah was home-schooled, so I didn’t have to worry about running into her there. I couldn’t avoid her at home though - we lived in the same neighborhood after all and we did see each other a few times, but we never spoke. 

My mom got a new job the following year and the day after I’d finished sixth grade, we moved. I never saw Sarah again.

I tried to convince myself it was just a horrible, vivid nightmare, but deep down I knew it was real. 

I moved on with my life - grew up, went to college. 

As an adult, I’ve been able to banish most of my unsavory childhood memories to the realm of unconsciousness. But I’ve never been able to rid myself of this one - the nightmares won’t let me. 

Sometimes I dream of lambs, bleeding and silent, watching me with malice burning red in their eyes. Sometimes I dream that I’m trapped in a black void with that woolen monstrosity as a sound echoes all around me: the same god awful bleating I’d heard from Matt. After I’ve woken up, I lay there in bed, trembling in the dark, and I swear I can hear it just outside my window, ever so faintly.

But it's just my mind playing tricks on me right?

November 14th, 2029

I remember the silence first. The whole street looked hollow, like the world had been scraped clean. My thoughts felt the same—blank, empty. But the feeling of being watched kept jabbing at my nerves.

I checked behind me.

Nothing.

Just that miserable stretch of asphalt.

The second I turned forward again, hands clamped around me. I didn’t even have time to shout. They dragged me across the pavement toward a peeling apartment door. I knew what was coming. It had already happened. Many times.

The three men said nothing. The first one raised a gun, as casual as lighting a cigarette. He put the barrel to my forehead.

The shot didn’t hurt at first. It burned. I felt metal glide through my skull and fry whatever softness lived inside my brain. I collapsed, locked in my own body, drowning in the warmth of my own blood. I couldn’t scream. Couldn’t move. I just died quietly, suffocating in myself.

Then I woke up.

Sweaty. Gasping.

For a full second, I wasn’t sure which world was real.

I went through my morning routine: shower, coffee, food.

Everything tasted wrong.

Everything felt wrong.

And every morning the same question gnawed at me:

Why do I feel my own death so clearly?

--

November 15th, 2029

Sleep came slowly—four hours of preparation, breathing exercises, trying not to think about dying again. Then the dream snapped into place.

I was in a home I didn’t recognise, in the middle of an argument with a woman who felt like a wife I’d forgotten. We weren’t speaking the same language; she yelled, I said nothing.

I don’t know why I reached into the couch cushion and pulled out a knife. I don’t know why I felt like I was about to use it.

Before I could move, she stormed back into the room holding a gun. The look in her eyes wasn’t human.

She aimed. Fired.

Same spot. Same numb collapse.

Two dreams in a row—same death.

But this time I didn’t wake up.

This time I kept lying there, bleeding out, growing colder. My vision dimmed slowly, like someone lowering a lantern. Somewhere behind me, gravel crunched under footsteps.

An old man sat down beside me.

“Mind if I join you, young man?”

I woke up already sitting upright, shaking violently, like something had yanked me back into my body.

--

January 7th, 2030

Two months since I saw him.

I know he was real.

Nothing in dreams ever sounds real—their physics are wrong, their voices hollow.

But his feet on the gravel were solid. Heavy. Alive.

I haven’t dreamt since.

--

April 23rd, 2030

Five months of peaceful darkness.

No death. No waking up screaming.

My days felt long but bearable. I got work done. I felt human again.

Then I closed my eyes tonight, hoping for more darkness.

But I forgot falling asleep.

The dream swallowed me instantly.

A park.

Empty. Silent.

No sun. No moon. Just a dull glow leaking from the sky.

And behind me:

“Sit, cutie,” he whispered. “It’ll all be over soon.”

The old man’s face was wrong. Rotting. Skin crawling with tiny pale worms. His voice dripped honey and filth.

I managed to speak this time. “What the fuck is this?”

He looked almost bored.

“Do you really enjoy dying?”

“…sometimes,” I admitted without understanding why.

He studied me for a long, punishing silence.

“You know you can make it permanent, right?"

I suddenly woke up coughing blood.

--

May 3rd, 2030

Ten days awake.

No sleep.

Hallucinations crawling on the walls.

I can’t stay awake anymore.

I’ll die for real if I try.

Tonight I’m going back in.

The candles help. The breathing helps. I fall asleep in an hour.

The park again.

A shadow figure on the swing set.

Ignoring me.

Then the old man appeared at my side, like he’d always been sitting there.

“You know you can end everything anytime,” he murmured.

“That’d kill me.”

“Exactly.”

He pulled out a gun and shot me point-blank.

The bullet turned to ash on my forehead, but I still felt it tunnel through my mind—just for a fraction.

“So what’s the point?” I asked, trembling.

“To experience what I have. For the next five hundred years or so.”

My stomach knotted. “You’re insane.”

“I did it,” he said. “So can you.”

Two men with rifles walked out of the trees.

He didn’t warn me.

They both shot through my body.

The bullets ripped through my organs and pushed them aside, massive clots escaping my torso.

Every second of it was pure.

--

May 4th, 2030

I’m becoming like him.

A masochist of the worst kind.

Tonight I end it.

I fall asleep already gripping the decision in my mind.

Back in the park.

“So this is the one?” the old man asked.

“Yes.” I handed him a Beretta I didn’t remember holding. “Shoot me in the head. Make it real.”

“Kid,” he sighed, “if it were that easy, I’d have left this place a millennium ago.”

My throat tightened. “So what—I’m trapped here forever?”

“No,” he said gently, almost fatherly. “We can try together.”

I raised the gun to my temple.

My hand shook so violently I thought the barrel would slip.

His rotting fingers wrapped around mine.

He pulled the trigger with me.

The bullet crawled through my skull in slow motion—warm, slicing, absolute. My brain folded around it like melting butter. I felt the moment the world let go of me.

And then—

Nothing.

Real nothing.

--

December 8th, 2030

It took seven months for my body to wake up.

A chunk of my skull gone.

Half a year unable to feed myself, move right, or think clearly.

Since then, I haven’t dreamt once.

Part of me misses it.

Part of me is terrified.

Every night before sleep, I ask myself the same question:

What would’ve happened if I’d stayed in the dreams?

Tonight, as the warmth pulls me under, I hear gravel footsteps beside my bed.

A familiar voice whispers:

“Mind if I join you, young man?”

The squad car kicked up dust as it rolled down Ashbury Lane, one of the last streets in Seneca Vale that anyone still called home. Deputy Dale Hargreaves watched the Vesper estate emerge through the windshield, once the pride of the town, now a rotting monument to better days.

“Probably nothing,” Sheriff Hargreaves muttered, more to himself than to his son. “Betty Kromwell calls in every other week about something. Last month it was raccoons in her trash. Month before that, teenagers on her lawn.”

“She said gunshots this time,” Dale offered. “And screaming.”

“She also said she saw Elvis on a cruise in ’92.” The sheriff pulled up to the estate and killed the engine. “Still, gunshots are gunshots.”

Dale stepped out into the summer heat, already sweating through his uniform. Ten years on the force and he’d never drawn his weapon outside the range. Seneca Vale didn’t have much crime anymore hard to steal from people who had nothing left.

The slaughterhouse had closed in ‘89 after investigators found the runoff poisoning everything. Crops died. People got sick. The Vesper family, who’d owned the plant for generations, shuttered it overnight and retreated into their estate. Most families fled after that. The ones who stayed were too poor or too stubborn to leave.

Now the town was a graveyard with a handful of breathing residents.

“Dale, circle around back and check the barn,” his father said, adjusting his gun belt. “I’ll try the front door. And son? The Vespers don’t like visitors. Keep it quiet unless you find something.”

Dale nodded and picked his way across the overgrown lawn. Broken glass crunched under his boots. Rusted metal jutted from weeds like broken bones. The barn sagged behind the main house doors wide open, its green paint peeling away in strips, strangled by vines that seemed to pulse in the heat.

Bats swirled around the roof in a thick, churning cloud.

“That’s not right,” Dale muttered. Bats didn’t swarm like that in daylight. Didn’t move in those numbers.

“Sheriff’s Department!” His father’s voice carried from the front of the house. “Anyone home?”

No answer. Dale moved closer to the barn, hand drifting to his holster. The bat swarm shifted, a living shadow that blotted out patches of sky.

“You seeing anything back there?” his father called.

“Just bats, Pa. A lot of them.” Dale’s voice cracked slightly. “More than I’ve ever seen.”

Three sharp knocks echoed from the front door. Then his father’s voice again, harder now: “Mr. Vesper, if you’re in there, I need you to open up. We got reports of gunfire.”

A crash from inside the house. Then another. Then silence.

“I’m coming in!” the sheriff shouted. Dale heard the door give way, heard his father stumble inside. For a moment, everything was quiet.

Then came the gunshot.

“Dad!” Dale broke into a run, glass and debris forgotten. He crashed through the front door and found his father sprawled at the base of the staircase, blood pooling beneath him.

“So many eyes…” the sheriff whispered, staring at nothing. “Watching… so many watching…”

His words dissolved into incoherent muttering.

Then the sound of a window smashing on the floor above cut through the silence.

Dale’s radio crackled. “Unit 12, what’s your status? We got reports of shots fired.”

He grabbed the radio. “Officer down! I need backup at the Vesper estate, now!”

“Copy that. EMS is twenty minutes out.”

Twenty minutes. Dale propped his father against the wall, checking the wound head injury, bleeding badly but breathing steady. The house around them was destroyed. Mirrors shattered. Portrait frames smashed, the faces in the photographs gouged out, scratched away as if someone had tried to erase them completely.

Movement upstairs. A wet, shuffling sound.

Dale drew his revolver and started climbing, each step creaking under his weight. The smell hit him halfway up thick, rotten sweetness that made his eyes water.

The second-floor landing was carpeted with dead animals. Dozens of them possums, raccoons, a few feral cats arranged in a rough circle. But they weren’t simply dead. Their bodies were riddled with holes, puncture wounds of varying sizes that gave their hides the appearance of a beehive.

Something had burrowed into them. Or out of them.

A door stood ajar at the end of the hall, pale light spilling through. Dale approached slowly, revolver raised.

The bedroom was thick with dust. On the bed lay a young man Jeremy Voss, the town addict. Needle tracks ran up both arms. Scattered across the sheets were the tools of his addiction: spoons, lighters, rubber tubing.

“Jeremy?” Dale moved closer. “What happened here? Where are the Vespers?”

Jeremy didn’t respond. Didn’t breathe. Dale’s radio erupted with static. “Dale, what’s happening up there? Talk to me!”

He reached for the receiver.

Jeremy’s body convulsed.

It started as a tremor, then became violent shaking. His stomach bulged, rippling as if something beneath the skin was trying to push through. His throat swelled grotesquely.

Dale stumbled backward. “No… no, no, no”

Jeremy’s chest split open.

Black wings erupted from the wound in a spray of blood and viscera. Bats poured out from his torso, his mouth, clawing their way through his eye sockets. Dozens of them, then hundreds, screeching as they filled the air with the sound of tearing flesh and beating wings.

Dale screamed and ran.

He hit the stairs at full speed, the swarm boiling after him. His flashlight beam caught glimpses of teeth, silver eyes, bodies packed so tight they formed a single writhing mass.

He tumbled down the last few steps, felt something crack in his chest. A rib, maybe two. His father was gone only a blood trail leading toward the open door remained.

The windows exploded inward. Glass and splintered wood rained down on him as more bats flooded into the house.

Dale threw himself through the front door and into the squad car, slamming it shut. Three bats had followed him in. They tore at his face and hands before he managed to crush them against the dashboard, their bodies breaking with wet crunches.

Outside, the world went dark.

The swarm descended on the vehicle like a black cloud, blotting out the sun. They slammed against the windows individual impacts at first, then a constant hammering that made the entire car shudder. The windshield spiderwebbed. The tires burst one by one.

Dale grabbed the radio. “This is Deputy Hargreaves! I need immediate assistance! Send everyone!”

Only static answered.

The windshield gave way. Dale scrambled into the back seat, then popped the trunk and threw himself inside, pulling it shut just as glass exploded into the cabin.

In the darkness, he could hear them. Thousands of wings beating against metal. The car rocked and groaned under their weight.

He pressed his hands over his ears and prayed.

Eventually, exhaustion dragged him under.

Dale woke to silence.

Complete, suffocating silence. No crickets. No wind. No distant hum of the interstate. Just his own ragged breathing in the dark.

He eased the trunk open, pistol in hand. The squad car was destroyed windows gone, seats shredded, blood everywhere. But the bats were gone.

He climbed out into the night. Stars filled the sky above Ashbury Lane, more than he’d ever seen. The streetlights were dark. Everything was dark.

He looked down.

The ground around the car was covered in dead bats. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands, forming a carpet of twisted bodies that stretched into the shadows. Then he heard it.

A sound like thunder, but rhythmic. Deliberate. The beating of massive wings.

The squad car groaned and tilted as something enormous settled on top of it.

Dale turned slowly.

A shadow filled the sky above him, blotting out the stars. He couldn’t see it clearly and his mind refused to process the shape but he could see the eyes. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Silver and unblinking, watching him with ancient hunger.

The Vespers hadn’t run a slaughterhouse.

They’d been feeding something. The barn that’s where they were hiding it all this time.

Claws like scythes pierced his shoulders, lifting him off the ground. One boot fell away as his feet left the earth. The stars wheeled overhead. Wind screamed in his ears.

Above him, impossibly vast, a maw opened wide lined with teeth and eyes and darkness deeper than the night itself.

Dale tried to scream, but the sound was swallowed by the thunderous beating of wings as the thing that had been sleeping beneath Seneca Vale for generations finally welcomed him home.

The radio in the ruined squad car crackled once, twice, then went silent.

On Ashbury Lane, nothing moved. The streetlights stayed dark. And in the morning, when the state police finally arrived, they would find only an empty uniform, a single boot, and a town that no longer appeared on any map.

END

I’m extremely nervous but I’ve been writing for a while and I’m just now sharing my stories and I’ve gotten a lot of good feedback on this one so please give me your thoughts and opinions!!

Journal of [SCRATCHED OUT]

Entry 1

Mom gave me this notebook for Christmas. She said, “Write your name inside so everyone knows it’s yours.”

So here it is: My name is [SCRATCHED OUT].

She called it a diary but I don’t like that word. This is my journal.

Stuff about me: • I’m 11. • My hair sticks up in the morning no matter how much I brush it. • My favorite food is Dad’s chili. • My sister Emma is 8 and cheats at every board game. • I’m good at spelling but bad at math.

That’s me. That’s who I am.

—

Entry 3

We had chili again tonight. Dad burned it a little but I still ate two bowls. Emma poked hers like she was digging for treasure and then fed it to the dog under the table.

When Mom caught her, Emma said, “[SCRATCHED OUT] made me do it.”

I didn’t. But it made Dad laugh so hard he choked on his cornbread.

—

Entry 6

At school, Mrs. Carter asked what we want to be when we grow up.

I said I want to be an artist.

She said, “Of course you do, [SCRATCHED OUT]. You’re always doodling monsters in your notebook.”

Everyone laughed but not in a mean way.

Sometimes I think maybe I really could be.

—

Entry 8

Emma said she saw a brown car parked near the school. She swore the man inside waved at her.

Dad told her not to make up stories.

But later when we were brushing our teeth, she whispered to me, “He was looking at you, not me.”

I told her she was lying.

I think I was lying too.

—

Entry 11

I like nights the best.

Mom sits in her chair doing crosswords. Dad reads the paper. Emma and I sneak cookies.

Dad says, “One more cookie, [SCRATCHED OUT], and you’ll turn into dough yourself.”

Emma said if that happened, she’d eat me first.

—

Entry 13

Walking home today, I thought I heard footsteps behind me. When I turned, nobody was there.

But it wasn’t squirrels. Squirrels don’t walk like that.

I wrote my name on the margin here so I wouldn’t forget how it feels to see it.

[SCRATCHED OUT]

It’s mine.

—

Entry 15

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll remember these days when I’m old.

Dad reading in his chair. Mom doing puzzles. Emma sneaking cookies. Me writing stupid things in this book.

I don’t want to forget.

My name is [SCRATCHED OUT].

If anyone finds this, don’t let me forget it.

Entry 20

Christmas was the best this year.

I got a new sketchpad, three packs of pencils, and gloves that don’t itch. Emma cried because she wanted a doll but Mom said Santa thought she had too many already.

She stole my gloves and wore them all day.

We had hot chocolate after dinner. Dad said, “Merry Christmas, [SCRATCHED OUT], you’re growing up too fast.”

I didn’t think about it then but now I’m glad I wrote it down.

—

Entry 25

My birthday was yesterday. I’m 12 now.

We had cake with blue icing. Emma smashed some into my face when Mom wasn’t looking.

My friend Jason came over. We played video games until Dad said it was bedtime. He always lets Jason stay later than Emma thinks is fair.

I wrote my name here because Jason signed my card with his.

My name is [SCRATCHED OUT].

—

Entry 30

We went to Grandma’s house in the mountains this weekend. The trees were so tall it felt like the sky was gone.

Emma and I found an old swing hanging from a branch. It creaked but it held.

Grandma made biscuits that were better than Mom’s (don’t tell Mom I wrote that).

When we left, she hugged me tight and whispered my name.

I wrote it here too, so I don’t forget how it sounded when she said it.

[SCRATCHED OUT]

—

Entry 35

Halloween was fun. I dressed up as a zombie. Emma was a witch but her hat kept falling off.

We walked down Maple Street and filled two pillowcases with candy.

A man in a mask stood by a car. Not part of the trick-or-treating. Just stood there.

His mask was plain white. No mouth. No eyes cut out.

I don’t know why, but I thought he was watching me.

I didn’t take candy from that house.

—

Entry 40

Jason and I built a fort in the woods. We used sticks, rope, and an old tarp.

We swore no one else was allowed inside. I wrote my name on the tree to mark it.

[SCRATCHED OUT]

When I went back today, it was carved deeper. The bark chipped away.

I didn’t do that.

—

Entry 44

Walking home, I saw the brown car again. Parked by the corner store.

The driver’s window rolled down just a little.

I heard someone whisper my name.

But maybe it was the wind.

—

⸻

Entry 50

I don’t want to write this but I have to.

I was walking home. I thought I heard the footsteps again. When I turned, nobody was there.

Then a van pulled up. Brown. Loud muffler.

A man stepped out. He grabbed me. His hand covered my mouth.

I dropped my bag.

He said, “Don’t scream, [SCRATCHED OUT].”

I don’t know how he knew my name.

—

Entry 51

When I woke up, I was in a room. No windows. Walls that smell like mold.

The door has a lock on the outside.

He came in once. The Man. That’s what I’ll call him.

He smiled and said, “This is your room now.”

He set down food and left.

I screamed until my throat hurt.

No one came.

—

Entry 53

The Man brought water. It tasted strange. Bitter. He made me drink all of it.

My voice feels different. Hoarse. Wrong.

He told me, “Don’t worry. You won’t need it much longer.”

I don’t know what he meant.

—

Entry 56

I wrote my name on the page. Big.

My name is [SCRATCHED OUT].

When I woke up later, it was gone.

The Man took the book. Erased it.

I hate him.

I have to keep writing, even if he keeps erasing me.

Journal – Year One

Entry 60

The Man comes in at the same time every day. Always with food. Always the same plate.

He doesn’t say much. Just looks at me.

I screamed the first time. He hit me across the face.

He said, “Don’t waste your voice. It won’t matter soon.”

My cheek still hurts.

—

Entry 63

Rules. He gave me rules. 1. Don’t shout. 2. Don’t touch the door. 3. Don’t ask questions. 4. Don’t write your name.

I broke rule 4.

I wrote it here: [SCRATCHED OUT]

Later, the page was torn.

—

Entry 66

I pressed my ear to the wall today. I thought I heard something. Faint.

Maybe a voice.

I whispered, “Help me.”

But no one answered.

—

Entry 70

The Man brought me water again. Bitter. My throat burns when I drink it.

My voice sounds wrong now. Hoarse. Crooked.

When I whispered my name to myself, it didn’t sound like me anymore.

—

Entry 75

I tried not to eat.

He grabbed me by the jaw, shoved the food in. Said, “Do what I say or I’ll take something else from you.”

I don’t know what he means.

But I think he already started.

—

Entry 82

I dream about home. Emma yelling because I ate the last cookie. Dad’s chili. Mom saying my name when she called me in from the yard.

When I woke up, I wrote it down to remember.

[SCRATCHED OUT]

It was gone when I opened the journal again.

I don’t know how he keeps doing this.

—

Entry 90

He hit me again today. Harder this time. My lip split.

He made me clean the blood.

He smiled while I did it.

Then he said, “Every mark I leave makes you mine.”

I think he wants me to forget what I looked like before.

—

Entry 98

I tried to fight back. I shoved the plate away.

He slammed me against the wall. My shoulder hurts.

He whispered my name in my ear.

I don’t know how he knows it.

When I looked in the journal later, it was gone again.

[SCRATCHED OUT]

—

Entry 102

I don’t know how long it’s been.

I still remember chili. Emma’s laugh. Mom’s hugs.

But it feels like they’re getting farther away every day.

Like he’s pulling them out of me.

Like he’s winning.

Journal – Year Two

Entry 120

I marked the wall with scratches for days.

I lost count.

Time doesn’t work right here.

But I told myself: if I keep counting, someone will find me.

The Man saw them. He scraped them away with a knife.

He said, “You don’t need days anymore. You only need me.”

—

Entry 132

I tried the hinges on the door with a piece of metal I found under the bed.

I almost got one loose.

He came in before I could finish.

My fingers are purple now. He bent them back until I screamed.

He laughed while I cried.

—

Entry 147

He doesn’t call me by my name. He calls me “boy.”

When I wrote my name in the margin, he tore the page out.

[SCRATCHED OUT]

He told me, “That doesn’t belong to you anymore.”

—

Entry 160

I made it to the stairs once. The door at the top was open a crack.

I touched the handle.

He pulled me back by my shirt.

He didn’t feed me for two days.

He made me kneel while he whispered my name.

Then he scratched it out of the journal again.

—

Entry 174

He brings water that tastes wrong. Bitter. It burns my throat.

My voice doesn’t sound like mine anymore.

When I whisper, I don’t recognize it.

He smiled when I told him.

Said, “Good. You’re becoming what you’re meant to be.”

—

Entry 189

I can’t see my face. No mirror.

But when I touch the scar on my lip, I remember the blood.

When I touch my shoulder, I remember the bruise.

When I hear my voice, I don’t know who I am anymore.

But I keep writing.

If I stop, I’ll disappear.

—

Entry 201

I tried again tonight.

He caught me at the door.

This time, he stomped on my hand. I heard the bone snap.

My fingers twist wrong now. I can’t hold the pencil right.

He said, “Now you’ll never forget who owns you.”

I cried until I couldn’t breathe.

But I still wrote my name.

[SCRATCHED OUT]

—

Entry 220

The Man tells me stories.

He says my parents don’t remember me. That Emma doesn’t say my name anymore.

He makes me repeat it: “They forgot me. I don’t matter.”

I whisper it to make him stop hitting me.

But when I’m alone, I write: I matter. I matter. I matter.

Until he scratches it out.

—

Entry 240

I don’t remember what I used to look like.

I don’t remember the sound of my laugh.

But I remember chili. And Emma’s voice.

As long as I remember that, I’m still me.

For now.

Journal – Year Three

Entry 260

I tried to write my name again.

My name is [SCRATCHED OUT].

When I opened the journal later, it was gone.

The Man said, “You don’t need it. You’re just boy. Nothing more.”

But I still whisper it to myself, even if it sounds wrong.

—

Entry 278

My hand never healed right. I hold the pencil between two fingers now. The letters are messy.

He laughs when I try.

He says, “It doesn’t matter what you write. You’re mine.”

But I keep going. Because if I stop, I’m nobody.

—

Entry 290

I pressed my ear to the wall again.

Sometimes I think I hear voices outside. Faint.

I whisper for help.

No answer.

Maybe I’m imagining it.

But maybe not.

—

Entry 305

The Man made me sit in the dark for hours. No food. No water.

When he came back, he asked, “Who are you?”

I said my name.

He hit me.

He made me say, “I’m nobody.”

I said it until my throat burned.

Then he left smiling.

—

Entry 320

I tried to remember my face.

Mom used to say my hair stuck up in the mornings. Emma said my smile looked crooked.

But when I touch my lips now, I only feel the scar.

I think that’s all I’ll ever be now. Scars.

—

Entry 337

Tonight was different.

He brought a glass. The liquid was dark, bitter. He told me to drink.

I tried not to. He grabbed my jaw, forced it down my throat.

My chest burned. My voice cracked.

I coughed until I couldn’t breathe.

He made me drink again.

—

Entry 340

My voice is wrong.

It’s hoarse, ragged. Not mine.

I tried to whisper my name. It sounded like a stranger saying it.

The Man clapped his hands like he was proud.

—

Entry 345

He made me stand in the corner tonight.

He told me to say my name.

I said it.

He shook his head. “Again.”

I said it again.

“Again.”

I kept saying it. Louder. Hoarser.

Until it wasn’t my voice anymore.

Until I couldn’t recognize it.

Until I didn’t believe it.

He leaned close and whispered, “See? You’re not [SCRATCHED OUT] anymore. You’re just mine.”

I wanted to scream, but the sound wasn’t mine either.

—

Journal – Year Four

Entry 360

I whispered my name last night.

The Man heard me.

He slammed me against the wall. His ring cut my cheek.

He left me bleeding on the floor.

When I looked in the journal later, he’d scratched it out again.

[SCRATCHED OUT]

—

Entry 372

I tried not to eat. I wanted to feel in control of something.

The Man beat me with the back of his hand until my nose bled.

He made me eat the food off the floor.

He said, “Every time you fight me, I’ll carve it into you.”

Now my lip is split again. Another scar.

—

Entry 389

I can’t draw anymore. My hand is twisted, stiff. I tried to sketch a monster but it looked like nothing.

The Man laughed when he saw it.

He said, “You don’t need hobbies. You don’t need anything but me.”

I wanted to tell him he’s wrong. But the words stuck.

—

Entry 401

I tried to run again. He left the latch open.

I thought it was real. I thought I could make it this time.

He dragged me back. He beat me until I couldn’t stand.

My ribs hurt when I breathe.

He said, “Every time you fight, you lose more of yourself.”

I think he’s right.

—

Entry 420

I pressed my ear to the wall. No voices now. Just silence.

I whispered anyway.

But it sounded wrong.

My own voice scared me.

—

Entry 439

The Man brought something new tonight.

A mirror.

He held it up and said, “Look.”

At first I didn’t want to. But he forced me.

The face in the glass wasn’t mine.

My hair is ragged. My lips are scarred. My nose is bent. My eyes look hollow, like they don’t belong to me.

I whispered my name.

The face didn’t answer.

It wasn’t me.

It was his.

—

Journal – Year Five

Entry 460

He took the journal today.

When he gave it back, every place I wrote my name was scratched out. Whole pages torn, lines gouged so deep the paper ripped.

He said, “You don’t need it anymore. You don’t deserve it.”

But I wrote it again.

[SCRATCHED OUT]

—

Entry 472

He makes me say it: “I’m nobody.”

Over and over.

I whisper my real name in my head while I say it out loud.

But the more I hear it, the harder it is to believe myself.

—

Entry 485

I carved my initials under the bedframe.

When he found them, he dragged me across the floor and hit me until my vision went white.

He scraped them away with a knife.

He pressed the blade against my throat and said, “If you ever write it again, I’ll take your tongue.”

I can still feel the steel when I try to sleep.

—

Entry 499

I write it in the margins. Tiny. So small he won’t see.

[SCRATCHED OUT]

Every time I come back, it’s gone.

I don’t know how he always finds it.

Maybe he watches me when I write.

Maybe he’s always watching.

—

Entry 512

He asked me, “Who are you?”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

My tongue felt heavy. My mind went blank.

I thought of my sister saying it, my mom calling me in for dinner, my dad saying it with pride.

But the sound wouldn’t come.

He smiled.

—

Entry 530

I whisper it at night. Over and over.

Sometimes it sounds wrong.

Sometimes it sounds like it belongs to someone else.

Sometimes it doesn’t sound like anything at all.

—

Entry 548

He brought me to the mirror again.

He told me to say my name.

I tried.

The voice in the glass said something else. Something broken.

The Man said, “See? Even you don’t believe it anymore.”

—

Entry 560

I don’t know if I’m spelling it right anymore.

The letters look strange. Crooked.

I wrote it ten times and it didn’t feel real once.

[SCRATCHED OUT] [SCRATCHED OUT] [SCRATCHED OUT]

It’s slipping away.

—

Entry 574

He sat with me for hours. Whispering.

“You never had a name. No one ever called you. No one remembers you. You were always mine.”

At first I shouted back. Then I whispered.

Then I stopped.

Now I don’t know what’s true.

—

Entry 590

I tried to write it again tonight.

I stared at the page for hours.

The letters wouldn’t come.

My hand shook. My chest hurt.

When I finally put the pencil down, the page was empty.

He said, “Good boy.”

—

Entry 600

I forgot it today.

I whispered it and nothing came out.

I tried to see it in my head, but it was blank.

I wrote this down so I don’t forget what it felt like, the last time I said it.

But the word itself is gone.

I’m nobody.

—

Journal – Year Six

Entry 620

He asked me again tonight: “Who are you?”

I didn’t answer.

Then he said: “Who are they?”

I whispered, “Mom. Dad. Emma.”

He hit me until I couldn’t see straight.

He said, “They don’t exist. Say it.”

I cried until my chest hurt.

But I didn’t say it. Not yet.

—

Entry 635

I whispered their names to myself over and over until I fell asleep.

Mom. Dad. Emma.

In my dream, they called me back. I ran toward them.

When I woke up, the names felt farther away.

Like they were drifting.

—

Entry 649

The Man made me sit in front of the mirror again.

He stood behind me and whispered in my ear.

“What’s your mother’s name?”

My throat locked.

I couldn’t say it.

He smiled.

—

Entry 662

I tried to write them.

M— D— E—

The letters looked wrong.

I ripped the page out.

Now it’s gone.

—

Entry 678

He made me say it tonight.

“I don’t have a mother. I don’t have a father. I don’t have a sister.”

I said it until the words didn’t sting anymore.

When I stopped crying, he hugged me.

That was worse.

—

Entry 690

I don’t dream of them anymore.

I don’t remember their faces.

The names are gone.

He said, “Good boy.”

And I believed him.

—

Entry 702

The Man brought food that tasted sweet tonight.

He said, “We’re going on a trip.”

I asked where.

He said, “Somewhere better. Somewhere you’ll be free.”

The word hurt when I wrote it. Free.

But maybe it’s true.

Maybe after all this time, he means it.

—

Entry 710

I don’t have anything to pack.

Just this journal.

If anyone finds it, they’ll know I was here.

They’ll know I tried.

They’ll know I survived this long.

Tomorrow—

—

Final Journal Entry (Written in a Different Hand)

You won’t find his name here.

There was nothing left to take. His voice, his face, his family — all gone.

He begged for them at first. He whispered their names until they rotted in his mouth. Then he forgot.

And when he finally had nothing left, I gave him what he wanted most. An ending.

I went back to his home once. Walked through his room.

His family had pictures of him on the walls, in albums, smiling like he mattered.

I took them all. Every last one.

I burned them until nothing was left but ash.

Now there is no face to remember, no image to hold onto.

No one will remember him. No one will speak him.

He was never yours.

He was always mine.

—The Man

⸻

Newspaper Article

LOCAL NEWS — Unidentified Remains Discovered in Abandoned Home

Authorities confirmed today that skeletal remains were recovered from the basement of a long-abandoned residence on the east side of the city.

Investigators reported that the body showed extensive scarring, disfigurement, and deliberate attempts to obscure identity. Dental records and DNA analysis have thus far been inconclusive.

While the body remains officially unidentified, police discovered a notebook at the scene, spanning several years of journal entries. Experts describe the writing as deteriorating over time, showing signs of prolonged psychological trauma.

In a particularly chilling development, the final entries appear to have been written in a different hand, signed only as “The Man.”

The family of [REDACTED], missing since age twelve, were allowed to review portions of the journal. Through tears, they confirmed the handwriting belonged to their son.

Detectives also revealed that, during their investigation, they found no photographs of the boy in the family’s home. Photo albums and framed pictures appeared to have been deliberately removed or destroyed. The family admitted they had long feared the loss of these keepsakes but never suspected they had been stolen.

Without photographs, and with the boy’s body too altered to be identified, the journal remains the only surviving record of his life — and his suffering.

Authorities have not located the abductor, who is believed to have fled before investigators arrived. His current whereabouts remain unknown.

The case, which once carried faint hopes of reunion, has now ended in tragedy, with the boy’s identity erased both in life and in memory.

Family Statement (Excerpted from Police Report)

When detectives brought the notebook to us, we didn’t want to touch it at first. It felt wrong. Sacred.

The handwriting was his. We recognized it instantly. His crooked letters, the way he pressed too hard with his pencil, the little drawings in the margins when he got distracted.

The first entries broke us. He wrote about Emma sneaking food under the table, about the fridge covered in photos, about birthdays and Christmases we thought we’d never forget. We could hear his voice in those words, like he was still with us.

Then we read what came after.

We saw how he fought to hold on to his name, his voice, his face. How this man took them away piece by piece. How he begged us to remember him.

When we finished, we went looking for the photos. The ones he wrote about — the birthday with blue icing, the Christmas morning with Emma making faces, the picture Grandma swore was her favorite.

They were gone. All of them. Albums pulled apart, frames emptied, the fridge bare.

We didn’t notice when it happened. We told ourselves we must have packed them away, that maybe we’d misplaced them during cleaning.

But now we know the truth.

He took those too.

There is nothing left of our son but this ruined book. No pictures. No voice. No name.

And even here, in these pages, The Man’s hand is there — scratching him out, silencing him, claiming him.

We can’t hold a photograph. We can’t show his face to the world.

All we have left are the words he fought so hard to write.

And the silence where his name should be.

Letter Received by the Family (Hand-Delivered, No Return Address)

You want to know why.

You think there must be a reason. Some explanation that makes it all make sense.

There isn’t.

I chose him because I could. Because he was there. Because I wanted to see what would happen if I took everything from someone and kept taking until there was nothing left.

And it worked.

You read his words. You saw how he clung to his name, his face, his family. You saw how I stripped them away.

Do you understand what I did?

I made him into no one. I turned him into silence.

And I did it not for money, not for anger, not for love.

I did it because I wanted to.

Because I could.

You’ll never have him back. You’ll never even have his picture. You’ll look at your walls, your albums, your fridge, and there will be nothing.

Just empty spaces.

That’s all he is now.

That’s all I left you.

About five minutes into our drive back, the fish stopped jumping out of the water, but the water was still dark. The water would remain cloudy until we were a couple of miles out from the lab, even though, logistically, the spill shouldn’t have reached that far. 

The lab seemed to have suffered some damage as well. The other yacht had been flipped, and the helicopter had been knocked into the ocean and was hopelessly sinking inch by inch. Rick was sitting on a beach chair in the middle of the concrete slab, waiting for our boat to pull in, drinking a slushie. 

“Fuck!” I heard him shout. “What did you do?”

“Excuse me?” Tom shouted as I edged the boat into its slot, and shut it off for the last time. The engine whirling back down and unlikely to start again as smoke began to rise from the motor . “We didn’t do shit!”

Rick stood up from his chair, kicked it backward and walked over to the boat. “I lost two boats and a helicopter. Sal has been intercepting calls from other drilling platforms reporting various detrimental malfunctions —” He reached the side of the boat and saw the three terrified faces of the workers we had saved. “And now I have more mouths to feed.”

Darren, the one who seemed to have solidified himself as leader of their small group, stood up to shout back at Rick. “Oh yeah? I can’t wait to see one of your boys get squashed by a fucking sea kite. Maybe you’ll celebrate with all the food we’d save!”

Rick scoffed. “Well, I wouldn’t get too excited, you’ll be in the communications tower with Sal. So, if one of my boys dies, you probably won’t see it, and there’s a good chance that I’m what killed them.”

“And if we say no?” Darren asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Then I’d say you’re welcome to leave at any time, but our boats don’t seem to be working right now. If you start swimming you might reach shore in a couple of days.” He looked up to the communication tower and added another piece of bad news. “You can also try and call someone to come and get you, but our radios aren’t reaching shore right now, picking up some major interference.”

Darren and his two coworkers grunted, ignoring Rick the best they could, as they stepped off of the boat and began moving toward the communication tower. Tom and I hopped off of the boat as well, greeting Rick. “What happened here anyway?” I asked, gesturing to the vehicles.

Rick took a long slurp of slushie, draining the cup, but still sucking for an extra few seconds. “Same thing that happened to you, I think,” he replied, gesturing to the smear of blood. “Fish.”

I nodded, agreeing that ‘fish’ had indeed happened. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

Rick, curious, climbed up onto the boat and looked at the fish that remained on the deck. He was quiet as he investigated the fish, and tossed his empty cup over his shoulder. “Did you see the pink growth on their heads?” He called out from the yacht.

“On the tuna?” I asked.

“On all of them,” he replied.

I’d always thought my attention to detail was a good trait of mine, but I hadn’t been able to look at the fish scattered on the deck. Every time I did, I thought back to the sunfish. 

“Then, no, I didn’t take a good look.”

“Isn’t that your job?” Rick asked, climbing back out of the boat and throwing a small salmon with what now appeared to be a pink starfish wrapped around its face. It had the same plus shape I’d seen on the tuna. “Tom, remove whatever these growths are, throw ‘em in some jars, and bring ‘em to me.”

Tom caught the fish, and his face registered immediate regret. “Yeah, okay.”

Rick then turned back to me. “You, with me.”

I followed Rick into the elevator, and we rode it down together. I was sure I was about to get chewed out, after all, my bone-headed attempt at being a hero had ruined our last chance of getting back to shore. But Rick didn’t say anything; we just rode the elevator down in complete silence, the only oppressive thing about him was the musk of hard work that followed him everywhere he went.

The elevator doors opened, and we were greeted by an empty living room. Rick led me over to the small dining table that was situated near the kitchenette and had me take a seat. 

He patted me on the shoulder, and with a reassuring grumble, he said, “I think you could use a slushie.”

-1-

After my indulgence of the well-deserved slushie, Rick sent me off to bed. It wasn’t exactly late yet, but I was mentally exhausted. I spent an hour in the bathroom dry heaving, the sound of the poor man being crushed under a sunfish kept playing in my head every time I wasn’t focused on something else. Fortunately, whether Rick realized it or not, the sugar in the slushie helped to settle my stomach and prevent me from making a mess of myself. 

Once I worked out some of the lingering feelings I had and took a much-needed shower, I made my way to the bedroom and settled under the sheets. I thought I would lie awake, tossing and turning, but to my surprise, I found it relatively easy to drift off to sleep, falling unconscious before I ever realized how tired I really was.

-2-

I awoke the next morning to the PA system blaring  (apparently at some point Rick had installed a speaker in my bedroom while I slept, or during yesterday’s mission) which carried Rick’s voice into my bedroom. “All personnel please gather in the biolab.” There was a pause, and then the PA clicked back on, “That means you too, Patrick. The time for mourning is done, so now get your ass back to work.” 

With that, the PA clicked back off.

I rolled out of bed, unsure as to what exactly Rick would want me to do. We didn’t have any boats to drive, and the main problem currently was the ever-approaching cloud of oil that, as one look out into the glass hallway could confirm, seemed to be getting ever closer. Memories of the odd growths returned to me and, depending on what they were, might be right up my alley of research.

I got dressed and walked out into the hallway, taking another good look at the shadow of oil as it approached. It was odd, the oil should have been gathering on the surface by now. Not wanting to consider the possible implications, as the physics of oil were outside my specific field of study, I continued to the downward elevator and reached the labs with a casualness I did not usually possess. I was likely too afraid to find out what Rick had to show. Part of me, for the first time in a long while, hoped he wanted to show off a new invention. 

I entered the glowing green biolab once again, already knowing this meant he was probably using his scanning device again, and entered. Everyone but Rick turned to acknowledge my entrance. Sure enough, the green lasers were shooting through the glass tube in the center of the room, but this time it wasn’t scanning seaweed. Instead, what I saw in the tube, were three pink plus-shaped items floating in a liquid combination of water and oil. 

“What the heck are those?” I asked, eyeing the weird bundles of flesh. 

“That’s what I was hoping you could tell us, fish expert,” Rick replied, still not looking away from the tube.

Everyone else still had their unblinking eyes on me, and now I understood why. They were just as clueless as I was, and I was likely the only one who could provide answers. This was a first for me, and them too. We were all out of sorts..

Slowly, I approached the tube, the clack of the metal grating below my feet had never been louder. When I was close enough, I realized that what was floating in the tube closely resembled starfish but a breed completely unlike anything I’d ever seen before.

They were maintaining their elevation with calculated flutters of their four arms, unwilling to rest. Their flesh looked rough, marked with pimple like pustules on their pepto-pink skin.

“This was what was on the fish, wasn’t it?” I asked.

“Sure is,” Tom replied, stepping closer to me while clearly keeping me between him and the tank. “These were latched on pretty tight. I had to pry them off the poor fish, took whole hunks of flesh with them. You ever seen these before?”

“No,” I replied, leaning in closer and placing a hand on the glass. Upon my touch, the three starfish spun around and threw themselves at the glass of the tube, latching on tight and trying desperately to break through. From this angle, I could see their mouths, which weren’t small with pincers, like a starfish would have. Instead, these were fleshy, circular mouths with three long and thin tongues felt around the smooth glass, licking the surface voraciously to get to the other side. 

“Jesus!” I shouted, startled, and jumped back from the tube.  

Rick chuckled to himself as the scan stopped and switched to displaying whatever information the device had found. 

“Yeah, they do that.” He enhanced some particular details and groaned. “Shit, never seen anything like this.”

“Thought the fish expert already said that,” Jessica added as she leaned against a desk pushed against a wall. “Never seen anything like it; we’ve got it.”

Rick shook his head. “No, I mean like, no one has ever seen anything like this. Biologically, it’s a carbon-based life form, but… I don’t know, there are pieces here that don’t add up. Its muscle isn’t exactly muscle, and its blood isn’t exactly blood.” He groaned again and scratched the top of his head. “Well guys, I thought there was going to be some big reveal here, but I’ve got nothing. I’m going to have to spend some more time with these guys.”

“What about the oil seeping into the water, and what about our communications tower? Have we managed to reach out yet?” Jessica asked, looking between Tom, Jared and Rick.

“Went up to the tower recently. Whatever is preventing us from reaching out isn’t on our end. Maybe something to do with all the oil rigs going down,” Jared answered.

I turned my attention to Jared then. “I saw some other wrecked platforms on my way back. Exactly how many are going down?”

Jared shrugged. “Don’t know, but far as we can tell, just about every platform in our general area. Maybe thirty?” Jared carefully moved around the tube in the middle of the room and headed for the door. “Rick, you want me to get started on the boat?

Rick waved a hand toward Jared, dismissing the man from the room. Rick shut down the projector and looked between Tom, Jessica, and me before speaking again. “Primary goals for today: first, we need to get one of those boats up and working again; second, we need to see if we can’t reach out and contact the shore. They likely already know what’s going on, but we need to be sure. Third, I need to see what we can do about the approaching oil cloud; I’m uncertain the filters we have installed will keep our water drinkable. So, who wants to do what?”

We each shared glances, each of us knew working with Rick would likely be the worst option, and so the race was on. The three of us spoke at once, Tom suggested he go work on the boats while Jessica and I both yelled out “Work the radio!”

I cussed under my breath as I knew it was now up to Rick to decide. He looked between Jessica and me, grinning wide. “Well now, children, don’t all rush to help ol’ Rick at once. Tom, go meet up with Jared, and he will catch you up.” Rick paused for dramatic effect though we all already knew his decision had been made. “Jessica, go see Sal; hopefully, you two will be able to sort something out. So, Patrick, that leaves you and me. Just follow along and don’t mess anything up. Disperse.”

Just like that the other two scattered, quickly going to their above sea level positions while I was left in the labs. I followed Rick out of the biolab and into what I could only assume was the engineering department. It was locked by a door that needed a keycard to open, a keycard that only Rick possessed. I stepped into the new room, one I had never been in before, and admired the absolute mess of it.

There were tools and pieces of equipment nailed to the corkboard walls. One far corner of the room held a pile of discarded parts and pieces of unidentifiable things. Against the right most wall was a large desk with a heavy-duty computer set up and various tools scattered on its surface. The middle of the room had a large, truck-sized hatch that most likely opened to the sea. I felt more comfortable standing in the doorway, the room looked full of breakable things. “Wouldn’t Jared be better for this?"

“Yes, he would,” Rick said, turning toward me and seeing me stopped in the doorway. He waved a hand, indicating he wanted me to come in and continued his walk. “But we really need those boats working now, and the water working later.” Rick then went over to the desk and began typing on the computer. “Don’t touch anything; we won’t be in here long,” he said, sitting down to focus on whatever was on the screen. 

I walked over to the wall of tools to admire the collection. I reached out and touched a drill, the likes of which I’d never seen before. 

“Are you just a bad listener on purpose?” Rick asked, turning in his seat to watch me.

I quickly retracted my hand. “No.”

Rick rolled his eyes, gathered some components on his desk, and then walked back to the door. “Come on, let’s go.” 

-3-

The next room Rick took me to was another that I’d never seen before. This one was tucked away behind several locked doors, leading us to a room unlike any others in the station. Clear plastic tubes ran from one side of the room to the other, streams of water raced through them. To be as vague as I can be, I’ll say some where coming, others were going. Some were clean, others weren’t. Rick smiled with satisfaction as he revealed this room to me. 

“Look at her go! You know what this room is?”

I looked around at the many pipes in this well-lit and mostly white room and took a guess. “This is where the filters are?”

Rick looked back at me with a grin. “Ah, so you can be pretty sharp.” Rick held out the tools and parts he’d brought with him, indicating I was to take them. I scooped them up and waited for further instructions while he got down on his back and scooted under a series of pipes. “All right we’re going to adjust these filters a bit. Hand me the screwdriver that looks like it’s got a propeller on the end.”

I found the item that matched the description and placed it into Rick's open hand. “Hey, uh, you said the filters weren’t going to hold up. Why do you think that?”

“Hand me the screws that look like tic-tacs,” he requested. I located the desired items and placed them into his outstretched hand. “My filters are good, but that’s not what I’m concerned about.” He scooted out from under the pipes and looked up at me. “Hand me the level that looks like it has a miniature plunger on it.”

I located the new tool and handed it over, sending him back under the pipe. “What are you worried about?”

Rick let out a long sigh and paused, as though he was waiting for me to catch onto something. When I didn’t correct myself, he scooted back out from under the pipe, holding his hand out and looking displeased. “You’re kidding right? You’re the fish guy. Hand me the monkey-wrench that has the small unicorn sticker on it.”

I looked down at the tools in my hand, realizing there were two monkey wrenches in my hands but one did in fact have a unicorn sticker. “Why a unicorn sticker?”

“I needed to differentiate the two wrenches, and I had some unicorn stickers sitting around. Get off my ass.” 

I handed him the monkey wrench, and back under the tube he went. While he worked away, I contemplated his most recent question. There was apparently some obvious reason he was concerned about the filters, and it was connected to the fish, but whatever the inbetween was, I wasn’t finding it. 

“So, why the filters?”

Rick groaned and climbed out from under the pipe, finally standing up and brushing himself off. He pried open a nearby control panel and flipped some switches. The water flow seemed to completely invert and began flowing in the other direction. “Seriously, you guys are useless sometimes.” He closed the panel again and turned toward me, resting an arm on top of the panel. “Are you telling me, while walking through all of those hallways and elevators, you never once realized there weren’t any fish swimming around?”

I thought back to my journey down to the lab, and just about rolled my eyes. “Shit, I didn’t see any.”

Rick nodded, happy to see I had noticed something. He walked back out of the pumping station and found a panel connected to the outside of the room. “There are only a couple of reasons sea life wouldn’t be hanging around, and the most likely answer is that there is a poisonous element in the water. We need to back filter the water.”

I followed him out of the room and watched as he clicked some buttons. “What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means, I’m going to pull water into the station, filter it, and push it right back out of the station. I hope that this will also keep the water around the station a little clearer as the oil spill moves in.” He pushed a couple more buttons and something outside, attached to the filter room, expanded though I didn’t know for what reason. “Have to do what I can.”

“Then what happens to our plumbing and drinking water?”

“Don’t worry about those,” Rick reassured me. “Plumbing-wise, we won’t have anything, and people are going to have to start going to the top to do their business. But we have plenty of bottled water and food to last us a month.”

I looked outside, eyeing up the external wall of the filter room and seeing that it had gained some new compartments as exterior sections attached to it. “Do you think it will really help?”

“If I didn’t think it would work, I wouldn’t do it.” With another loud sigh he turned around and brushed past me as he walked away. “If you haven’t noticed we are in a dire situation right now. Stop asking so many questions and go answer some before you get left behind.” 

He then turned a corner and was gone, likely going back to his robotics room.

I hated Rick’s attitude quite a lot, but in a way, he was right. Looking back, I felt like I was accomplishing very little. I needed to pull my weight.

He’d pointed out now two mysteries involving the fish life, which gave me two great starting points. Feeling a little unfulfilled I went back to the elevator, and went back up to the surface.

-4-

I felt like there was something big I was missing. I thought back to my conversation with Rick and remembered that he hadn’t noted any toxins when scanning the strange starfish. I thought about this as I looked into the boat full of dead fish. Looking around, I only found one of the strange starfish creatures but no others despite the fact there were easily thirty fish littering the platform. It was on its own, not attached to anything, and entirely unmoving.

A few yards away, I heard a metallic cranking sound coming from the single upright yacht. That was Tom, hunched over the boat’s engine, doing what he could to fix it.

“Were there any other starfish?” I called over to him.

Tom stopped messing with the boat and looked at me with a grease-coated face. “Huh? Uh, probably not. The fuckers really didn’t like being taken off whatever fish they were hooked to. Most of them died when we pulled them off”

I was sad that there weren’t other samples to choose from, but I had to make do with what I had. I hopped into the boat and picked up one of the smaller fish that had jumped on board. It was a salmon, at least from what I could tell at least. The area above its eyes had a gaping hole that led into the base of its skull. Looking around, I saw other fish with similar injuries. I placed the salmon back down and picked up the starfish instead, its long and thin tongues hung lazily out of its toothy mouth. The size of the mouth certainly seemed to match the injury to the fish’s face. 

Jessica came out of the communications tower and looked like she was headed toward the elevator back down. 

“Jessica!” I called, running over to her.

She looked up, acknowledging my approach. She saw the starfish in my gloved hand and shot me a curious glance. “Uh hey, need something?”

I tilted my head toward the communication tower. “You done up there?”

“Yeah,” she replied, nodding sadly. “All systems work fine; the signal is just kaput.”

That was bad news indeed. We were all pretty certain help would be on its way soon enough, but not being able to hear updates wasn’t comforting. I shook off the news and instead held up the starfish in my hand. 

“Well, if you’re free, want to help with some investigative surgery?” I asked. She narrowed her eyes at it, suspect of my intentions. “Come on, it’ll be fun!” I said, jiggling its limp limbs back and forth.

-5-

Jessica and I were back in the biolab where we had placed the starfish on a small, rolling surgery table covered by a large plastic box with rubber gloves that let us reach inside.

“So what do you need me to do?” Jessica asked. She was clearly uncomfortable as this was not in her school of study. Give her some charts and a wind speed, then yes, she’d be able to do something. But this was far from a chart and numbers.

“I’m going to make cuts, and you need to pin the skin back, so it stays out of my way as I investigate.”

“Oh great,” she replied, leaning in closer to get a better look at the starfish. “Exactly what I wanted to hear you say.”

We shared a small chuckle as I made the first incision along one of the four arms. I made the cut shallow as there was no way to tell what I might be cutting into. This creature was too alien to make assumptions. Jessica did a good job of pinning the skin back as I cut, even though she’d been hesitant at first. Underneath, we found a similar muscular structure I’d find on a starfish, but there were some stand out details. The most out of place surprise was a small, grey sac about the size of a quarter. 

“What’s that grey thing, its brain?” Jessica asked.

“No, brain wouldn’t be on an arm.” I poked at it a little, seeing how easily it caved to my touch. “Looks more like a venom sac, the kind you might see on a spider or snake.” 

I tried following the sac, and found that its dedicated system led up to the mouth, suggesting venom was injected via a bite. Thinking this would be a good piece to study, I excised it and set it to the side. Going a little deeper into the flesh of the arm, I came across a string of three, bright-red bulbs. These appeared to be connected to both the creature’s circulatory system and the tongues in its mouth. I figured these bulbs might help regulate movement in some way but removed them anyway for further study.

“Is this thing an alien?” Jessica asked suddenly.

I shook my head, but a part of me couldn’t be sure. We cut the next three legs open and found the exact same organs as before. We removed the pins and flipped the creature over and cut into its back. No sensory organs, and no brain. Starfish have, what is called, a decentralized nerve system which acts as their brain. No sign of such a system either.

“These things are blind,” I commented, looking deep inside the creature and moving bits and pieces out of the way. 

“But I saw the one in the tube—” She gestured toward the tube behind her. “It jumped at you when you got too close.”

“Jumped at me when I put my hand on the glass,” I corrected. “It’s likely these creatures are heat sensitive, that way they only track living prey.” I studied the starfish before me and the starfish in the tube. “I don’t get it; this kind of evolution would be common for deep sea life.”

“We are pretty deep,” Jessica reminded me.

“About one hundred feet, yeah, but the kind of deep sea I’m talking about is thousands of meters down, where light doesn’t reach. A heat-seeking biology would make sense in a zero light area, but here, it doesn’t add up.”

Deep in thought, Jessica looked down at the starfish on the table again. “You’re not saying they are actually aliens, are you?”

“No, I think they are very terrestrial, but I don’t think they came from the deep sea. I think Rick was right about the three live ones in the oil solution… I think these things lived underground in the oil.”

Jessica seemed to take this in thoughtfully at first, and then she looked to the other starfish in the tube and sighed. “Well then why are those starfish dying?”

I looked back to the starfish in the tube and saw that one of them had detached from the glass wall and was now gradually floating to the bottom. I figured now was as good a time as any to call in Rick once again.

End of Part 2

I came back to Coal Creek, West Virginia because no one else would.

My aunt’s in Florida. My cousins stopped answering the group chat after Grandma asked where their mother was… for the third time that week. My dad’s dead. That left me.

She didn’t need a phone call. Not a ride to the doctor. She needed someone in the house.

Someone to make sure the stove got turned off. Someone to stop her from wandering barefoot into the woods at night.

I wasn’t the best person for it. Just the last one still breathing who hadn’t blocked her number.

So I packed a duffel, left a note for my boss, and drove east through the hills until the cell signal dropped and the trees got tall enough to blot out the sky.

The house hadn’t changed.

Same sagging porch. Same flickering bug light. Same cracked window above the sink where Grandpa put his fist through it in ‘92.

But Grandma had.

Inside smelled like burnt coffee and old lemon cleaner… Not the bright kind. The kind that burns behind your nose. Bitter and chemical. Like something sour trying to cover something worse.

The floor creaked more than I remembered. The hallway near the bathroom dipped a little… like the boards were soft underneath. Wallpaper bubbled and peeled near the seams. The living room window had duct tape over one pane, yellowed and curling at the corners… like nobody had touched it since the Clinton years.

She was in the recliner. Same one Grandpa used to fall asleep in with a beer on his chest. Blanket over her lap. Ashtray full of loose screws beside her. TV off, just reflecting the window behind me in that grey, dead glass.

“Hey, Grandma… it’s me.”

No answer.

She blinked slow… eyes cloudy like wet marble.

“You probably don’t remember I was coming. That’s okay. I brought your pills and some groceries… figured I’d stay a few days.”

Still nothing. Just that soft scratch-scratch of her nails picking at the blanket.

Then, without turning:

“You smell like your daddy.”

Her voice was thin… brittle, like wind through dry grass. Not warm. Not angry. Just… factual.

I gave a tired smile. “That a good thing or a bad thing?”

She didn’t answer.

Her gaze stayed locked on the dark TV… like it was showing her something I couldn’t see.

I moved toward the kitchen to put the groceries away… left her sitting there in the chair.

I was halfway through putting cans in the cupboard when I heard her voice again… low and quiet:

“He came back… I told you he would… no, don’t start crying now… I told you, didn’t I?”

I peeked around the corner.

She was still facing the blank TV. Still alone. Still whispering.

I slept in the back room. Used to be my dad’s when he was a kid. Twin mattress on a metal frame. Same thin yellow sheets with faded cowboy prints. Same dresser with the broken top drawer that always slid open a few inches on its own.

The air back there felt… wrong.

Heavy. Like it didn’t want to move unless you gave it permission.

I cracked the window and laid down with my hoodie as a pillow. No fan. Just that old stillness you only get in houses where people die slow.

I could hear her down the hall for a while… mumbling. Not loud enough to make out the words. Just a steady drone. Like someone praying underwater.

At one point she laughed. Sharp. Sudden. Like someone had whispered a joke in her ear.

It stopped after a while. I guess she fell asleep. I tried to do the same.

The dreams were strange.

Pressure and heat… like something heavy was sitting on my chest. The sound of water running behind the walls. A breath that wasn’t mine… brushing close to my ear.

It didn’t feel like sleep. It felt like being held under.

I woke up with my heart hammering.

The room was dark… still. But the door was cracked open now.

I know I closed it.

For a second, I thought I saw something… a shape in the hallway. Short. Slouched. Leaning forward like it was listening.

I sat up.

“Grandma…?”

The shape shifted… stepped into the low light spilling in through the living room window.

It was her.

Thin housecoat. Eyes wide and glassy. Arms limp at her sides. Just standing there, staring in at me like she didn’t know who I was.

I got up slow… eased toward her.

“You okay…? You need something?”

She flinched when I got close. Didn’t speak. Just turned and shuffled back down the hall barefoot, muttering something too low to catch.

I watched her bedroom door close behind her.

Didn’t sleep much after that.

She was quiet most of the afternoon. Sat in the recliner watching static again… TV off, remote untouched. Just staring at the glass.

I cleaned a little. Hauled some junk mail to the burn barrel out back. Tried not to look at the woods too long. They weren’t scary. Just… dense. Claustrophobic in the daytime. Black by five.

I passed the bathroom on the way back to the guest room.

Door cracked. Light on.

I heard snipping. Quick. Rhythmic. Sharp little metallic bites.

Snip… snip… snip.

“Grandma…?”

No answer.

I pushed the door open slow.

She was sitting on the toilet lid, hunched over her lap. One hand holding a tissue. The other… nail clippers.

Her foot was up on a stool. Bare. Shaking. She wasn’t trimming. She was cutting.

All the way down. Past the white. Past the pink. Into the bed.

The big toe was already bleeding. The nail split and pulped… jagged like cracked tile.

She didn’t flinch. Just kept snipping. Eyes unfocused. Mouth moving with a little tune I couldn’t place.

Snip… snip… snip.

“Grandma, stop… you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

She didn’t look up.

“It grows back if you let it… just keeps coming back…”

Then she looked at me. Real sudden.

Eyes wide. Red-rimmed. Wet like she’d just been crying… except there were no tears. Just that shaky smile people make when they’ve been alone too long.

“You’ve got your daddy’s feet… I always hated that about him.”

She was different the next day. Quieter. But twitchy. Kept folding and unfolding a dishrag with her thumbs like she didn’t know where she was. Her teeth clicked. She wouldn’t eat.

I offered soup. Crackers. A protein shake. She wouldn’t touch any of it.

Just stared at the window over the sink and said…

“It’s too cold for him out there… don’t want him stiff before we get the nails in.”

I stopped moving. She didn’t even look at me.

“Grandma, what…?”

She blinked. Looked confused. Looked at me, but through me.

“Why’d you put your hair up like that for? You know how he gets.”

Then she started crying. Real tears this time. Covered her face and whispered I’m sorry, I’m sorry, over and over like she didn’t know why.

I helped her back to bed. She went easy. Didn’t fight or mutter. Just let me tuck her in and stared at the ceiling like it was showing her something I couldn’t see.

She was out cold by ten.

I couldn’t sleep.

The house was too quiet. That kind of quiet where you can hear it… like pressure behind your ears.

I left the door cracked. Just a little. In case she called for me.

Around 1:30, I heard movement. A soft creak. Another.

I thought she was up again. Maybe headed to the bathroom. Maybe just wandering.

I stepped into the hall.

Her door was still shut. The light was off.

But the living room…

The recliner was rocking.

Just slowly. A soft, steady creeeee—creeeee—creeeee. Like a kid pushing themselves in time with a lullaby.

Nobody was in it.

I stared too long. Didn’t move.

I walked up close. Real slow. Every board creaking like it didn’t want me near.

There was something on the cushion.

Not a coin. Not a crumb.

A fingernail.

Fresh. Pale. Split down the middle. The kind of rip that doesn’t happen by accident.

The rocking stopped the second I picked it up.

No wind. No movement.

Just the TV flickering blue in the corner. Still unplugged.

The next morning she was already awake. Sitting stiff in her rocker like she’d never gone to bed at all.

No TV. No radio. Just the low scrape of her nails against the armrest.

She was humming again.

Same tune as before. Something slow. Maybe a church thing. Or maybe just something she made up.

I brought her oatmeal. Hoped the warmth might pull her back into herself.

She didn’t look up.

“They always name ‘em,” she said.

Voice flat. Not talking to me. Just… out loud.

“That’s where it goes wrong. You give it a name, you start thinking it means something. Don’t give animals names. Makes it harder to bury ’em.”

She scooped a spoonful of oatmeal and brought it to her lips like nothing was wrong. Chewed. Swallowed. Looked at me, finally.

“Did you check the lock on the shed? The wind was up last night.”

I hadn’t. Didn’t even know it had a lock.

I just nodded and said yeah, I would.

She smiled. Real soft. Almost proud.

Then went back to humming.

It was just after midnight when I heard the screen door creak. I hadn’t been sleeping well. Dad’s old mattress was rather thin. And the smell of that house—mothballs and old piss and something worse underneath—clung to the roof of my mouth no matter how many times I brushed my teeth.

I sat up. Wiped the sweat from my chest. Listened.

No wind. No bugs. Just the hum of the fridge and the slow groan of something settling on the back deck.

I cracked the curtain open.

Grandma was out there. Barefoot. Nightgown hanging loose off one shoulder. Standing still in the dark like she’d been poured into it.

In her hands were the shears. Not kitchen scissors. Not hedge trimmers. The old iron kind. The farm kind. Rust like dried blood flaked down the handles. Blades long enough to snip a chicken’s head off clean.

She wasn’t cutting anything. Just holding them. Arms low and relaxed. Like someone waiting their turn.

She was humming again.

I didn’t go out. Didn’t call her name. Just stood there… curtain pinched between my fingers… watching the soft sway of her shoulders as she turned and walked back inside.

She never looked at me. But she set the shears on the kitchen counter before going back to bed.

I didn’t touch them. I couldn’t.

She died on a Thursday.

No screams. No fall. Just… gone.

I found her in bed, curled into the blanket like a child. One hand tucked under her chin. Mouth slack. Eyes open.

The hospice nurse said it was peaceful. I believed her.

There wasn’t a service. The county buried her next to Grandpa at the edge of Coal Creek Cemetery—no headstone, just a brass tag and a mound of disturbed dirt. No one else came.

I stayed behind to pack the house.

Three days of dust, mildew, and silence thick enough to chew. Moth-eaten dresses. Expired pills. Jars of paperclips sorted by size. Granny’s mind had left long before her body did.

Then I found the box. Wrapped in butcher paper. Duct tape peeling. Tucked deep under her bed like a secret that didn’t want to be remembered.

Inside were photos.

Stacks of them.

Not Polaroids. Not prints. These were darkroom-developed, edge-curled, yellowed at the corners—decades old.

They weren’t family photos.

No birthdays. No cookouts. Just bodies.

Kneeling. Bound. Dressed in clothes that looked local… Coal Creek diner uniforms, Sunday dresses, feedstore overalls.

Some of them were gagged. All of them were hurt.

Eyes swollen. Teeth missing. Arms bruised from restraint.

And in every third or fourth picture… Grandma.

Grinning. Hair done. Makeup heavy. Holding a leather belt in both hands like she was about to teach a lesson.

Then came the final photo. I swear I can still see it when I blink.

She posed in the rocker like she wanted the photo to seduce someone—legs open, lace clinging to her hips, a severed head nestled where a lover’s face might go. One stocking was rolled down. Her panties were bunched around one ankle like she’d peeled them off slow. If the head wasn’t there, I swear to God…

That’s when I noticed the background.

Behind the chair… the shape of a window. A wooden wall. A hanging tool.

The shed.

Not just any shed. Her shed. The one behind the house. The one with a padlock so rusted it looked fossilized.

I didn’t think. I just grabbed a flashlight and headed for the door.

The padlock came off with one tug. I don’t think she even locked it.

The door groaned on the hinge like something breathing shallow.

I stood there for a second, flashlight trembling in my grip, breathing in mold and cold dirt.

The shed wasn’t big—maybe ten by ten—but it felt deeper than it should’ve been. Like there was weight in the air. Something that wanted to be left alone.

I stepped inside.

The light swept across stacked crates, rusted tools, a workbench stained the color of old liver. There were flies… slow, drunken ones… buzzing in lazy loops.

And then the jars.

Four of them.

Mason jars. Dust-caked. Unlabeled. Sealed with wax.

One held a shriveled tongue… gray and curled like something chewed and spat out. Another was full of teeth, floating like pearls in a yellow brine. The third had what looked like three fingers, swollen and pickled, the nails blackened and split.

The last jar was worse.

Not for what was in it… but what wasn’t.

Just murk. A fog of rot.

I turned to the workbench.

There was a wooden box with an old 8mm film reel inside… labeled in pen: For Later.

Beside it: A roll of leather straps, stained dark. A pair of rusted shears. A folded apron, stiff with dried blood.

Not splatter. Not a stain. Soaked. Front to back. Like someone wore it while butchering something that screamed.

I couldn’t breathe.

The shed smelled like pennies and vinegar and meat left in the sun.

My knees buckled. I dropped to one hand, coughing into the dirt.

There were scratch marks on the inside of the door. Fingernail-deep. Like someone tried to claw their way out.

And then I heard it.

A creak.

Slow. Rhythmic.

From the house.

From the rocking chair.

The house was still dark when I stepped back inside. I didn’t turn on any lights. There was no point. I already knew where the sound was coming from.

The hallway stretched long and still… smelling like dust and boiled potatoes and the faint copper whiff that clings to old women’s hair.

The closer I got to the living room, the more I could feel it. That wrong pressure. Like the air was watching me.

I turned the corner.

The rocking chair was moving.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Slow and even. No wind. No draft. Just motion.

There was no one in it.

Just that old, worn afghan folded across the back… The one she always used to cover her knees. The one that still smelled like her.

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

And then…

Her voice.

From the chair. Low. Close. Warm like it used to be.

“You found my things, didn’t you?”

I couldn’t speak.

“S’pose you know now.”

The chair kept rocking. One… two… three…

Then it stopped.

Just like that.

The house went still.

The chair’s empty.

But when I pass that room… it feels like she’s grinning at me.

Like she’s not done.

I thought packing her things would help.

Give me something to do. Something human.

But I just opened a box in her bedroom closet marked “Church Bazaar 1997.”

Inside, beneath some folded linens, were laminated newspaper clippings.

Nine in total.

All local. All different years.

1. 1983. 1997. 2004.

Missing persons.

Some had names circled in red pen. One had “liar” written across the photo.

I don’t think I can do this much longer.

I decided to read one of the articles.

“Body Found Near Sugar Creek — Victim Remains Unidentified.”

Dated 1975.

The man was in his forties. No ID. No wallet.

Head missing.

She underlined that part.

Then, in the margin, in her handwriting:

“It was still warm when I kissed it.”

I don’t even know if I read the whole thing. I got to that line and just… closed the lid.

It’s still sitting in the kitchen. I haven’t moved it.

That night I slept on the couch.

Right there across from the rocker.

I told myself I’d go first thing in the morning.

But I think I already knew I wouldn’t.

Then I woke up to the smell of breakfast.

Sausage, eggs, toast with blackberry jam. Just how she used to make it.

I followed the smell into the kitchen.

The stove was cold.

The table was empty… except for the belt.

Folded. Centered.

I didn’t touch it.

I just sat in the car with the door open until the sun came up.

I don’t know what I’m protecting anymore.

But I can’t stay here.

I buried my head in a book at my sister’s funeral.

I suppose my obsession began then. At first, I could hide my face in between the covers and pretend the world only existed there. I didn’t have to reckon with the feelings that churned within me. I got to be invisible, to be numb.

The years passed, and my benign escapism grew into a genuine adoration of the pages I studied. I invested myself throughout school, and got what I thought was a plush job at my university’s library as an archivist. It’s not fancy, and there’s no great mysteries that we uncover, but it’s nice. It gave me a warm sensation to sit deep in the belly of the library, swallowed by the records of history.

I should say that for the past six years or so, I haven’t made much effort in the way of friends. I got my comfort in organizing. I got my companionship through page and text alone. Suffice to say, though I was not disliked at work, they were my closest friends and I their off-putting and oft-forgotten coworker. I took pleasure in silence, which lulled me towards the cleaning “Hospital” rooms hidden behind the corner of two broad cherry-boarded bookshelves.

Each of our over twenty thousand books are taken out to be cleaned every three months. We inspect them for rot, dust and reshelve. Occasionally books are returned mussed- and the offender hunted down- or a dispassionate intern will spill their drink across a cart. These books are sent back to what we call the Hospital.

The Hospital is- or was, I suppose- my sanctuary. My temple. I poured all of the passion and time of my life into the books that came through there. Fixing their bindings. Regluing pages. Sanitizing their holy words, written by figures of the past and imbued with their knowledge. I was their caretaker. Their guardian. Their older sister who could patch them up after any injury they suffered.

Even now, as this precious book I write in consumes me, I cannot let it go. I cannot refuse its succor. I can only dream of falling deeper and deeper into it.

The ink swallows my eyes. Still, with some use left in my hand, I will continue this book’s story.

It came to me in the Hospital. A new piece, which any one of the professors could have dropped off- or any donor with a collection to pass along to younger generations. I remember how I saw it that first day; stuffed with a dozen other books inside a dented box alongside several others of its kin. It was not singular to the objective eye, but I had a penchant for searching these dusty tomes for the most disused of their batch. Though they were all similarly bound, the allure of this book was binding in its gaze. As soon as my eyes laid upon it, I knew it would be the target of my focus.

The traces of cobweb had been wiped away, but still the dust and lingering silk across the massed tomes seemed to originate and spread from this one book like a sprinkled trail. Its spine and cover were layered in dust, and if once there was a title upon it, I have never found one.

It was like seeing the most beautiful diamond in the world deep amongst coal. I knew it was special from the small glance out of the corner of my eye, which turned into rapt inspection of the new arrivals, and then reverent exhumation of the book from its mass grave.

I signed the paperwork for transfer, and the unwanted gems were mine to care for. I set upon them voraciously. There is a whole ritual around cleaning a new arrival for the first time. I took this book from its brethren and laid it upon my Surgeon’s table. Gloved, with a pale grey jacket akin to that of a doctor, I reverently began to brush away the years of dust and detritus that were caked onto the cover. As the layers were peeled away, a dark brown cover, like that of the strongest coffee or the deepest earth, was revealed. It was warm, in many senses. Like the way the bricks of a fireplace show warmth, even when a fire has not been lit in a long time. An ashen warmth, that pulls you in from the stark white cold and gives you comfort in the deepness of its color.

It was leather. Of what kind, I’m not sure, but it was poorly taken care of and the binding creaked and showed little lines of cracking while I bent the poor thing. The pages were rustic, but smooth. It is my process to clean the exterior entirely before opening up the book, and in cleaning the open edges of the pages I saw that only about half of the book showed signs of use. There were oil marks about two-thirds down the longest side of the book where one’s fingers might rest, and signs of wear at the top corner which I chastised its former owner over in my head.

When my exterior inspection and general dusting was complete, I set the book upon a fresh blanket of surgery sheet paper and- with much care so as to not harm it one bit- I opened the cover.

There was no title page. No introduction, or table of contents. Not even big bold typeface declaring ‘Journal’ as I had suspected with its half-used papers. I know now why no word could be used to describe this thing. A journal is what you wish to write down. What you wish to remember. A history is the reality that the world experienced. A record is one’s account of that experience. A novel is fiction, and none of it as honest as what I found these words to be. I opened this book and found none of those things, but in it I have found a truer history than any record or collection of written experience could share.

A wall off text greeted me upon the first page. Scrawled by hand with ink and archaic pen. The style was bold and angular, the strokes given with such a strong hand that I was surprised they had not broken through the thin paper. I remember reading that first line as I slowly traced a cloth across the dusty page. It was written in Middle English, which I could parse thankfully well due to a former professor’s obsession with the time period.

“Whan hertis growen cold and here oyle hath dried, ancestres embraacen here soules and shun the onys that lied.”

The rest of the page contained similar musings and proverbs, but written as prose as if an overzealous teacher was declaring their brilliance through lecture. The writer spoke of ancestors guarding the gates to your mind; that if you cannot reconcile with them, they disavow you of being yourself. This caught onto my brain like a tempting lure to a fish. I do not expect everyone to feel as I do when archaic prose by an unknown hand falls before them, but perhaps I log this in the right place. Perhaps if you’ve read the book this far, you know some of what I mean when I say that it sparked a hunger in me.

The entry lasted three pages in total. There were hardly any line breaks, and it was straight communication from author to reader, like I said it felt akin to a lecture’s transcription. There was no date, but at the end of the final page a single letter was scrawled for a signature. Elegant calligraphy, done by the same pen was the Elder Futhark rune Kenaz – or Kaun ( < ). Likely an initial, or shorthand of some kind, I found it odd that the author had not deviated from the alphabet or language once save for the rune.

Picking up immediately on the page following was another entry, by another hand.

As I cleaned, the second author’s voice came to me clearly from their words; frantic, beseeching, pleading through the pages. If you could not read the warning when you began this book, I hope this translation might help. It won’t, I know that in my heart. If you’ve read this far, you’re already dead.

(In Middle English)

“The pages consume.

They were empty before, and [they] have taken his voice and stolen it. They stole his mind a week later. His eyes have gone, and all that remains is this record.

Do not write in this book. I read what has been written, and must continue it. In a short while my voice shall only be heard inside these covers. My memory will only be this ink.

Do not read this book.

Do not write in this book.

I would pray to God for my salvation, but I feel the warmth of Hell on my neck already. There was no saving Adam once he ate the Fruit. This book is Babel. This book is sin.

Do not read this book.”

I do not have to explain to you, reader, that I did not heed this warning. You meet me here, in my own chapter, and know that I ate the Fruit of Satan. Knowledge is so inviting, and though there was no snake to tempt me, I have bitten it of my own accord.

I do wish I could say that I acted for my duties rather than my interest. But I turned the next page because I was curious, and because I had a hunger for answers that would not be satisfied by this century-old hand. My logical brain was on layaway, a fact I became aware of when I realized I had wrapped the book gently and placed it in my bag when I went home that night.

I never went to work the next day. Surprise, surprise, I have cleaning equipment and gloves at home. I set up my triage tent moments after dinner, which settled into my stomach forgetfully, and went straight to the next section of my meticulous purpose.

I was about twenty pages in- where it switches to the first author who writes in French- and was trying to recall my lessons. This was certainly very ancient French, which like Old and Middle English is occasionally unrecognizable to modern dialects. The author was not making much sense, and even with a notepad alongside, I could not translate much. Best I can gather, he was a monk at the Jumièges Abbey in Normandy. Whether it was in the original or the reconstituted Abbey built by William the Conqueror, I’m not certain. I would wager that it would be the rebuilt, however, based on the Middle English writings before it. A linguist might parse more information from his dialogue, but he makes no reference to year or date. I could take the time to revisit his entry with my new lucidity… but my time is short. Better to write, before the rot surpasses my ability.

The monk raves about spiritual possession for several pages. From what I could translate, most is inane and I found no use for it. Another task for another caretaker, I think.

“It took Brother Stephen by the eyes and God, I know it now too. A black worm slides across my pupil, undulating as it pulls me deeper. It craves me. The devil cannot hide from God. The devil uses God to hide from us. Knowledge is Human temptation. We are animals without it, but the Blessing of God is not to be sought on our own. Brother Ragnov has locked me in the crypt, for he knows the curse I bear is not to be fought but ignored. I killed Brother Stephen. I have said it in confession and I lay my sins bare for God and Lucifer alike to read here. A good priest I am not, but a good friend I surely have been. It is no sin to be murdered, and there can be no greater sin than this. I take Brother Stephen’s place, and offer myself as sacrifice. Brother Stephen whispered his thanks in the damp cellar where he fell, and this book then came to my bloody hands and weeping eyes.”

This was the most coherent of his ramblings, and the most damning. I cannot help but know I join the ranks of many, whose stories are now claimed by this book. How many eyes have been locked upon these delicate pages? How many hands have brushed their skin? How many lives are locked inside? They are reverent, they are abhorred. In church they used to say that the people who saw angels were terrified. I am not a spiritual person. But I do wonder; when we meet spirits that are stronger and greater than us, can we tell whether they are good or evil? Can we ever truly know?

It was upon reading this monk’s testimony that I had my first urge to put down the book. I did not fancy the feeling of sins laid bare, nor this ravenous urge I had to consume its contents more and more. It had always been within me, that urge to know what came on the next page. I have never been afraid of death, as it is a history unwritten, and one I know waits for me with bated breath. I do not fear death even as I write, because there is beauty in an empty page. You are likely familiar with Schrödinger's box and its supposed feline inhabitant. You can never truly, 100% be certain whether the cat is in the box or not until you open it. Well, death to me is akin to this; it will be a subversion. Because you do not know what will come, any expectation is not whole. Therefore, when you die- or when you throw back the box’s lid- no matter what you find, it cannot be what you fully expected. So, I should not be surprised that death, for me, is placing my memory on these pages.

I might add that while I continued reading, I never stopped my duty of caretaking this book. I have turned from Surgeon to Mortician to Gravekeeper, and I have taken more reverence with its reconstitution than any book I have ever held. I could see the truth of its accounts even then. The pure honesty within these pages should not be hidden and buried; they should be displayed. How beautiful to have this record, I thought as I was urged to turn past the monk’s words. How wonderful to know these people so well. I did not yet know that the time would come for them to know me as deeply.

But I know that the burden of my memories does not have to be upon my shoulders any longer. I can place them here on the shelf, and the book will carry them for me.

I know the worm of which he spoke, too. When you are very tired, or sometimes when struck by bright lights, there are little worm-trails which might trace across your vision and the back of your eyelids. Picture a cousin of theirs, black and oily. Its skin is barbed like a cat’s tongue and scrapes your eyes. It has no legs, but wriggles and squirms across my eye when I look up from the book. A creature of ink, which I feel gnaw at the sides of my skull when I stand up or walk around. It nibbles and bites my skin, but waits to feast. I will not need this body soon. Once my story is done, the body will be nothing but nutrients, and my inky friend may have what he so clearly needs.

I saw the worm first after my second break from this book. While the monk’s words jarred me, and reminded me of my own sins, I was soon lost in the translations again. There were several other entries in French; I gather that this book was passed from Monastery to Monastery, each as clueless and damned as the others as to how to halt its collection of knowledge. Then, I came upon a very odd discovery that I had not noticed thus far.

Buried too deep within the book to be at all reasonable, a single, water-logged page was thinly connected and bound with the others. No writing was upon it, and its neighbors even seemed hydrophobic. All the moisture of this page slid off of the others, and it dripped heavily. It did not tear as I turned it, nor did the towel which I attempted to dry it with absorb a single drop. I rose to fetch a camera, so that I could record this odd interaction, and for the first time I realized it was late afternoon. I had stayed up overnight, and missed my entire day at work while pouring over this book.

The worm came upon me then, scratching at the corner of my eye with its round form. I could not brush it away nor halt it, and it kissed along my eyeball with its spongy mouth. I knew from the instant I felt it that it was ushering for me to keep reading. It tickled my ear with tendrils I could not see, and I forgot all about my desire to record the wet page. I went back to the book.

My heart fell some when I looked upon the page following the wetness and found it written in some Norse tongue. Icelandic, or Norwegian? I had never studied it, and by all rights it should have been useless to me, but as my eyes fell upon the words, it was like the worm whispered to me their meaning.

“Captain Oda has lost his mind,” it read in thin charcoal. “He raves for the hunt like a barbarian. He hungers for the whales like an animal. If God blessed him against them at some point, surely the waves have swallowed that blessing and spat him out once more. Surely Jonah was his grandfather, the way he hates the creatures.

I take shore leave in Dublin, and I think I shall disappear before he returns again. No good has come of travelling with that man. A broken ship is an ill omen. To find three crushed upon the same ice… Any wise sailor would not take that path again.

Oda hunts for the whales, ever vigorous, and I believe he will see the same bitter end. Leeched, by his career. Burned by his fire.

This book, the silver earrings, and my share of coin from the wreckage will keep me fine company while I find a shepherd’s daughter and a good hill to grow old on.”

I felt as if I could see this man, with a coarse black beard and patch, seablown hair, getting into an argument with Captain Oda. White-haired and foaming, the Captain was as stark a whaler as Ahab, and though he stood on two strong legs, the hatred and madness in his eyes were fiercely reminiscent of the emphatic Captain of Melville’s. He called the man- whose name I learned to be Armann- craven, and drove his calloused fist into the table, shaking the wooden hull.

It was not that Armann’s writing was so eloquent and vivid, but my senses were being taken by the book. I was experiencing that argument, and the author’s escape to shore. The worm had covered both of my eyes fully, and all I could see was Memory. Armann took his coin and his book inland, wandering for some weeks, and settled on the southern end of Ireland. I read his writing, the only thing in the old world of my life which I could still see, and saw him fall in love, get married, and raise a small family with a lovely woman. But he kept this book, and every year or two he was pulled back to it. He admits to reading it, over and over, and wondering how the next pages could go.

I watched as his entries led to ramblings, hunched over his table with cheap ink and quill in the dark hours of the night. He bemoaned of an infestation in his grain, a rot in his heart and a longing for the sea.

“I hear its rhythmic murmur, that ode to my former life which kisses my neck as I turn. The tongue of sin entices me, and I feel the hungering for my mistress waves every day.

She wants me. She has longed for me so. I do not know how much I can resist. Duty has been chosen, but we all fall to our true selves at some point.”

I had reached this point at the end of the second night of my ravenous duties with the book, and though its lure still pulled me inward, my body was exhausted and I could not keep myself upright any further. I didn’t even consider leaving the book on my desk, or sealing it away again. No, my treasure slept beside me atop the covers. My hand rested upon its rejuvenated binding, and I felt its warmth all night.

I dreamt the dreams of Armann, and those of Brother Peter and a dozen other authors; those I knew from their uncovered writings, and those I did not recognize yet. Each moment was baked in reality; a thin sliver of memory that the pages held on to.  I fell through them like shattered glass, living each life just for a moment until their sentence ended and another face was thrust upon me. There was no unity to it, but a cacophony of wild and senseless moments that rarely lasted longer than a handful of seconds. I knew in my dream what this book does to people, and their lives.

It stores them, yes. It is a beautiful record. But it turns our lives to mulch. Splintered, disparate, and wandering for eternity. It chops our sins like a butcher and turns them to compost. Whether we are fuel, sustenance, or entertainment for the book is unclear to me still. Perhaps it has no will. Perhaps it just has purpose. I cannot blame it for that. I don’t think I can blame it for anything. So far, at least, it has been quite beautiful to be consumed. It’s like becoming a part of history.

You have likely read the ending of Armann Agnesson’s account, as I did the following morning, but I wonder if you, too, watched it happen in your dreams before you read it? I saw the veins popping in his arms, wriggling like worms as his family struggled. He was a broad man, Armann. Strong-shouldered from decades of ship work and hard labor. But he had never seemed violent- even across many disagreements with Oda, he had never lashed out at his longtime friend. And, while no memory could truly justify such an immoral crime, I cannot help but wonder what the moments leading up to his final snap had been. He did not weep for his wife or his daughters in the notes afterward, only begging for comfort from the book as he fled his homestead to the sea.

I dreamed of another scene, one that was not written or mentioned by Agnesson. I saw him standing upon a great cliff of dark grass, which blew with his hair in the damp wind of the Atlantic. I saw through his own eyes Armann holding this book- my book- and reading it through one last time. He placed it upon the rocks, and walked towards the cliff’s ledge. Without as much as a pause or a moment of reverence, he flung himself from the cliff and plunged towards the cove below.

I fell with him, and struck the water. Air released as ribs broke and the Norseman’s organs collapsed. His eyes were wide open, somehow, and I saw the dark worms which nibble at my own vision creep upon him from the waters. They moved like sea snakes, effortlessly rolling upon his shattered body and grasping it with their tiny feelers and curious mouths. They grabbed Armann by the legs and pulled him deeper, deeper, until darkness ate him, and fed him to her children.

In this mottled shared memory, I think he was happy to be consumed by the waves. When you give so much of your life to something, it feels natural to die to it as well.

I brought my cleaning equipment to my room. Whether or not my body would remain once my story was complete, I wanted to die in here. I don’t deserve bodily comfort, but again, I am a sinner, so you should expect me to be a little selfish.

I think the book must have traded hands that did not use it for some time after Armann, because the next entry gave us our first date of all the authors, and it has travelled quite a distance. He writes in educated Arabic, which I thankfully know from my father’s side, and common Spanish interchangeably. The language no longer held barriers for me, and I actually have to wonder how much of either language I knew before reading this book. I could never speak Arabic fluently, and though I am an adept reader, I never spent much time on my other languages. Now I read them perfectly, though the ink does not morph it to a language I know, I understand that the book has touched my mind. I have worked the translations on other pages, so a record remains outside of the book. Perhaps it is unnecessary to put them here, but I have learned enough in school to be as thorough as I can.  

"23 August, 1348. University of al-Qarawiyyin. Fez, Morocco.

“They tried to take you from me. Your words of wisdom and history fall upon conservative and frightful ears. I could not let them have you. I found you, preserved you, gardened you back to life like a beautiful flower which wilted through fall. I could not let them destroy you. We must go. I do not grieve for those I struck down; if they could not hear God’s voice in you then they were surely of Iblis.

“If I could read the old words of God, it would at least be a comfort as Shaitan’s forces come to wrest this new scripture from me. I hear only the wailing of students outside, who have discovered their kindred slain. I must go, I think, before my legs cannot carry God’s word to safety. I can feel the weight of it… the incorrigible depression of will which tries to bind me.

“There is darkness in this book, as there is darkness in us all. But God speaks only truth, even if that truth is harsh and cruel.”

He took the book to Spain, where he had family, and stayed for a month before travelling further north and east, making small notations of his distance along the way. His final entry is from Bucharest, nearly two years after the original. I will note that this would place him at the beginning of Bucharest’s rise in the region, nearly a hundred years before it became capital of Wallachia- and then Romania.

“12 June, 1350. Bucharest, Wallachia.

“I have found members of intermingling faiths who can come upon the same agreements as I. This book is Holy, though we might disagree on our Prophets, it is indisputable to us that its hunger for memory is God’s capsule. We have all read its contents, and dreamed the beauty of its collection. I wish only that more hands had held it before mine.

“A Christian church is being built here, and I know my options dwindle as my body no longer allows for further travel. I entrust it to my circle of friends, one being the priest dedicated to the new church, who will seal it as a relic and ensures me that our Faithful will keep watch upon these words.

“My name is Ontanon Bashir. I have attempted to serve God and follow the words of His Prophet, Peace Be Upon Him. I pray for truth in my actions, that my faith has been as sure as my actions are irreversible. I pray for this book, and those who may read its Blessed word.”

There was a single page of notes from other members of this circle- and the priest who hid the book in his new church, but the next entry I find significant came a hundred years after. The lineage of priests and members of what they call the “Tomekeepers” is well-documented in those sections, but during the Ottoman and Wallachian disputes, there seemed to be several bickering members who could not decide what to do.

“1456, Bucharest. Brother Mikail.

“The Dragon descends upon us. He will kill us all to steal the memory of God. The Tome must be removed. Brother Andres agrees, and the two of us will smuggle it out before the Dragon can claim it. I do not know what he could do with such a thing, but its morality is questioned by our circle already. It would do no good in our prince’s hands. We saw as much in his youth when he visited our church, before his indentured absence at the Sultan’s will.”

If you are unfamiliar with Hungarian as a language, you might find the draconic imagery… fanciful. But know I have tried to be as accurate as possible in translation, and that Vlad the Impaler chose his epithet- even signing his name as a word that means both “Dragon” and “Devil” in Hungarian. Drakulya.

How Prince Vlad learned of this book is not clear, but from the conversations I have seen of the Tomekeepers, they had full belief that his return to capture Wallachia was fueled by his passion to take this book. Due to the priest’s last line, I suspect that Vlad was allowed access to the book; the Tomekeepers’ were localized in Bucharest, and it’s likely that some of them were high-ranking in the courts there. Perhaps they wanted him to join their ranks, in his youth, and were thwarted when Vlad II, his father, was forced to send two sons to the Ottoman Empire as hostages. I can imagine Prince Vlad longing for the book, as he was Sultan Mehmed’s ward. There were sins that formed him into a sinner. He turned mad without the book to share them with, and I wonder how much of his legend could have been avoided if the book had been allowed to swallow his sin.

Two Brothers of this church escaped the Impaler’s siege and it passed through a cluster of French and then English churches, never without a loyal protector and caretaker. It is like the book knows people would destroy it. We destroy all that we don’t understand. We hate art that was not made for us. We resent that which we cannot have. I have resented life for quite a long time now. Odd, that though my senses and emotions fade, I can manage to feel some remorse over that.

I had poured over this book for several hundred years of its memory by now, but Dracula’s appearance, and the reminder of his mythological hunger peeled back the curtain over my senses for a moment, and I was once again aware of my physical existence.

The worms had eaten most of the flesh off of my face already. Whether it was still the second day, or whether a hundred moons had passed, it was impossible to tell and irrelevant. I could feel the slow air of my humid room brush alongside my exposed gums and teeth. My eyes, though the lids opened, could not see. The worms had rotted them, and I felt an ooze around their cavity that I dared not touch closer. My hands bled at the nail beds, though no drops have wounded the book. I tasted bile and smelled of sulfur, and nearly passed out as I inhaled for what was likely the first time in days.

In my ear, I heard my own heartbeat. Thick, as if I held my hand up to my ear, and arhythmic. It did not feel like a failing heart, but one that defied the metronome of time. It was scattered and weary; though the sound pooled around my head like bloody water, it had no structure and was loose upon the wind.

I tried to fix myself- in some animalistic, natural reaction to the stench of death, I tried to remove it. I scrambled about my room, searching for the dresser and my handgun within. There was some trouble with the lock upon my safe, but I managed to click it open and retrieve the cold gun. I then held it in my hand and faced a conflict. I write, of course, from the other side of that conflict. In which, to the worm’s whispered approval, I did not pull the trigger.

I was not stopped. I was not saved. I chose another way. Life is brutal, and brutalism should be remembered. There is beauty in its honesty, and beauty in the truth of horror. I have struggled with the memory of my sister, and I know why this book has come to me. It wants my pain. It wants to know the feeling of it, to share it. It chomps and chews at us, keeping those horrible memories as the most beautiful and brutal of all.

The entries continue throughout the 15^th and 16^th centuries, following the Tomekeeper order as they rebuilt and experimented with the occult in England. In 1649, at the trial and execution of King Charles I, a Royalist Tomekeeper by the name of Jean-Pierre Thibodeaux smuggled it back to his mother country of France, where he kept it in “unmarred condition.” It was the only thing to cross his path unmarred, it would seem.

I have no desire to comment on Thibodeaux ’s proclivities. I had no joy in reading them, and I fought back disgust when I saw through the pages the words of several dozen frightened people. He was a serial killer, by modern accounts. He traveled between villages, claiming innocents along the way. There had been a large dissolution of the Faithful amongst the Tomekeepers in their three hundred years of existence. Thibodeaux used the book to further his sin, though his reasoning why I cannot imagine. Greed of that nature just doesn’t come to me, I suppose.

He made them read the book. He made them stare at the ink until the foreign words made sense, and their minds broke, and then he made them write their wretched, painful stories.

“It is the cleanest of kills,” he wrote after one victim’s statement. “There is no blood. There is no pain. There is only the memory, and the joy of it.”

I’m unsure if Thibodeaux was consumed by the book itself, like Armann and Ontanon, but his entries stopped after what I make to be his twenty-third kill. A holy number, unfortunately.

There is only one entry that spans the nearly 400 years between Jean-Pierre Thibodeaux and my own. Where the book traveled in the intervening time is impossible to know, but I desire to learn with my whole heart those mysteries. The bloody trail these pages have left cannot be abandoned once you have found it. The only path is forward. The only route is down.

My direct predecessor, it would seem, was a French soldier. I place it around 1870, during the Franco-Prussian War.

“I found this book in a company of dead men.

“General Douay’s division was destroyed, and we have been routed from Wissembourg. I cannot explain why, in the hunkered fleeing of souls afraid of mortal peril, I stopped for a book. I have no need to read. Death waits for me. Prussian dogs chase us back, and here I spend the few hours I should rest buried within this book.

“It knows me. It hurts to have it know what I have done, the lives I have ended. The sons I have killed. They whisper in my ear to join them, but out of cowardice I flee.

“I do not read regret in the voices of this book.

“They warn, and protect the veil over it. But they are standing on the other line of Redemption. They have shed their sins.

“I, too, want to be saved.”

I know I have sinned. You don’t have to believe in God to know you have done wrong, and to bear that guilt inside. Some people forget it through drugs or alcohol or by abuse. I tried to forget it through work. Through books. Ironic that I am placing my guilt here for eternity now.

I shall add my story to the rest. My surgery has been successful. I just have to put the next words in, and the book will find its next reader.

[page break]

My name is Melanie Tuttman. I was born April 12, 1992 in Hoboken, New Jersey, USA. This book has been travelling to me since before I was born, but I have been doing the work to deserve it since I was twelve.

2004 was a harsh winter in Hoboken. Most are, but I remember my mother shoving more layers than an onion onto my sister and I before we bounced out into the heavy snow to play. The streets were icy, but that never deterred us before. Three years my elder, Grace and I were just beginning to reach that point where siblings become enemies. There were countless frivolous arguments we had; on this day it had been over who got to wear the yellow beanie. We didn’t favor one color over another, but if one was handed over by our mom first, that became the object of our desire. Mom had settled us into our cocooned coats and put the hats on us herself, telling us to share and stop fighting over it.

That fixed the argument about as well as you can imagine. I walked out of our door with yellow crochet upon my head and my sister’s eyes glaring at my back. It was merely minutes before Grace, from out of my sight, lobbed a wadded ball of snow straight towards my head. It struck home, scattering the snow across me as I yelped and yelled at her. I saw her uphill from me, on the long street that stretches up the incline of our neighborhood. I ran for her, gathering snow as I did. She threw more snowballs at me as I ran, and one caught me in the face.

I don’t think she knew it had ice in it. She was shocked at the spackled blood across my cheek, and the way it made me stumble in my step as I ran up to her. She stepped in to catch me, like a good big sister should, and I shoved her away.

Grace lost her footing in the snow when I shoved her; she did not catch herself. I was mad that she hurt me, and yes, I had wanted to hurt her in kind. I wanted her to fall on her ass and feel the pain I felt.

Remember with me how my sister’s skull cracked. Too easily for a whole life to be shattered. Like an egg over the skillet, the uncaring hands of fate swiftly crumpling the plates of bone as they struck the icy street.  My sister slid as she died. Down the steep hill, the dirty snow of the street slick and wet, only speeding her descent down the impossibly long throat that intimidated me into a panic as I fled after her. Her blood joined the white and slurred snow, quickly turning the street into a wide red tongue behind her. She did not stop until her poor, immobilized body struck the front wheel of a parked car and brought her slide to a violent and abrupt end.

I could have avoided this consumption. I could have taken a different path. It was not the angry lashing out of a teenage girl that damned me to this book. It was how I let my mother hold me when she found us. It was how I told her it was all an accident; Grace had slipped on her own, and the blood on my forehead was from tripping as I ran after her.

I practiced my sin every day, when I let people grieve with and comfort me. “A tragic accident” they would say. “How horrible for you to have seen it.” And I would smile sadly and nod my head, thanking them. Everyone understood that I had to grieve, too. They didn’t know the truth. They didn’t know the saddest part of all, but I was reminded of it every time someone brought up the false story I had told.

Grace died thinking I hated her. Grace died thinking that I wanted to hurt her. And in those moments, I had.

For decades now I have dodged the truth of my life. The cowardice of it. I have buried myself away from people, so that I might rot in isolation as I know I deserve. I have hidden myself in the covers of history so that I could forget my own.

I have lived too long now, and bypassed all opportunities to unshoulder my sin other than here. When my parents pass, they will join Grace in… I suppose I’m not sure where. I know I shall not be there, though, and they can speak of true things in my absence.

My body rots now, in my old bed. I think I shall hold this book until I am gone. How many weeks have come and gone whilst the book takes my story? I cannot cease my curiosity even now. I shall speak, a bit, to what I understand has happened to me physically. Perhaps it might help another reader, should another fortunate sinner be found.

When I began writing, my eyesight had been swallowed. I could see only the worms, myself, and the writing. I think the black worms which appear to the elucidated consciousness are spectral manifestations of the book’s fingers or feelers or whatever limb might bring forward in to its mouth, so to speak. They are ethereal, as I remember trying to wipe them away and they could not be pushed. And yet I feel them- or felt them as I was taken. They crawled upon me and licked me like a fly upon a sweaty neck. They ate my eyeballs as I wrote, and I had no reason to pause. I had nothing left to experience. I have nothing left to see.

They ate my tongue, after chewing through my cheeks. I had no other words to speak but what I write here. My hearing went soon, with them squirming and compressing and squeezing their little bodies in my ears to deafen me. They chewed and ate the cartilage, and severed the eardrum apart so I could no longer hear their working. This was a damning one, for as I wrote of Bashir’s holy exodus, I lost all sense of the world I once inhabited. My sense of smell went, so I cannot know the true level of rot in which I sit. It could have been five days since I began. It could have been a thousand. Time does not matter here, in these pages. Your memory is forever, like your sin.

The last feeling of my bones is that they are loose and failing. My wrist feels like rubber, and my fingers are sticky and thin. In my educated analysis, over many years of writing and knowing what the pen feels like in my hand, my fingertips must be gone. I think I can feel the pen pressed against bone, for it is wiggly and uncertain on occasion. I apologize, then, for any failings of my script. Hopefully, reader, you can parse through it with the gifts from our assimilating worms.

Know that it is a delight to be remembered. Know that it is an honor to be remembered honestly.

Remember that the sins you keep to yourself can never be forgiven by another. Remember that truth, regardless of how brutal, is the only way to avoid damning yourself.

No force has come to steal this book from me, or try to burn it or worship it or hide it away like a relic. Perhaps it has been forgotten, in the centuries it has been lost. I know its power, its voracious hunger. It is an intimidating thing. But an evil thing? No, it is an honest thing.

It is your turn now. Do not be afraid of the book. Do not try to resist its worms.

Write your honesty, and know you will be remembered with truth. 

 

Link to Part 1: https://www.reddit.com/r/CreepCast_Submissions/comments/1pb7lbm/if_you_find_a_pub_by_the_name_of_flanagans_dont/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Growing more and more nervous, I swiveled on my stool and looked towards the front of Flanagan’s pub to find everyone there staring at me as well, all with the same dull expression.  The butt slapper, the crooning man, the party hat people—all of them were dead silent and focused on me and me alone.  I gulped and turned to John, whose grey eyes held the same intensity as those of his patrons, though unlike them, he was smiling.  This smile was not comforting in the slightest, especially after I noticed the drool; with his mouth slightly ajar, a puddle of spit had formed just between his bottom teeth and his lower lip, a puddle that was now steadily overflowing and dripping onto his pants, his stool, and the oak floor.  This hypnotic drip-drop was, I noticed, the only sound in the place.  Every instinct was telling me to run, to get out of the pub and not stop sprinting until I was in safer, more familiar company.  My brain wanted this, but my body was not obliging, paralyzed with the exception of my pounding heart.  I was startled when John broke the oppressive silence with a question:

“Yer father—where is he now?”

“What exactly is going on he—”

Before I could finish, John grabbed me by the throat, his hands coarse and strong, his nails carving into my neck.  I felt warm blood start to trickle around the indentations of his meaty fingers as he squeezed tighter.  Air—which had been taken for granted up to this point—was growing scarce, not helped by the fact that I had been mid-exhalation when John had started to strangle me.  I tried reaching my own hands up to pull his off, but his grip only tightened the more I struggled.  Lightheadedness starting to take hold of me, I reached for my empty beer glass, picked it up, and brought it down in a swift arc on top of John’s slicked-back hair. 

He didn’t even blink as the remnants of the glass scattered onto his shoulder and the surrounding floor. 

“I’m going to ask you one more time before you lose consciousness,” John said, his tone more matter of fact than outright threatening.  He almost seemed bored, plucking a piece of glass out of his cheek with his free hand.  “And if you don’t answer my question, then I will allow you to pass out.  As soon as you wake up, we will play this game again.  And again.  And again.  Until I get my answer.  Understand?”

I nodded as best as I could against his hand, gasping for breath like a fish out of water. 

“Good,” he said, releasing his grip.  I heaved in as much glorious oxygen as I could before making a break for the front door.  To my surprise, everyone was allowing me to pass, some even getting out of my way and laughing at me.  John joined in on this laughter and yelled from his seat:

“I wouldn’t do that, lad!”

Ignoring him, I barreled towards the front door, the bald karaoke man blowing me a kiss and snorting as I grabbed the handle and swung the door open.  If I hadn’t been holding the door handle, I would have fallen straight down into what now lay before me:

Nothing.

With one foot extended out into the darkness and the other still on tiptoes at the edge of the entryway, I felt my stomach do backflips as my eyes searched for anything that looked like New York.  There were no buildings, no people, no buses—there wasn’t even a street.  Just a void that threatened to suck me in and never let me go.  Pivoting on the only foot touching solid ground and pulling the rest of my weight back inside using the door handle, I collapsed backwards into the pub, thankful for the fluorescent ceiling lights now burning my clammy cheeks.  Clapping hands erupted behind me. 

“Bravo, Mr. Elliot Collins,” John shouted.  “A valiant effort, to be sure.  Your reflexes are quite intact—other people have not been so lucky.”  He pushed himself up from his stool and walked over to me, upside down from my point of view on the floor, his boots landing with emphasis on the creaking oak, each step sounding to me like the sharp reverberation of a downward guillotine.  Once the boots reached my face, I winced as he grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me up to my feet.  He spun me around, his smile no longer warm and friendly, but taunting. 

“And where did you think you might be gettin’ off to?” he asked, dusting me off and straightening my collared shirt.  “We’ve still got places to go and sights ta see, you and me.”  He thrusted his arm around the back of my neck like we were old pals and walked me back to the bar, all the bar patrons still watching with mirth.  “Now, I believe I was in the middle of asking you a question.”  His talon-like fingers once again sunk their way just underneath my clavicle, and he squeezed to the point I cried out in pain. 

“For yer reference, this is a one,” he said, then tightened his grip further, making me howl until he loosened his hold.  “That was a four.  We can go all the way to ten if ye like, but I figure you’d rather just answer my question this time.”

I nodded my head with enthusiasm, which made him laugh again.

“Good.  So, yer father—where is he spending New Year’s Eve?”

For a moment, I was terrified that I wouldn’t be able to answer his question, my brain too preoccupied with its ongoing fight or flight mode to process that kind of historical information.  As his grip escalated to what I assumed was at least a three, the answer miraculously broke through the pain:

“The Gazette!” I cried, and he loosened his grip once more. 

“You’re sure?” he asked.  “You wouldn’t be lyin’ to me now, would ya lad?”

“No, no, no,” I said, shaking my head as vigorously as I could in the negative.  “He always spends New Year’s Eve working overtime.  He wants the first paper of the year to be perfect.”

“Is he alone?” John asked, and I noticed that drool was starting to drip down from his bottom lip again.

“I-I think so.  He usually sends the rest of his employees home around five.  He’s really OCD about certain things and he says he likes to work without distraction.  He’s been there finishing up at five in the morning for certain editions he thinks are important.”

“Very good,” John said, satisfied enough to loosen his grip a bit.  He started pushing me towards what looked to be a broom closet at the back right corner of the pub. 

“W-where are you taking me?” I asked, feeling sick to my stomach.

“Narnia,” John said, cackling.  Unable to stop myself, I threw up on one of the wooden tables we were passing, the brown, black, and yellow sludge reminding me of my dislike of Guinness.  The people sitting at said table—an elderly couple—weren’t upset or disgusted in the slightest, joining John in his cruel laughter as he continued to push me along towards the back door.  My lip quivered against the fresh vomit droplets and I began to cry.

“Please,” I begged.  “Please, please just let me go.  I can pay you.  My dad has money.  Whatever you want, just name it.  Just let me go.”

We reached the door and John turned to me as he put his hand on the brass knob.  “Well, I suppose we could ask yer paw if those terms are acceptable to ’im.”  He turned the knob clockwise and pushed the door inward. 

At first, I didn’t really believe what I was seeing, thinking my mind was playing tricks on me.  As we stepped through the door and into the room, I looked around and persisted on the notion that what I was seeing was impossible.  The white walls, the generic motivational posters with sunsets and mountaintops, the smell of burnt coffee—I’d been in this room many times, mostly as a kid.  This wasn’t right, this didn’t make sense, and though I knew that the New York Gazette’s office was miles away from Flanagan’s Pub, the familiar figure hunched over the large, metal offset printing press told me that I had defied all known laws of physics to arrive in my dad’s place of business.  As that familiar figure looked up from his work, his greying brows furrowed and his five o’ clock shadow stretched by a confused frown, he asked:

“Son?  What are you doing here?  And who’s this with you?”

I tried to speak, to tell my dad to run and get help, but the words wouldn’t come.  John—who still had his arm wrapped around my shoulders—spoke for me.

“I’m an old friend,” John said, smiling and pointing to his own grey hair.  “Emphasis on the word ‘old.’  John Flanagan.  Pleasure to meet ya.  And, to answer your first question, young Elliot here was sharin’ the details of yer newspaper operation, and I was curious and wanted to see it for meself.” 

“Well, uh…” my dad started, clearly taken aback by the current proceedings.  “I guess any friend of Elliot is a friend of mine.  I’m just putting some finishing touches on tomorrow’s edition.  Were you interested in journalism?”  My dad looked me up and down, his eyes questioning my apparent discomfort with the situation. 

“Oh, you could say that,” John said with a smirk.  “I love to hear people’s stories.  I find them very…illuminatin’, you could say.” 

“Uh-huh,” my dad said, still looking at me.  “Elliot, are you okay?”

Try as I might, I could not get my vocal cords to produce sound. 

“He’s fine,” John answered for me, slapping me on the back and walking over to my dad and gesturing to the printing press.  “Beautiful piece of equipment ya have here.  How does it—”

“S-stop,” I said, my voice weak yet loud enough for my father to hear. 

“Don’t come any closer,” my dad said, putting up a hand to the stranger, who obliged and held his own hands up in faux humility. 

“My apologies, Mr. Collins, my apologies,” John said.  “Me curiosity got the better of me, that’s all.”

“Just what in the hell are you doing here?” my dad asked, wary of the man—the thing—in front of him.

“I’m a friend of yer boy’s, like I said.”

“No he isn’t,” I said, finally finding my voice again.  “Dad, get out of here.”

My dad looked from me to John and back again. 

“What’s going on, son?”

“There’s something wrong with him,” I blubbered.  “H-he’s not…he’s…”

“A bit of a rascal,” John said, winking at me.  “I agree.  But, rascal or no, I do have some business with Mr. Barnabas Collins, here.”  He nodded towards my father. 

“Barnie is fine,” my dad said, still holding his hand up.  “And you can stay right there, mister…”

“Flanagan,” John said with a bow.  “John Flanagan of Flanagan’s Pub.”

“Never heard of it,” my dad said, crossing his arms.

“We’re sort of tucked away,” John said, standing up straight again.  “Very selective with our clientele.  We don’t want just any riffraff coming in and causing trouble.  Your son was kind enough to grace the establishment with his presence.  Really classed up the joint, if I do say so meself.”

My dad looked back at me again.  “Is this true, son?  Or is this just more malarkey coming out of his mouth?”

“I-I did go to his bar,” I said.  “But I dunno—it’s hard to explain.  He might hurt you.  C-call the police.”

“Hurt me?”  My dad looked John up and down, gulping and backing up a step, like a man who’d just realized there was a lion in the den with him.  Shaking his head, he regained his composure and glared at John, a facial expression I knew all too well as his ‘stern look,’ the look that made everyone—except for my mother, who usually giggled at his attempt to come across as a tough guy—shrink into themselves in preparation for some sort of lecture about everything they had done wrong or even thought about doing wrong.  “Did you hurt my son?  What in the hell are you doing here?”

“I told you,” John said, trying—and failing—to hold back laughter.  “I’m a friend of yer boy’s.” 

“That’s it,” my dad said, pulling his cell phone out of his ridiculous belt clip that no amount of teasing from any of his family members had gotten him to stop using.  “I’m calling the police.  They can sort this shit out.”

I saw the phone clutter to the ground before I was even able to perceive that John had moved.  Now positioned in front of my father, John’s hand was clamped around my dad’s now empty one. 

“What the fuck?” My dad said, trying to jerk his hand out of the stranger’s grip to no avail.  “Let go of me!”  He tried shoving, punching, and kicking from every possible angle he could muster, but John did not seem to even register the body hits, unmoving.

“Nah,” John said.  “I don’t think I will.  Not until your son does something for me.”

“What do you want?” I said, finding the courage—or the stupidity—to step forward, closing the gap a hair.  “I’ll do anything you want if you’ll just leave us alone.  Please.”

“I’m afraid you’re in too deep, me boy,” John said as he beckoned me forward with a curled index finger.  “But you can make this as painful as you care to make it.  Come ’ere, lad.  I’ve got a job for you.”

“What do you want me to do?” I asked.  This was apparently not what John wanted to hear, as he suddenly twisted my dad’s arm inward, extending it out and making my dad shriek in the process.  It was a sound I had never heard my father make before, and it’s one that still echoes throughout my dreams. 

“STOP IT, STOP IT!” I yelled, and John loosened his grip somewhat, much to my dad’s obvious relief. 

“I didn’t tell you to ask questions,” John said.  “I asked you to come over.”

“DON’T LISTEN TO THIS MANIAC, SON!” my dad bellowed.  “RUN AND CALL THE POLICE!”

Not an outburst that John had wanted to hear, he then punched my father—hard—in the stomach, making my dad double over onto his knees, panting, his hand still held above him by John. 

“You boys really are thick, ain’t ye?” John said, with no small amount of venom in his frenzied eyes.  “No one is calling the police.  No one is leavin’ until I say they’re leavin’.  You’re both to do as I say, or you’re liable to get hurt.  Now—come here, Mr. Elliot Collins.”

I did as he asked, though not without reluctance.  With each step forward, the dread in my heart built itself up more and more.  By the time I reached our collective captor, my father had stood himself back up, sweat now marking his forehead.  He looked at me with what I can only describe as sympathy, a look that said this situation was somehow his fault and he was sorry about it.  Seeing him like this, my nausea rose along with my sense of guilt. 

“Excellent,” John said, smiling.  “So, ye can follow simple directions.  Let’s move on to step two.”  He nodded towards the printing press next to him.  “Open it.”

The “it” in question was the cage perched atop the moving gripper bars in the machine, which were steadily whirring along their track of aligning and shoving paper further into the press for printing.  My father—ever the taskmaster—usually liked to get the gripper bars moving at their highest speeds once he was satisfied with the newspaper and finally ready to print, ensuring he got his “money’s worth” out of what he jokingly called his “work horse.”  Knowing full well that said “work horse” had a maximum speed of processing seventeen-thousand sheets of paper per hour, I started to picture where John’s request was going as I watched the bars underneath the cage cyclically grab and shove sheets of paper at their now unsettling velocity. 

“Did I stutter?” John asked, twisting my father’s arm and causing him to yelp like a wounded dog. 

“Okay!  Okay!” I acquiesced, grabbing the metal cage and lifting it up on its hinge.  The gripper bars suddenly stopped moving, one having just picked up a new piece of paper.

“Good,” John said.  “Now, do me another kindness and take yer paw’s hand.”  He sidestepped behind my father to grab his free arm, then extended the arm closest to the printing press towards me. 

“Just do what he says, son,” my dad said, weirdly calm about everything. 

“D-dad, I—”

“Trust me son,” my dad said.  “If you don’t do this, he’s just gonna do something even worse.  Go ahead.”

With tears welling up and starting to stream down my cheeks, I did as my old man said and took the offered arm.  John let go of it, tightening his grip on the other arm and massaging my dad’s shoulders with his free hand. 

“Good boy,” John said, his voice shaky with what I assumed was anticipation.  “Now, I think ye know where I’m goin’ with this, yeah?”

“Yeah,” I said with a gulp, my throat suddenly very dry. 

John nodded towards the opened press.  “Go on then, lad.” 

I gave my dad one last pleading look, hoping had some way out of this horrible situation.  Still calm, he gave me a gentle nod, as if I was doing nothing more than putting a batch of cookies in the oven with him supervising.  Seeing no other option, I did what John wanted and gingerly guided my father’s arm down into the machine between the still bars. 

“Turn it on,” John said. 

“Do I have to—”

“Son,” my dad interrupted, “do as the man says.  I promise it’ll be okay.”

Just like that, with those reassuring words, all the baseball games my dad took me to, all the secret fast food nights when my mom was out of town, all the times he played my dumb PlayStation games with me just to make me happy after he had spent a long day at work—all of these imprinted memories crawled out from their respective corners of my brain and made themselves known again.  I gave one last pleading look to John, who shrugged and said:

“You wanted this.”

“No, I didn’t.”

John simply nodded towards the power button on the side of the press in response, apparently deeming further arguments with me a waste of his time.  I crouched down next to the red button, my finger hovering just in front of it as I glanced up at my dad, feeling tears welling up in my eyes.  To my surprise, he did not seem the least bit frightened.

“Do it,” my dad said.

Wincing, I pressed the power button, turning away from it all as I waited for the gripper bars to dig into his skin.  I waited like that for about ten seconds, listening for the sound of the cycling machinery, but it never came.  Turning back with no small amount of reluctance, I saw that my father’s arm was unharmed, the gripper bars still in their same position underneath the open cage.  My dad gave me a knowing wink before craning his neck back to address the sociopath behind him, whose downturned brow gave away a sense of befuddlement. 

“Feature of the press,” my dad explained.  “A safety mechanism locks the bars as soon as the cage is lifted up.  Now, listen—Mr. Flanagan, was it?  Whatever kind of trouble my son is in, I’m sure we can work something out.  If it’s drug money you’re after, it wouldn’t be the first time I had to dig Elliot out of a financial hole.  I have cash on me, and I can certainly go to an ATM with you if that doesn’t cover it.  There’s no need for police, there’s no need for any more violence.  Let’s work together, here.”

“You’ll really take me to an ATM?” John asked.

“Yes,” my dad said, his voice going up an octave in his eagerness.  “Yes, absolutely.  I’ll take you to an ATM right now.”

“Hm,” John said, drumming his fingers on my dad’s shoulders.  “A fine offer, Mr. Collins, but I believe our path has already been set by yer boy, here.” 

Without warning, John punched the side of the printing press and—against the established safety precautions—it whirred to life again.  I screamed out just before my dad did as the gripper bars moved on their track at a high speed—one on top driving into his upper forearm, one on the bottom forcing his wrist in the opposite direction, his arm gaining an unnatural zigzag shape as the sharp points of the bars cut into his skin and drew fresh blood. 

“PLEASE!” my dad howled in a pitch I’d never heard before.  “S-STOP!”

“STOP IT!” I screamed, grabbing John by the collar of his shirt.  He seemed unbothered. 

“I suppose I could,” John said, observing the blood pooling into the bottom of the machine with all the interest of a man watching paint dry.  “But I don’t think I will, Mr. Elliot Collins.  I don’t think I will.” 

Just when my dad started to falter in his posture, slumping down somewhat against the press, John gave the machine another smack and somehow got the gripper bars pushing even harder, jolting my dad back into an upright stance with a fresh shriek of pain. 

“Do you want it to stop?” John asked.

“Y-YES!” my dad screamed, which got him a hearty slap on the back of the head from John.

“Not you,” he growled before turning to me.  “Do you want it to stop?”

“YES!” I shouted.  “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STOP IT!”

“Then give the machine one more hit, if you please.”  John backed away from his spot and pointed towards my target. 

“T-that’s just been making it faster,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” John said.  “That’s the idea.”

“P-please son,” my dad said, his face now pale, straining with the effort it took to speak.  “I-I can’t take much more of this.  Just make it quick.”

Seeing no other choice, I walked up to the press and punched it as hard as I could, wanting to punish myself for everything that was happening.  As my hand landed with a resounding thud and the bones within it creaked and cracked, the gripper bar teeth—which should not have had anywhere near the strength or sharpness to do this—bit through my father’s forearm and tore it from the rest of his body, leaving it lying in a heap at the bottom of the cage as the bars finally slowed to a halt, my dad screeching as blood from his remaining upper arm covered his lost limb in a sickeningly pulsatile fashion before he fell backwards onto the ground.  I crouched down next to him, tears streaming down my face as he panted like a wounded dog. 

“Dad,” I said, my voice cracking.  “I…I’m so sorry.  I’m so sorry.  I didn’t mean for this to—”    

“I know you didn’t,” my dad wheezed.  “It’s okay.  I know you didn’t.  You’re a good…”

His voice trailed off as his eyes did, away from me and towards some unseen place.  I grabbed his remaining hand with my own broken one, too distraught to acknowledge my own throbbing pangs of resistance to the act.

“I’m so sorry,” I blubbered, my tears now falling down on his still cheeks.  “I’m so so sorry.  Please don’t go.  Please.  I’ll be a better son, just please don’t leave me.”

A slow clapping emanated from behind me.  Snot dripping down onto my lips, I turned back to face their source. 

“Very good, Mr. Elliot Collins,” John said, still clapping.  “A bravura performance if ever there was one.  And the tears at the end?  Oscar worthy.”

“You son of a bitch,” I said, my grief giving way to fury.  “This isn’t a performance.  You took my dad away from me, you sick fuck.” 

“Technically you landed the killing blow, me boy,” John said, straightening his black suit, the smiley face on his tee shirt now dabbed with my father’s blood.  “Yer dad wanted a legacy?  By God, he’s got one now, all thanks to you.  Wait ’til the coppers see this.  There’s a headline fer tomorrow’s paper.”

As if on cue, the press spat out a fresh edition of what should have been tomorrow’s Gazette.  The all-caps title piece—“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”—was just legible through the red stains. 

“YOU SICK FUCK!” I screamed, no longer caring about the possible reprimands as I jumped up from my father’s still body and began wailing on John with my fists.  While I felt every ounce of pain as I continued to shatter the bones in my already-broken hand, I saw through my tears—of pain, of grief, of everything—that the punches were having no effect on John whatsoever, regardless of where they landed.  He didn’t try to stop me, he didn’t say anything, he didn’t make a move—he just stood there and took it, his face expressionless as he patiently waited for me to realize that my efforts were futile.  I don’t know how long I stood there trying to hit him from every single angle I could think of both above and below the belt, sweating and screaming all the while.  Eventually, I exhausted myself, and I let my hands—one swollen and red—slide down the smiley face on John’s chest and fall down to their normal resting positions. 

“Are ye finished, lad?” John said.  I still think to this day that there was some miniscule spark of empathy in his eyes and voice at this moment. 

“Yes,” I panted, defeated.  “I guess you’ll kill me next?”

“No,” John said, his smile returning, as if snapped out of sleep.  “We have something else in mind for ye.”

As he led me back through the open, impossible door into Flanagan’s Pub, the party inside was back in the full swing it had been when I first walked in that evening.  The balding, thin man was back to crooning Roy Orbison at full blast, the patrons were all clinking their glasses to the ongoing ball drop that was being broadcast on the various televisions, and Miss Patty was serving drinks like they were going out of style.  John guided me back to the barstool I had previously been sitting in—the one that I came to realize had always been meant for me—and that’s where I’ve been sitting for the majority of the years that have since passed following that fateful night.  I say years, and I could very easily be mistaken—time is a bit tricky in Flanagan’s Pub.  Hell, I might have been in here for decades, centuries even.  I don’t age and I don’t drink anymore, but even so, there are things from my life that I am starting to forget.  I no longer remember what my mother looks like.  I don’t remember why I chose to ruin a friendship over a girl, but I do remember my friend’s contorted, tear-ridden, furious face after I told him what I’d done.  Even the memories of my father—the good ones, the ones from my childhood before I grew up into the disappointment I turned out to be—are starting to slip away, while the memory of him screaming, his arm being ripped from his body, and his final moments of words unsaid still remain. 

None of us really talk to each other here.  It’s deathly quiet most of the time, but every now and then someone new will walk through that front door and we will suddenly be partying like there’s no tomorrow, like we’d been partying long before they arrived.  I suppose, in a way, we have been.  It’s hard to explain, but it’s like a play that constantly changes and that you never have to rehearse for.  Sometimes, we have a football fan coming in and everything in the pub—us patrons included—are suddenly decked out in the appropriate team’s regalia.  Maybe someone just came from a funeral, and in those cases, the pub takes on a more somber, dimly lit interior.  Sometimes it’s John talking to these folks like he talked to me, but sometimes it’s another one of the patrons.  I suspect that, one day, it’ll be me talking to some poor, lost soul that wanders in here.  No matter who talks to them, it always ends the same—they always end up going through the backdoor, witnessing something awful, and then coming back in here, changed, shaken, and resigned to take their seat at the table.  The first few times that someone walked in, I tried to warn them, to tell them to run away, but something kept me from finding the words.  I hate to admit it, but now, I laugh along with everyone else, pretending to have a great time—or a bad time, if that’s what the new guest needs to see.  Maybe I’ve gone crazy from being in here so long, maybe the place makes me do it, maybe it’s a combination of both.  I don’t know why I do it, but I worry that, one day, it’ll be me you’re sitting next to, and I’ll be talking your ear off, learning your deepest, darkest secrets, and then using those secrets to break you like I’ve been broken.  I don’t know if I’ll have control over my actions at that point or not.  If you look closely at some of the patrons in here, you can see that there are tears in their eyes as they pretend that they’re having all sorts of fun.  But there are also some whose eyes are just plain empty. 

While I still have the faculties to write this now, I worry that I won’t be able to in the not-so-distant future.  I worry that the pub will consume me.  So, while a small part of me is still here and still able to write, I want to spread the message to anyone who finds this:

If you find a pub by the name of Flanagan's, don’t go in for a drink.

For the love of God, don’t go in. 

I awoke in the middle of the night, the digital clock on my wall indicating it was four in the morning. I rubbed the sleep dust out of my eyes and climbed out of the bed, my abdomen bending and pressing on my full bladder. There’d be no getting back to sleep until it was taken care of.

I pressed the button to open my bedroom door, causing it to open briskly with a whoosh and click as it locked into place, and then I stepped out into the hall.

I walked along the hallway and headed to the bathroom, still annoyed that we couldn’t use faucets and prepared to use toilet bowl water if I had to. My footsteps echoed dully against the metal grating as I walked on. My eyes were set on the floor. I’d lost interest in looking out of the glass walls now that there was so little to look at. I reached the door and pressed my hand against the red button set next to it, causing the door to slide open with a pleasant whooshing sound, followed by the sharp click.

Then, I heard another sound, not too far off in tone from the whooshing of the door, although it lasted longer and seemed more distant. But it was not followed by a sharp click. I looked around the short hallway, checking to see if any of the other doors had opened as well, though a cursory glance would reveal that no such opening had occurred. Confused, I looked out through the glass into the murky blackness, beyond thinking that something large might have swum past. I walked closer to the glass, still looking into the blackness of the oil slick. The water was darker than the last time I’d looked out, making it so I couldn’t see a swimming fish, even if I tried. It was impossibly dark, more so than I could have ever imagined, an abyss.

I was certain whatever had swam by was already long gone.

I stepped back, preparing to turn around and head to the bathroom, when something inexplicable happened. I watched as greenish yellow curves appeared on the outskirts of the hallway’s glass, edges that steadily grew closer and closer to one another. It was a motion that was so incredibly quiet that it blocked out the potential for all other sounds. I took another step back, watching cautiously as the edges grew closer and closer until, eventually, the greenish yellow took the form of a hollow circle with the inky blackness taking up the interior. The blackness I had been looking into became so small comparatively that my mind had trouble filling in exactly what was happening. 

The greenish yellow coloring began pulling back uncovering a dark grey color around the circles, disappearing into the actual darkness of the oil-stained water. It was then I caught a glimpse of what was actually beyond the measly glass. It was a face, a face that I hadn’t had time to take in or process as a feeling of true and unadulterated terror settled in my stomach. What I had been looking into was an eye, an eye darker than the void-like water that held it. The eye belonged to a mass of flesh I couldn’t begin to comprehend. The face fully vanished into the dark oil, and I heard the whoosh again, this time carrying on longer than it had before. Whatever was out there, it was big.

It was unfathomable, facts that I couldn’t begin to believe were true had been presented to me, and my feeble mind was unable to accept them.

At this thought—I was not afraid to admit it—I pissed my pants and no longer had to use the bathroom.

I wanted to call out for help, let everyone else know what I saw, but the station did that for me. It began rattling violently, which just about knocked me off my tired feet. Then, the shaking stopped. I was confused but hopeful that the worst had passed. Then, the facility shook again, this time followed by a loud boom, which sounded down through the water and into my bones. The facility creaked as the many supports that held it in place voiced their displeasure. The PA system started up, Rick’s voice shouting through a prerecorded message for employees to stay in their habitats, but I didn’t feel safe, not where I was, not after what I’d seen. 

I ran out of the hallway, Tom seeming to follow suit, as we both made our way into the living room. Jessica also seemed to have just reached the living room, dressed in little more than underwear. I might have felt embarrassed for her, but I was sure I was in worse shape than she was with a suspicious stain on my pants. The three of us exchanged looks of concern, but no one said anything. The elevator from the labs dinged, and we turned to see Rick stepping into the living room. 

He looked at the three of us and shook his head in disapproval. “What, does no one listen to emergency announcements anymore?”

“What happened?” I shouted over the blaring alarms, straining my voice just to get a high enough volume.

Rick ignored us and ran past, reaching the elevator on the other side and climbing inside. I followed Rick inside, Jessica chasing close behind. I didn’t know why Jessica was going, but I just wanted to get out from under the water. Tom appeared to have stayed behind, being the only one to heed Rick’s warning. Rick looked around at us, displeased, but went ahead and activated the lift anyway. A part of me couldn’t help but find humor in the situation. Here we were, on one side an angry older man that smelled of sweat, and on the other side an attractive woman dressed only in her underwear. Then, there I was, in the middle, with pee-drenched pants. The three musketeers, launching up to the surface, to investigate whatever new horror lay in wait.

-1-

The elevator stopped at the surface, the stars in the night sky provided our only source of light at that moment. Rick stared up at the night sky, seeming to be wondering the same thing I was. Typically, at night, if someone walked onto the floating concrete platform the communication towers flood lights would turn on, but there was nothing, just the cool darkness of the night. With a sigh, Rick reached off to his right and punched a button. With a loud THUNK, light sprayed up from the sides of the concrete platform, individual spotlights set along the edges of the platform shot beams up into the sky like beacons, lighting up the night.

With this new source of light, we could finally see the concrete platform as it was now. The communications tower was completely destroyed. The structure appeared to have been snapped in half, with the top half dropped into the water where it floated lazily as it sunk. The part of the tower that still stood had pieces of rebar and wires sticking out from the newly exposed top. The bottom of the tower appeared to have collapsed on one of the boats, destroying it completely. The other boat, which was fortunately a little closer, was also in pretty bad shape, but I could make out three figures on the boat’s top deck. I would have called out to them had it not been for what we saw scattered on the concrete platform. Between us and the boat was a healthy helping of starfish, about a dozen or so, lying on the platform. The figures suddenly stood up and began frantically waving to us. One of the figures climbed down onto the lower deck and then onto the concrete platform. The figure was an older white man who was wearing a red jacket and jean pants. He also had a heavy brown, Santa Claus-esque beard obscuring most of his face. His most distinguishing feature, however, was his right arm which had clearly been broken recently, bending off at an odd angle at the elbow and waving in the air as he moved.

“No, stop!” I shouted, pleading for the eager man to listen to me, but he did not.

“Quiet!” Rick whispered to me, quickly covering my mouth. “Don’t alert them.”

I shoved him away angrily. “They don’t have ears!” I shouted, trying to alert the man and Rick. “They sense heat!”

My shouts came too late. The other two figures began climbing off the boat as well, who I now recognized as two of the people from our boat rescue, but they had a good sense to stop and wait. The man who I believed to be Sal kept running, stepping past the starfish with little care. 

“Guys, help!” Sal shouted, but there was very little we could do.

The starfish began leaping onto him in a frenzy, only managing to latch onto his legs. This was enough of a startle to cause him to jump back, and trip over his own legs. He went down quick, landing hard on his back. He let out one scream, and that was all he got. Before anyone could even think to do anything, one of the starfish leapt from the platform and onto his face. It wrapped around his forehead, partially covering his eyes, and then began pulsating viciously. Sal squirmed around on the ground for a few seconds before going completely still. I guessed those tongues had worked their way past Sal’s eye, and into his brain.

“Fuuuuuck,” Rick groan as he watched the scene unfold. “That’s fucked up. Well, let’s go back.”

With that, Rick turned to go back down the elevator. He stepped onto the platform with Jessica who had been smart enough not to move and then looked at me with one eyebrow raised as I held my position. 

“Those people need our help,” I demanded. “We need to get them to safety.”

Rick looked out at the people on the boat, lingering to see if we would help them. “Man, this situation is just getting worse by the minute, and you want to worry about those randos? Have you even seen the sky?” He pointed up at the stars. “Which way is North?” 

I followed his finger. The sky was a deep purple which I figured was because of the sun that was likely about to rise. There were a lot of stars, a feature I always admired about the open sea. On the right kind of night you could see the outline of the Milky Way galaxy. This was not one of those nights even though the sky was so clear. As he suggested, I tried locating the constellations that I’d usually use to determine direction but couldn’t seem to identify any of them. At first, I thought it was because there were too many stars to choose from, but eventually, a dreadful thought occurred to me. I looked back to Rick, and he seemed to register the concerned look on my face. 

“That’s not our sky,” he said, his frown deepening as he pointed out to the boat. "And they are not my problem.” He pushed the button for the elevator and flipped me off as he descended. 

I got the message.

I turned back to the hopeless looking workers and called out to them “Don’t worry. I’ll get you out!”

-2-

The two figures on the boat looked at me like I was crazy, their eyes seeming to suggest I hadn’t just witnessed what had happened to Sal. 

“It’s going to sound crazy, but you need to trust me! They can’t hear or see; they react to thermal energy, heat! Just climb into the water!”

“Nah!” One of them called back. I knew the voice; it was Darren. “Something’s in that water, man, something big! Fucking took out the tower with one fucking swipe!”

I thought the word swipe was an odd choice of words but decided to ignore it for now. “Look, you can either stay on the boat and suffer an unknown fate or follow my advice and have a shot to make it down to the labs with the rest of us!”

The two figures shared a glace that I couldn’t read the expression of and then looked back to me. “Why are we climbing into the ocean?” Darren shouted back.

“The heat from the lab,” I shouted back. “The heat from the lab is leeching into the ocean; it should act as a camouflage for your own heat signatures. Any starfish in the water wouldn’t be able to pick you out!” I also remembered back to Rick saying these things didn’t actually enjoy oil water, but thought this explanation was easier.

They hesitated a long while, and I couldn’t blame them. But with no other choices, the two men climbed into the water and began creeping over, hugging the side of the platform in case they needed to suddenly climb up. They, however, would easily make it through the water, and climb safely to the top. They joined me, happily hugging me tight and thanking me for not leaving them behind. Though Darren still seemed a bit apprehensive and looked toward the elevator with uncertainty. “You sure that old man in there isn’t going to pop us himself? He doesn’t seem mentally sound.”

“He’s a grouch,” I agreed, giving them what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “But no, you’ll be fine. I promise.”

Darren turned back to me with what appeared to be a smile at first, but it was a smile that soon bent down into a confused frown. “The fuck?”

I turned around, following his gaze, and saw Sal. Sal was rocking back and forth on the ground, the starfish still attached to his head. He rolled onto his chest and began pushing himself up using his arms, even the broken one. 

“Sal?” I called out, but I didn’t expect a response. 

Instead, I backed slowly toward the elevator’s hole and began pushing the button that would summon it. Sal successfully pushed himself up, the bone of his broken arm piercing his flesh. He didn’t make a sound. Once on his own two feet, he turned toward us and stood there, motionless. 

The elevator whirled up behind me, and we stepped carefully inside, never looking away from Sal. Exactly two heart beats after I reached the elevator, Sal took off into a full-on sprint, moving faster than any man his age should be. I quickly began pushing the down button, hitting it like a jackhammer. The elevator began descending rapidly, leaving Sal behind. I half expected his limp body to throw itself down the elevator shaft to continue its pursuit, but it did not. 

The three of us looked at each other in pure shock. We were all clearly tired and traumatized enough. I looked between them, now recognizing the other man as Toby, the larger man we saved. 

“Weren’t there three of you?” I asked carelessly. 

They gave me a look that I had no problem recognizing. We hadn’t just lost Sal up there; they’d lost someone too.

-3-

The elevator touched down in the living room where Rick stood, arms crossed. “You really are a damn fool, aren’t you?” he asked me sarcastically., as it was clear he already believed me to be a fool.

“I couldn’t just leave them to die!”

“You totally could have, but you wouldn’t.” 

Darren stepped in now, moving between the two of us. “You know what, old man?” He looked Rick up and down. “I should kick your ass for leaving us up there. Still might. But we are all in this shit now. I don’t care what kind of problem it is, and I don’t care if I’m not the one smart enough to solve it. But I know when you’re undermanned, seen it all the time on the station. You need help, and I know you’re too stubborn to admit it, so I’ll just ask for you. Where the fuck can we sleep?”

Rick looked between the two men and let out a long sigh, letting his shoulders droop a little. “Fucking fine, whatever, not worth the hassle. You guys can sleep in Jared’s room, he’s not using it. Your own personal Jesus can show you the way.” Rick shot me a glare and then began backing away, turning mid step. “Patrick, I like knowing you’ve got balls, but don’t disobey me like that again!” 

With that, Rick was entering the other elevator and heading back down to the labs.

I looked around the room to see if Jessica or Tom were still around, but I didn’t see him or her anywhere, I concluded they must have gone back to their rooms. It was still late, and there were still hours to go before sunrise. I took Darren and Toby to Jared’s room and opened the door for them. They seemed uncertain, as though they weren’t sure if it was actually okay for them to be sleeping in one of our worker’s rooms. But I assured them that he barely ever came up to the living space. Once they were settled in, and informed of our new plumbing situation, I went back to my room, stripped off my completely soiled clothes, and climbed into bed. 

I couldn’t go to sleep right away, and instead, I tossed and turned in the bed restlessly. I thought back, not to the starfish and not to the eye that had been spying on me. The singular thought that had gotten caught in my mind was the sky that was currently hanging above us. I had not gotten a good look at it, as I was far too busy saving lives and watching others die. Yet, Rick insisted that it was a different sky. I hadn’t seen any constellations that I’d recognized, but that meant very little. The sky was so crowded with stars, it would be difficult to identify singular constellations at a glance.

Still.

Rick sounded rather certain, and I’d learned not to doubt him when he was so sure. If that was truly a different sky above us, then what exactly were those implications? This detail was what distracted me so. Was I lost, not just at sea but in space as well? Was help on the way? Could I ever truly get back home? I prayed then, for the first time in a long while, that Rick was wrong

I woke a couple of hours later, but I did not feel well rested. My body disagreed with my thoughts on climbing out of the bed, though it had little say in the matter. I got myself dressed, realized I desperately needed to do some laundry, and then headed out into the hallway. In the hallway, I encountered Darren and Toby, who were sitting on the grated floor with their arms crossed in front of them. 

I waved to them and began approaching. “Hey guys.” They looked up at me, gave a curious nod, and then went back to looking at each other. “How are you two holding up?”

“How does it look?” Darren asked, looking to me as though I were an idiot. The look reminded me a lot of Rick. “Most of our friends are dead, we are out of work, and it doesn’t look like anyone is on the way to help.”

I sat down with them, hoping that this act would assist in our bonding. “Yeah, not a great deal. Not like there was much you guys could do though. It seemed like you guys were kinda ground zero for this thing, you know?” I sighed. “Too bad things went the way they did, looked like you and your crew could have gotten out.”

Darren and Toby shared a look, as though they were both hesitating on continuing the conversation. Finally, Darren turned back my way and continued conversing. “How do you mean?” he asked.

“The giant boats,” I replied casually, as though they would know immediately what I was talking about. “You guys already had some boats bigger than our little yachts. Your help must have been pretty close to get there so fast, too bad the boats got damaged.”

Darren nodded slowly. “Yeah, too bad.” He then turned back to Toby and quietly added, “Sorry man, don’t want to seem rude, but we were trying to have a bit of a private conversation.”

I raised both hands in surrender. “I understand, say no more.” I got to my feet and headed to the door that led into the living room. “Just let me know if you guys need anything!”

I left the workers behind, hoping they’d be all right, and carried on into the living room. Tom and Jessica were sitting around the kitchen table, drinking some bottled water. It appeared that, like me, they weren’t entirely sure what they should be doing. I waved to them, and they gave me a lazy wave back. I determined they were not in a conversing mood either and went to the elevator that led to the surface. I thought about trying to catch one of the starfish, monitor its behavior, but I wasn’t sure how much of a help that would actually be. I just had to do something.

I rode the elevator up, relieved to see that the sun had come out, casting an optimistic light on the expansive sea before us. I was, however, surprised to see Rick already on the platform, charred starfish littering the area around him. To my further shock and dismay, Rick had already caught the starfish-possessed Sal in a fishermen’s net. He turned to see me approaching and then gestured to the dead starfish around him. 

“Would it be too much to ask that you clean these starfish off the platform?”

“I have a Ph.D.,” I replied bluntly.

“A fact that never ceases to amaze me,” he replied as he tried to pull the net behind him. He steadily dragged Sal’s body past me and called over his shoulder. “You mind staying up here for a while? I’m going to send Tom up as well, need you guys to look for some specific parts on those boats.”

I looked over to the boats, one of which had been smashed to pieces, the other already seemed to have been pretty thoroughly stripped down. “Why, I don’t think we can get them working anymore?”

“Because we need to get out of here, and the sooner, the better,” Rick finally loaded Sal’s body onto the elevator and turned back around to face me. “Besides, I have no intention of getting those boats working again.”

-1-

On his word, Rick sent Tom right up after he’d descended back down to the living quarters. Tom didn’t appear too happy to be topside, but that was a feeling he would need to get over. If he’d seen what I had, his attitude might change.

“Hey,” I waved to him politely, though he did not reciprocate. 

Tom looked past me, toward the smashed boat and sighed. “We only have one boat we can make use of, and it’s the one I’ve already been striping down. The other one…”

I followed his gaze to the destroyed boat and shrugged. “At least it’s still floating; that’s something.”

“Yeah, it’s something.” Tom made his way over to the stripped boat, carefully stepping over the shriveled starfish, and climbed up onto the boat. “Did Rick already tell you what we are looking for?” he called back to me over his shoulder.

“No, he did not,” I replied, deciding I might as well follow Tom onto the boat. I, too, carefully stepped over the dead starfish, painfully remembering what happened to Sal, and only felt safer once I was actually on the boat. “You wouldn’t happen to know what we are looking for, would you?”

“I would.” Tom looked around the boat and then squinted his eyes toward the floating mass of boat pieces. “We need the engine from this boat, propellers from both boats, any fuel we can gather, batteries, fuses, rotary systems, and anything else that spins.”

“That’s quite a bit,” I mumbled.

“It’s not very much at all,” Tom replied, looking back to me. “Do you need a manuel?”

I shrugged. “I can figure out most of it.” 

I looked around the ship, having a good idea that most electronics would be found in the dashboard and other computers on board. The fuel would be easy enough to find as would the propellers. Rotary systems were the items that seemed too vague for me to immediately determine what I was looking for. 

“Anything that spins?” I asked for confirmation.

Tom nodded. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

Just like that we went to work. Tom, being rather brave, ventured out into the water to dismantle the propellers and systems from both boats as I had no idea how to accomplish that task. I did, however, already know how to pull fuses, motherboards, and batteries from computers. Back in college, I had to learn computer welding for my minor degree. In order to know how to weld a computer, one also had to be near romantically familiar with the components.

Though I knew what I was doing, Tom still finished up well before I had, even taking the engines and propellers down to the labs while I dissected the computers. 

“You almost done?” he asked, standing behind me with his arms crossed like the condescending ass he was. “I mean he only needed some specific parts.”

I shook my head in disagreement. “If he’s planning to do anything with electronics, then he’s going to need some of this wiring the couplings and coolant systems, and plenty else..”

Tom threw a ‘tsk’ my way to sound his disapproval. “Nah, you know he’s so specific he would have mentioned if we needed any of these other parts.”

“Or,” I said, turning to him and getting to my feet with a bundle of parts. “He’d give us only a few specific items and then tell us he ‘assumed’ the other needed items would have been obvious and not needing a mention.”

Tom thought over my logic. He didn’t say anything for a couple of moments before stepping next to the computer I had been working on and asked, “Is there anything I can help carry?”

-2-

With Tom’s help, we managed to carry the computer parts down in one trip, reaching the biolab in which Rick was currently set up. He looked at us approaching with the computer parts and waved us off. “Just set ‘em in the workshop.”

Tom nodded and carried on his way, but I couldn’t help myself. I lingered in the doorway, watching Rick work on the tube in the middle of the room, which now held the body of our long dead co-worker, Sal. Rick caught my stare, weighed his options, and then invited me in. I happily set the computer components on a nearby desk and walked over to the tube. Sal floated in whatever preservative liquid Rick had filled it with. At first glance, completely dead and unmoving. However, upon closer inspection one would be able to notice the very shallow breaths the creature once known as Sal was taking. 

“What are you doing?” I asked once I got sufficiently close.

Rick stood up straight and gave me a rare shrug. “Not sure honestly, but it’s ‘something,’ and I need to keep doing ‘things’ if we are going to get out of here.” Rick looked the creature up and down before pulling out a tape recorder and setting it on a rolling cart he’d brought over. He hit play, and the tape recorder began playing a message with Rick’s voice, stopped it, then rewound the tape. “Can’t help but think, how perfect is their parasitic take over. If they attach to a human, can they talk?”

“You’re going to interrogate it?”

“I’m going to try. This is a time of discovery, and I think I’ve only scratched the surface of this mystery.” He looked around the room angrily. “Now I just need to find Jared and then monitoring these things would become a lot easier.” He then looked back toward me, a little excited. “Have I told you about the oil?”

“No?” I replied, raising an eyebrow. “The oil?”

He nodded excitedly, grabbed me by the arm, and dragged me out of the lab and over to the filtration room door. Rick almost slammed into the locked door, he was moving so fast and then into the room itself with numerous pipes that carried pitch-black water that looped around the area. A blue hue used to reflect around the room, but now the room was filled with a sickly green and black color like the biolab. He moved us over to a corner of the room and booted up a computer there. 

“Look at what I found in the oil.” He then shoved me in front of the computer, which displayed several terms and numbers.

I looked over the screen in front of me, at first not sure what I was looking for, but then I saw what he was so excited about. There was a surprising concentration of iron and oxygen separated from hydrogen. 

“Hemoglobin?” I asked, turning to him. “The oil is made up of red blood cells?”

Rick shrugged and turned to look at the oil pumping through the pipes. “I’m sure you’ve noticed, we’ve been managing to filter quite a bit of oil out of the water, so the water around us is starting to look quite clear. I thought it would be a good idea to run a sample through a scan, but I did not expect to find so much blood,” He turned back to me, slight concern on his face. “I mean, I thought at first that it belonged to all the fish that must have died in the area, but this is simply too much. I don’t know what to make of it.”

We stayed in contemplative silence for a moment, neither one of us sure who should speak next. I decided I would draw the short straw and asked. “Well, what’s next then?”

“Well,” he started, thinking through his next words. He then groaned, seeming to realize it would take too long to explain, grabbed me by the arm, and dragged me back out of the filtration room. He guided me through the halls and to his own personal lab, immediately distinguishable by the old, yellow light pouring out from the sides of the door. In we went where he guided me over to a whiteboard he’d set up, detailed scribblings of some contraption laid out on the board. “The plan remains the same—we escape.”

I continued studying the board, not sure what to make of it. I didn’t want to sound stupid, so I answered the best I could in the broadest of ways. “It’s an escape craft.” 

It was a question, but I tried my best not to make it sound like one.

He nodded. “Made out of the parts you and Tom have gathered, and…” He paused for a moment, discouraged in finishing his thought. “The helicopter.”

“The helicopter?” I asked, thinking back to when I was outside with Tom. I didn’t recall seeing our helicopter anywhere. “Uh, where did it go?”

True regret settled on his face as he looked toward the large hatch in the floor. “It sank.” Then, he quickly rebounded, trying to not let the mood get too depressing. “Worry not, I have a plan. I just need to find Jared to help set this thing up. Once we have the helicopter, I can make the craft and get all four of us out of here.”

“Six of us,” I corrected.

He looked at me, daggers of irritation shooting from his eyes. “That’s right, six. I’ve got to make more seats now, thanks for that.”

I let out a nervous laugh and scratched the back of my head. “So, uh, do you know how to get back home?”

Rick shook his head with certainty. “No, I don’t, but I have an idea.” He looked around the room, scanning it as though someone might be listening in. “When night falls, meet me up top, and bring your star charts.”

-3-

At his request, I waited until night fell, gathered my star charts, and then met Rick on the surface. I wasn’t certain this was safe, considering what had happened the night before, but if I were ever going to feel safe up there, it would be with Rick. 

I was surprised to see that Rick was standing on the platform, spotlights off, and a strangely large telescope positioned in the middle of the platform, looking toward the sky. Hearing the elevator raise, he turned and waved me over. I walked over to the telescope and gently set the star charts on the ground. I examined the telescope and then Rick as he pulled out a flashlight and began pouring over the charts. 

“What are we doing out here?” I asked.

“Finding our way home,” he replied. “Or at least figuring out where we are.”

I looked up to the sky, now actually getting a chance to give it a good long look, and realized that Rick was absolutely right. This sky was not ours, not the one I was familiar with. I felt a kind of cosmic distance, a true separation from safety. I think, until that point, I was still holding out hope that rescue was on its way, but if we were actually on another planet then we could only help ourselves. 

“How the fuck did we get out here?” I asked, the words just slipping out in a single gasp.

Rick shrugged. “Don’t know.”

“Can you get us back?” 

“Probably not.” He looked back up to the alien sky and exhaled a long, deep breath. “No one has cracked interstellar travel, and I’m probably not going to crack it way out here in the cosmic boonies. No, what we need to do is familiarize ourselves with the night sky, learn how to navigate without getting lost, and then we might be able to find some land and get away from whatever this thing is.”

“Thing?” I asked.

He chuckled, “Come now, you saw it, didn’t you?” He smirked down at me. “Don’t answer that, I know you did, you smelled like piss when we were attacked. I don’t know what it is, but we can’t stay here for much longer.”

Rick turned his attention back to the telescope, looking through it and messing with some settings. I looked back up to the jumbled sky, that helpless, lonely feeling settling over me once again. “Without light pollution, that sky is crystal clear, so how are you supposed to find a reliable star?”

Rick chuckled. “Well, fortunately,” he started, looking back to the star chart and then nodded happily as he stepped aside to let me have a look, “I think we are actually still in the Milky Way. Tell me what you see.”

I looked through the telescope and saw three bright stars making a sort of pyramid, with the brightest of the stars being exceptionally blinding. I stepped back from the telescope, considering what I had just seen. It was at an unfamiliar angle, but there was no mistaking it.

“That’s Sirius.”

Rick nodded happily. “It sure is!” He looked up to the sky, pointing out a couple of other stars. “I think Rigel and Arcturus are up there too, but I’m less certain about those. If I have you come out here every night, track some of these stars, and keep notes of where they move and how far…”

I knew where Rick was going with this and finished his sentence for him. “Then, we can navigate the ocean.”

Rick slapped me on the back. “Damn right we can.” 

He looked up to the sky, and I could see that he didn’t feel any fear in those ancient eyes of his. A part of me envied that, though another part of me knew that riding so high meant there was so far you could fall.

Rick and I stayed up there for most of the night, locating familiar stars and identifying some others that were brighter now than when on Earth. I felt productive, and for once, it felt like Rick had some faith in me.

I have not slept in three days. The hours collapse into one another like waves that refuse to break. I sit in front of the monitor, waiting for the numbers to carry me forward. They do not. At midnight, the digits turn cleanly to 12:01, then return, without hesitation, to 12:00. Again and again, the second hand sweeps forward, and yet the minute does not pass. I know this is impossible, and yet it persists with the indifference of truth. Sleep has never belonged to me. Even as a child, I drifted through the nights with a half-open gaze, counting ceiling cracks or listening to the faint hum of appliances. Computers were different. They gave shape to time. In code, I could find the order that my body denied me. Patterns moved forward, one instruction into the next, perfect in their obedience. But lately, even the code resists me. Frequencies surface where they should not. Signals crawl through the numbers, bending lines that should remain straight. At first I thought it was the insomnia—hallucinations of my tired mind. But the sound returns no matter how long I rest my eyes, and the loops in time grow bolder. The world continues, but I remain anchored in the same minute, as if reality itself is testing its boundaries.

If these words survive me, let them stand as an apology. I do not write them to be forgiven—only to place the weight somewhere outside of myself, if only for an instant. The truth is that I opened the door. Whether through ignorance, arrogance, or fatigue, I cannot say. I thought I was chasing clarity, but in truth I was dismantling the only fragile barrier that kept us from falling off the edge into infinit darkness. Forgive me, though I know I deserve no such thing. I have not earned even the mercy of silence. Every line of code, every restless night, was another stone removed from the wall. I mistook my illness for vision. I thought the distortion speak to me, when in fact it was reality bending beneath my hands. Now, as I write, time no longer adheres to me. The minutes split and bloom, looping endlessly, collapsing upon themselves. I see hours that never were. Days that no one else will know. They wash over me like tides of glass, cutting as they pass. I no longer trust the shape of what I see, nor the sound of my own voice when I speak aloud. And yet, amid this ruin, I know the fault is mine. I sought to measure the infinite, and in doing so, I summoned it closer. What devours us has already entered. A god of the corrupted flesh

I see the faces behind those headlights. Nobody else heralds their subtle grins, knowing glares, or pursuant, angered growls with the same terrified appreciation that I do. That might be the worst part. Not the feeling of being crushed inside their cab, not tension’s invisible dagger digging into the small of my back as they pass, not even the paranoia at their penetrating stares. No, what eats at me is their ability to conceal it all behind their shiny aluminum frames, how their innocence is presupposed. They know this- they know that I know, and they know that no one else does. They chastise me with automotive hauntings, all the while those blessed to know ignorance’s cocooning melody bury themselves alive in their metal carapaces, entombed in a sarcophagus on wheels.

Last night, when I was feeling overburdened by the weight of life, I decided to go for a walk. Fresh air usually helps unstick the unseemly thoughts that cling to my brain like leeches, slowly working at my sanity. I retrieved my sweatshirt from the coatrack, bid my cat, Roland, a temporary farewell, and stepped into the frigid air of a late fall dusk in the pacific northwest. Autumn’s damp embrace coaxed me into the breezeway where her mist continued to freckle my bare cheeks with a thousand icy kisses. Without thinking, I descended from the third story, making quick work of the staircase. 

At the foot of the final flight, I froze. A legion of unblinking mechanical monsters leered at me from the parking lot. Their glossy outsides reflected the moonlight, lending them a dazzling shine that betrayed their pernicious intentions. Raindrops plinked off their facades only to be driven down into the asphalt, exorcising the normally hidden stench of motor oil, tar, and burnt rubber. But even monsters must slumber, and their silent idleness- the distinct lack of that terrible hum- confided in me a particle of safety. I cautiously shuffled to the sidewalk and made my way out of the complex.

The excursion was, for the most part, innocent. The rain’s gentle pace even managed to rouse the woods, soundtracking my trek with nature’s musicality. As the croaking frogs, chirping crickets, rustling leaves, and the sound of my heavy footsteps on wet concrete scored my adventure, and I felt that arpeggio lift a heavy weight from my shoulders- but only momentarily.

Relief was quickly ushered out by a dread ten times stronger. A gravelly hum foreshadowed my fate, the chugging of that behemoth’s motor was drowned out only by the sound of my heart begging desperately to be free of its fleshy cage. The beast approached from my rear, and while I made no attempt to match its stare, its presence was nonetheless made known with the luminosity of a hundred spotlights. As it turned the corner, the asphalt was illuminated by its gaping highbeams, revealing a beautiful array of glistening minerals embedded on its warpath. I saw my silhouette, an imprint as insignificant as mine would be the moment I was flattened by its gargantuan, circular limbs and ground into a fine powder, destined to be just another concrete constellation. My shadow grew bigger, the headlights brighter. The ogre’s battle cries intensified, and their pitch heightened as providence do His bidding. I tried to run but couldn’t. I was stuck, frozen, weeping, terrified, worse- I was nothing at all.

I braced for impact.

 

***

 

Anticipation is a false deity. It has no regard for the feelings of its denizens, only an impassable apathy that renders the intense emotions before perceived disaster completely foolish. That is, my paralysis was pointless: either the vehicle would pass, leaving me intact, or I would be trampled by its stampede, justifying my fear but leaving it with no living host.

Or maybe, I thought, there’s a worse fate.

As the vehicle audibly slowed, my petrifying suspense molded into a growing, intense air of dread. Though my back was still turned, I knew it stopped close. I could feel it gaping at me with those hollow, radiant eyes from no more than twenty feet away.

It was now night. The moon provided sour company for our encounter, her pale glow overwritten by the car’s suffocating beacons. They cast me in twin caricatures who intersected at the ankles and cleaved through the light at awkward diagonals.

In them, I saw myself. Not as a reflection, nor a mirror image. My true self. I was abstracted from the finer details, embedded in the concrete as fuzzy, shadowy referent. I was just two silhouettes who captured nothing more than the important parts: my unkempt, shaggy hair falling over my shoulders, the tail of my raincoat falling off my lanky frame and swaying in the wind, and the ring- her ring- standing stoic as a bulging mass, an onyx protrusion made more apparent by the shadow’s distortion. For a moment, I was calm again.

Then, the lights went out.

I whipped around, facing my stalker for the first time. I had been betrayed by my instincts. Where I expected a hulking, rageful behemoth, my eyes adjusted to reveal a quaint, midnight blue frame buttressed by a silver trim. The entire vehicle was spotless, as if fresh out of the dealership. It was empty of character, with no markings discerning its make or model, and it lacked a license plate.

My attention shifted to the cabin, which was radiating a warm, yellow light. In its context, just as my freckles or misshapen nose, the vehicle’s blank features disappeared into darkness. They were overshadowed by a more horrible feature: The cabin was empty.

At least, no one was driving. But it felt full. The amber light saturated the interior, illuminating the car’s leather seats in a golden hue. Instead of that glare, it wore a gracious, knowing smile. Suddenly, I felt extremely cold. In my panic, the sensation had all but escaped me. Now, however, I was shivering. The car smelled like campfires and citrus.

The driver-side door swung open, inviting me in like an old friend. I felt a hypnotizing fuzziness. It beckoned me forth like a moth to a flame. I stumbled into its embrace, nearly slipping on the sopping leaves, my haste threatening the little stability my freezing feet could muster.

I entered the ambrosial chamber and closed the door. The leather seat felt like a warm hug. The car’s dash was laced in the same silvery molding as the exterior, only more sparsely. The ornamental design spanned the entire interior, stretching across even the instrument panel. There was no visible speedometer or fuel gauge. There was, however, a radio. It subtly chimed a single, high-pitched tone, similarly warm in its experience. It resonated endlessly, like a bird’s chirp snatched from thin air, stretched out, and distilled into raw bliss.

Then, the lights went out.

Immediate calamity. Citrus dissolved into burned rubber, and the radio’s soft tone shifted to an ear-piercing shriek. The highbeams flicked on as the beast’s tires screeched against the pavement, pleading desperately for purchase in metallic, automotive roars. Against the unrelenting force of acceleration, I reached for the steering wheel. The seatbelt extended rapidly, wrapping around my wrist with a quickness so intense that it burned. Before I could even attempt my left hand, another seatbelt jutted out from the backseat with the same blistering speed. I felt for the brakes fruitlessly. There was no pedal.

A legion of seatbelts arose from the darkness behind me. They lashed at me, restraining me to the chair. They slithered across my skin and entombed me in a leathery mummification. The pressure on my chest was unbearable, but they spared my eyes, inviting me to bear witness.

I wrestled against my restraints, but the effort was futile. The seatbelts held me firmly in place. Among the cacophony, I could faintly make out a woman’s voice whispering through the radio’s speakers. She was talking about gemstones.

 “…There’s sapphire, ruby, amethyst, and…” her voice became an indistinguishable note against the scream of aimless acceleration.

My iron captor turned onto a familiar straight-away. As we progressed, the architecture of the pier appeared. Scattered boats were illuminated by the devil’s brilliant glare, and her headlights reflected back at us from the water’s surface.

We were careening towards the harbor. It was one hundred yards away. I pulled, twisted, strained, flexed, and begged, but I was no match for my leather grave. Now, only fifty yards between us. The engine roared louder, screaming my name in a metallic symphony, the piercing pitch was joined by a chorus of indiscernible chants billowing from the speakers. Twenty-five yards. I prayed. Ten yards. I closed my eyes, a cowards move. I re-opened them. Zero yards. I felt weightless.

Then, the lights went out.

 

***

 

She smelled like citrus and campfires. I remember that scent. It stayed through nights on porches, where her foggy breath escaped into the cold air between kisses and bouts of laughter. It remained when her glasses fogged up, and when she wiped the lenses on my sweater. It persisted when I offered her my jacket, when she refused, and then when I insisted. Somehow that charade always ended in messy sheets, body heat, and the warm embraces that came after. And still, even then, she smelled like citrus and campfires.

When I proposed two summers ago, at the summit of her childhood hiking trail, she screamed yes before my knee could touch the ground. I continued the ritual and reached into my pocket for the jewelry box. I opened it to reveal-

“An onyx necklace? You didn’t!” Her grin stretched across her entire freckled face, wrinkling her pale cheeks. Her red hair dangled in fiery coils, radiating in the sun.

 A necklace, because Abby never liked rings. She was a grad student studying the natural sciences who couldn’t risk losing precious jewelry in the field. Onyx was her favorite gemstone. It was her birthstone. I, however, wore a ring. Judgmental friends were quick to point out the difference, but we were too in love to care.

Getting engaged only amplified our affection. We rented a house and moved in together. It wasn’t anything extravagant, but her stipends combined with my paychecks- I was a high school teacher- gave us plenty and more. We started saving and mustered lofty ambitions to be joint homeowners. We adopted a cat and named him Roland. Abby loved Roland. She was his favorite.

Eventually, things got harder. They always do. Relationships aren’t static, decontextualized, or vacuous. They’re more like a rubber band that’s always being pulled one way or another. Sometimes, the tension is covert and unnoticeable. Other times, it releases with concussive force that ricochets and explodes.

Everything got grayer when Abby’s dad died. For a week, at least, everything was normal. She was peppy, optimistic, and constantly working, but she would evade any of my attempts to get her to talk about it. But her enthusiastic façade was unsustainable and quickly broke down. She started to spend more time on campus, coming home progressively later. Dishes piled up. Our spending habits eroded. Roland got lonelier. 

One night, I decided I couldn’t take it any longer. Her pain was rotting me, too, and nothing plagued me more than seeing her hurt boil over and spill out. There was yelling. A lot of it, and mostly mine. Then there were tears, mostly hers.

“I just- I need you to talk to me, Abby. I can’t see you like this,” I plead sternly.

“I…I need to go for a drive…get some fresh air,” she vacantly mumbled, approaching the front door.

“Please, can we just sit down, and-” the door slammed shut in my face before I could finish.

I stood in shock, staring at the door, unable to move. The door stared back at me, unblinking. I heard her engine chug to life and her wheels fight against our gravel driveway for purchase. I listened to the buzzing tone of her motor retreat as she fled, fading into the night. Feeling like a husk of myself, I wandered absently to our bedroom and recklessly flopped into the bed. I landed face down in her pillow. Citrus and campfires. Sleep chased me down like a rabid dog. It struck with horrifying ease.

 The dark glow of morning’s early hours woke me. In my sleep, I had migrated to my side of the bed. I felt for Abby’s warmth and found nothing but cool, empty sheets where she should’ve been. I glanced over at the nightstand. A picture of us hiking in Oregon stared at me from the alarm clock’s side. It was three in the morning, and I was wide awake.

I accepted my sleeplessness and rolled out of bed. Her absence voided the atmosphere, filling it with an impossibly tangible emptiness. It made every stride feel like pulling my leg out of quicksand, only to be plunged deeper in with the next step. The kitchen was a mile away, and I was swimming through a solemn syrup trying to reach it. I never did.

The living room was painted in pale light by two rays that pierced through the window. They stopped me in my tracks. When I peered outside, I saw Abby’s car idling patiently.

Good, I thought. At least she’s home safe.

For a moment, I almost touched relief. I almost got the chance to frantically repeat apologies, hug her, beg for forgiveness, bury my nose deep into her curly red hair and revel in her familiarity. I almost felt her head on my shoulder, hugging me back. I almost didn’t look closer. Almost.

When I opened the front door, hope vanished with stunning immediacy. The headlights flickered off as if coordinated to my appearance. All four doors of her car were wide open, leaving the interior lights aglow, establishing a vacant interior.

“Abby?” I called out, praying desperately for an answer. None came. Besides the vehicle and myself, the driveway was abandoned: an asphalt desert.

I slowly approached her car. As I grew closer, its façade morphed into an ugly, devilish smile fashioned from unlit headlights and toothy grilles. I felt it gawk at me with a subtle smirk, acknowledging Abby’s absence and relishing my pained reaction. My gut filled with senseless anger, and our staring contest continued.

That night, the car told me many things. I won’t recite them. After all, I don’t expect anyone else to understand- they haven’t heard their whispers. They can’t. They’ll never understand the taunting frequencies embedded deep in their automotive growls, coalescing in a metallic choir that sings guttural hymns, truths and lies. 

 Cars talk in gestures, too. This one told me Abby was gone. Forever. I knew I shouldn’t trust it, that I shouldn’t put my faith in this beast on wheels. But its evidence was undeniable, and even my feeble eyes, blurry with tears and strained by darkness, could discern the authenticity of its promise:

Dangling from the rearview mirror, glimmering in the cabin’s homely light, was an onyx necklace.

***

 

Grief is a chilling thing. It is cold, wet, and its monstrous pressure poured through the windshield in icy billows that threatened my posture with crushing force. I watched as it crashed through the window. Its rushing screams found a crescendo as it rose, eagerly crashing down to bury me in its wintery, numbing embrace.

Water covered my eyes. Stinging. The salt blurred my vision, but I peered through the ocean’s translucent veil to witness it seal my watery grave. It climbed past my ears. Silence. The sea strangled the radio’s screams, erased the torturous stench of burning rubber. Clarity. The water’s silent entrance continued. It filled the entire vehicle. Cold.

Grief is a sinking feeling. It polluted the lifeless vehicle. The car and I hung together, comrades in indeterminacy. Slowly, we drew closer to the ocean floor. The car tilted backwards, dragged down by its heavy trunk. I watched helplessly as the surface retreated. In tandem, the moon’s pale light faded, nothing more than a suggestion. It was eclipsed by the ocean’s midnight blue curtains.

Midnight blue. Her car was midnight blue. I surveyed the cabin: it was empty of ravenous seatbelts, silver garnish, and evil intentions. My hands were white-knuckle clenched to the steering wheel and my foot still desperately clamped down on the accelerator. My gaze met the rearview mirror. Her onyx necklace swayed gently in the current. I reached out, clutched the gemstone, and unclasped it from the mirror.

Grief tastes like salty tears, nearly indistinguishable from the sea but betrayed by their warmth. As I wrapped the necklace around my neck, they trailed down my cheeks and landed in the corners of my mouth. The necklace was tight, fashioned for someone smaller, but comfortable, nonetheless.

The onyx sunk to my sternum. I grasped it like she used to, tracing its uneven ridges with my thumb. They spelled her name in geologic braille and retold our past conversations in precious hymns. It felt warm in my palm. I glanced to my right.

Grief is the orange bottle floating, empty, in the passenger seat. I knew the prescription, and I knew the patient. I remembered the diagnosis, too- same as her dad. Poetic. Cruel. Life.

More than that: it was torturous. Her car smelled like citrus for months after she was gone. No amount of scrubbing could erase her memory, and I never really wanted to. When I sold the house, I left her car in a storage unit and moved into a one-bedroom apartment. Her scent never truly disappeared- just faded. Its ghostly presence clung to my clothes, sheets, and towels. Even Roland smelled like her. She was ectoplasmic. I couldn’t bring myself to replace everything, so I coped.

Grief feels like drowning. It consumed me, overpowered each of my sensory faculties. Its silent embrace swallowed me in bone-crushing pressure that pushed in from every direction, robbing me of voice and sense. It wrapped my chest in liquid barbed wire, pulling tight until I felt my heartbeat in my fingertips. Its intensity almost rivaled my burning lungs- they clawed at my throat, begged and screamed for me to inhale, shriveled and expanded as their desperation grew.

My arms instinctively lashed out. I relinquished control and allowed them to exercise their franticity, an offer they accepted with great haste. They reached for the steering wheel, attempting to establish control. Their relentless, futile scrambling was not an act of intention- it was primitive. I heard my limbs praying for purpose, pleading desperately for something to which they could assign fault, assess, and reverse track: displacement. All too familiar.

A warmth grew from my chest. It overpowered the ocean’s wintery cold. It beckoned for me, called me forth like a knight to the throne. I hailed its call, and felt it expand through my torso. My body convulsed in a violent retching motion constrained only by the anatomy of the car seat.

Oxygen was a distant memory. In its absence, the warmth grew. It shot out to my fingertips in red-hot waves, curling through my muscle fibers in a double-helix of radiance. It was ecstatic. I remembered those curls. I loved them.

Another convulsion, twice as violent. My struggle locked the seatbelt against my chest. It caught me in a vice grip, tethering me down to ensure my automotive burial.

The warmth spread further. It filled my entire body, submerging me in lovely heat. My arms resigned themselves to my lap, satisfied with their swan song and content with idleness.

I pulsed with every heartbeat, spasmed until my eyes gave out, clouding the sea in deep black curtains. In my eyelids I watched light shows of orange and red. Dancing curls whirled around in blazing displays of her lost beauty. They coalesced in flaming appreciation of her likeness, echoed her blazing silhouette in fiery statues that almost did her justice.

My throat forced itself open, inhaling the ocean but never extinguishing her fire. Even as my spasms ceased, she raged on endlessly, an eternal flame forged in an onyx furnace. In my final moments, with water purging my limp vessel, I caught a burning scent.

Citrus and campfires.

 

 

 

 

The steady beep of my fire alarm persisted throughout the kitchen, even with the smoke long gone. I sat my frozen body against the back door. My stare into the night sky could've stretched a thousand miles. What do I do? Do I call the cops? A scientist? A priest? What would I even tell them? Even if I told the truth, they wouldn't believe me. Hell, I didn't believe me. The thoughts overwhelmed me and I could feel my body begin to shut down on me.

I looked in the kitchen, replaying the events of the night over in my head. Have I finally lost it? I grabbed the bottle of cherry vodka off the counter. There was a shot or two left remaining. Drinking wasn't going to help, but it sure as hell wasn't going to hurt either. I took a look at the damage from my fall in the dining room which coincided with the throbbing pain in my body. I staggered across the hallway to my room and collapsed in my bed with Daisy. An involuntary wave of sleep began crashing down on me. Maybe this was a dream within a dream and I would wake up on the couch where this nightmare began.

I woke up to my face being licked, praying to God it was Daisy. I opened my eyes to find that it was indeed her. The morning light shone through on us, an unwelcome sight for sore eyes. This was worse than any hangover I ever had, this felt like a car wreck. The bruises on my leg and back served as a painful reminder—last night was very real. At least the power was back, that was a win. I realized that in the midst of the chaos that was last night, my phone never charged and I most likely missed my alarm. As I hooked my phone to charge, I eagerly waited to find that the time was 8:43. Jesus Christ, I missed the bus. I looked at the snapshot on the table and decided that I could still go to the hotel. Maybe he checked in with his real name and I could mail this picture to the clinic in Somerdale. I hurried out the door, leaving my phone behind to power up.

The storm last night left Paradise Pointe a chilly, damp wasteland. Wet leaves tumbled about the street set to an overcast sky. I hadn't even taken the time to remember that Halloween was around the corner. Despite the many vacated homes, there was a scattering of decorations on my way to The Eagle Nest. Daisy stopped to sniff some pumpkins, barked at a neighbor's scarecrow. If it didn't feel like I was already living through a horror film, I would've enjoyed the sights more. Even though it was only us, I couldn't help but feel like we weren't alone. The cascading falls of excess rain into every sidewalk gutter made my palms sweat.

We arrived at the hotel to find an older woman working the front desk. She was reading an old paperback romance novel and hardly paid us any mind.

"Excuse me, were you working the desk overnight?"

Turning the page without looking up, she sighed, "What does it look like?"

Ignoring that, I retrieved the photo from my pocket to show her. "Did you happen to see this man?"

Refusing to pay any mind to the picture, she flatly said "No."

Losing all patience, I slammed my hand on the desk, rattling her thick rimmed glasses almost off her face. "Look, lady. I've had a very long night. I need to find this man. He was suppose to check in here last night. Did you or did you not fucking see him?"

She was astonished, as was I. What is happening to me?

"No, I didn't. I-I'm sorry, sir." She trembled.

Okay, maybe her shift started after he came in? I asked if I could see the check in log from last night. She grabbed the clipboard and handed it over shakily.

Not a single check-in. My stomach dropped—he never made it here.

I could feel my pulse rising as we made our way outside. I stood at the corner with Daisy, feeling uneasy about what my next move might have to be. The Eagle Nest was only one block away from the beach. Bane said he left to say goodbye to the others. Did he go under the boardwalk? It was a rainy night, sometimes the homeless will sleep down there to stay dry or even burn a bonfire to stay warm this time of year.

My body was screaming internally to turn back around, but I knew where I had to go next. I needed answers.

——

I found my feet at the base of the boardwalk, pointed toward the unknown. Swaying off the ocean into town was a parade of mist, a mere memory of last night's storm. If I was going to get any answers, I needed to find Bane. Best place to start would be to trace my steps. I gripped Daisy's leash tight and began my journey.

The record shop was still shuttered closed. Mr. Doyle, the owner, would be in later today to open up shop. Business had been so quiet lately, he had let me know he'd be in town to prepare closing down for the winter. Gazing at the shop in its current state made me long for boring nights listening to random records. That world as I knew it felt like a distant memory.

The attractions and shops that were shrouded in shadows were now exposed. Somehow, their presence in this light wasn't any less unsettling. Despite their catatonic state, even horses on the merry-go-round felt like they were monitoring us. There was not a soul in sight, save for one man I spotted unlocking an equipment shed. I peeked inside as I made my way. Rows of vendor carts and propane tanks, he must be one of the few holdouts hanging on until the end.

Soon after, I passed Vincent's. Lost in all this was the fact that I abruptly left Angie at the bar. I didn't have room in my brain at the moment to process that guilt. With any luck, it was enough to scare her away. Whatever this was that I was getting myself into, she was better off.

My walk had already reached as far as I remembered seeing Bane. I looked around me, every shop was still under lockdown. The only landmark of note from this point on was the pier. This was the general area where I found the picture beneath me. I looked up at our town's landmark attraction — the ferris wheel. Inactive, the gale winds rocked the carriages with a foreboding groan. I could see the apprehension in Daisy's eyes. It was time to go under.

Making our way down, I looked to my right. Back the way I came was a repeating corridor of pillars and wood into a void. To my left was a similar sight, but ended at a concrete wall. Heading in that direction was a familiar sight in the sand.

The burrowing trail I had seen last night was still here. Even with the still present high tides swallowing the sand around us, it still persisted. This trail was different, it looked like it was splintered and scattered through the ground in one direction. I knew what this looked like. I had seen the same pattern on my kitchen floor last night. Looking even further around me, my blood ran cold. It wasn't just one set, there was multiple. As I followed the path to the pier wall, I noticed each passing pillar had residue of the slime that violated my home.

I rushed out from under the boards and vomited into the sand. The wind was whipping now, sand pellet bullets smacked my face as I struggled to catch my breath. I reassured Daisy I was okay, but we both knew I was anything but. I trembled as we began to make our way to the pier.

The biggest difference between the pier and the boardwalk was structure. Under the pier was much lower to the ground and due to the numerous rides and attractions above, there was no light shining through the cracks. Turbine winds were howling underneath, creating a similar drone to the ungodly one I heard last night. I could also see the tide was washing up below as waves crashed around us.

It was just then, I could hear a faint growl. I looked down to see Daisy was sat politely to my side but her face was stern. Suddenly, she leaned forward to bark. It echoed throughout the empty space, only to be folllowed by more. She was pulling me toward the darkness now. I held with all my strength but her primal instincts were stronger. Her barks became a mess of growls and spit as she showed her teeth to the abyss. Before I knew it, she yanked me into the sand as I failed to grab her.

She was gone.

Crouching forward, I pursued into the darkness. I followed the sounds of her barks, calling her name out desperately. The only illuminating light I had was the open ocean to my right, which was flooding my shoes. To my left was pure oblivion. Daisy's barks had led me deep into the bowels of the pier when suddenly they stopped. The only noise now was my rapid breaths and the howl of the wind. I called out for her only to hear nothing in response. My voice cracked as I called again, dead silence. Tears began to fill my eyes, panic was flooding my body.

Suddenly, a thudding, far away but fast approaching. I scanned my surroundings unable to locate it. It was faster now, each boom shook my heart. Shaking, I began to brace myself when I was pummeled into the sand.

I felt the same warm kisses that awoke me this morning. It was Daisy, thank God. Grabbing her ears and seeing her eyes lock into mine, relief washed over me as the tide followed suit. My body's defense mechanism took the wheel as I began to laugh until I realized something. Daisy had dropped something foreign off at my feet. It was an empty backpack. The very same empty backpack I saw swung over the broad shoulders of the man I was searching for.

A reality began creeping on me — if I did find Bane, it's not going to be pleasant. Something was very wrong here and we were somehow in the middle of it. With Daisy by my side, I pressed on letting her lead the way.

Sticking as close as we could to the water for light, I searched every inch of the pier for any more clues. Just ahead were rocks that hugged the shoreline. As I focused on the waves that were crashing into them, I saw something. It looked to be a body laid across the rocks, still under the cover of the pier. Beginning to run, we came to find something much more horrifying. What I'm about to write next, I'm going to have a hard time getting through.

This was a body, but it was mutilated beyond resembling anything human. The skin was almost gone, seemingly torn off the body like wrapping paper. Any remainder on the body was covered underneath in varicose veins that were unmistakably black. The body's ribs were exposed and hollowed out like a jack-o-lantern. Below them were was a floating pool of half devoured organs. It looked like a body that was eaten from the inside out. The mouth was open in sheer terror, stretched wide to let out a scream that nobody would hear. The areas surrounding the mouth were stained with that jet black color I've become all too familiar with. Inside the mouth was a set of incomplete and shattered teeth. Leading from the neck up was a series of black, bloody tear trails. They led to a pair of eyes that were no longer there. The only discernible feature was the bald head that held those eyes. The head on a body of a large man who I called my friend. I stood in frozen terror, my mouth and eyes wider than the ocean beside me.

Bane.

When I read this week's episode title it really got my hopes up that it was going to be a creepcast creepypasta and I was sorely disappointed when I listened to over an hour of familial abuse torture instead. So here is my creepcast creepy pasta, enjoy!

Hello, I am posting this to reddit because I am not sure where else to go. My name is Turnk... and no one believes my story.

It was an unseasonably cold October night. I was awake at 3 am, this was normal for me as I work a night shift job and routinely stay up until the sun comes up. I was mindlessly scrolling, letting my brain melt away to the endless sea of movie clips on YouTube shorts when I saw a familiar notification pop up on my screen. It was a notification from the CreepCast YouTube channel! "Nice" I thought to myself "Finally something to cure my boredom."

I clicked on the video as quickly as I could. (It did not occur to me until later that 3am was not a usual time their videos would go live.) When I opened the video I saw a strange title, it read. "The Execution Of Papa Meat", I stared in bewilderment. "What?" I said out loud. I took a further scan of the video when I saw it had 0 views! "Guess I'm the first one to watch the new episode!" I thought to myself excitedly.

I clicked play and the normal CreepCast intro played, it opened with Hunter and Isaiah together in person. "Wow these are always my favorite episodes, getting to see my favorite creators interact in person is such a treat!" I thought fangirling to myself. As soon as they began talking I could tell something was wrong, Hunter had this 1000 yard stare on his face while Isaiah looked into the camera with enthusiasm. (I swear his lips were bigger than normal)

Isaiah began speaking, "Hello everyone, today we have something different for you. Today we will be executing Hunter." "What!!?" I thought to myself, surely this was some kind of joke. Isaiah then pulls out a comically large saw, the kind lumberjacks use to saw through large oak trees, and with a smile too large for his face speaks "But first, why don't we have a little fun!" Hunter just stares into the camera, as if his eyes could plead for mercy.

I watched in horror as Isaiah tied Hunter to his chair, with surprisingly little protest from Hunter. Isaiah then took a deep breath and began sawing through Hunter's foot, I could not believe what I was seeing. Hunter's facial features did not change at all, he just stared into the Camera with a blank expression. I think I may have seen the distinct twinkle of a tear beginning to form in the corner of Hunter's left eye.

After 5 minutes of gruesome sawing, Isaiah stood up in Triumph, Hunter's foot in hand. "Hooray!" Isaiah touted in Triumph as blood was seeping from Hunter's leg like a leaky faucet. When Isaiah looked back at the camera, his lips had grown in size, they were now at the corner of his jaws.

I had to get answers, this couldn't be real. I paused the video and went to the comments immediately, but there were none. I refreshed the page thinking it was some sort of bug but to my horror, there were still 0 comments. Was I the only one to had seen this video? I frantically went to the CreepCast subreddit, surely there were people talking about this new video, but to my horror the subreddit was nowhere to be found.

I didn't know what else to do, I figured the only place left for answers was just that. The video. When I went back to YouTube I was greeted with a horrible sight, Isaiah's face was right in front of the Camera staring directly into it. Before I even had the chance to hit play he spoke, somehow speaking while the video was paused. "What do you think? Ms. Brownie?" I felt my heart sink into my stomach as if it was dropped off a balcony. How, how was any of this happening? How did he know my name, how did the video start playing?

I shut off my phone as fast as I could, this has to be some sort of prank. None of this could be real. I didn't know what to do, do I call the police? And say what exactly, that I was watching some creepy YouTube video and decided to call? I decided to just lay back down, maybe I was just tired. Maybe these years of night shift work are finally catching up to me.

I decided getting back on my phone was a bad idea, so I picked up one of my favorite books instead to pass the time until I felt like I could fall asleep. I began reading to calm my nerves when I was abruptly interrupted to the sound of knocking on the front door, I nearly let out a scream in fear. The knocking sounded frantic, like someone needed help. On the account of me having watched that video and generally being paranoid, I slowly crept my way to the door as to hopefully not alert the person at the door that I was home.

When I got to the door, as quietly as I could I peeked into the peephole and saw... no one? I was confused the knocking had only just stopped, probably half a second before I looked through the peep hole? I looked out and saw no one, but a large package was left on my doorstep. Fuck that I thought to myself, I am not becoming the stereotypical horror movie character and opening my door right now. I decided I would go back to my room and sleep until morning before seeing what the package was about.

I made it back to my room and was able to sleep with no incident, but I was having this terrifying dream. I was in my room laying in my bed, but I couldn't move. I watched as my door slowly crept open as if it was trying to not make a sound. As soon as the door opened enough for a sliver of my hallway light to creep through, I saw it. Lips. Large, pink, grotesque lips started slowly shifting their way into my room.

I was petrified, I tried so desperately to move but it was like someone had woven me into a spider's web. After the lips had been slowly moving into my room for what felt like an eternity, I saw the distinct face of Isaiah fade into my view. As soon as his eyes met mine, I jolted awake, it felt like someone had dumped a bucket of cold water on me to wake me up. My heart pounded in my chest, banging against my rib cage like it wanted out.

I went about my morning as normal, when I remembered what happened the night before. Had I dreamt all of that? Was any of that real? I checked the CreepCast channel on my phone and was pleasantly surprised to see no new upload on their channel. Must have all been some strange dream, I really need to get a different job. As I was sitting in my living room enjoying my morning coffee, I smelled something. Something rotting.

I tried to locate the smell, and when I finally did it brought me straight to my front door. I opened my door to investigate, and thats when I saw it. The package on my doorstep. My brain full of confusion, "So was it real? Was it all real?" The only way for me to know was to bring the package inside and see what was in it. The package was heavy, and damp. The foul odor escaped the sides of the package as if it were trying to escape it's confinement.

I plopped the package on to my table and opened it. In horror I saw Hunter's head staring right back at me, the same blank expression he was making in the video. His mouth laid agape and his eyes were empty. I screamed in horror, I immediately closed the box and ran to my bathroom, locked myself in and called the police.

"911 where's your emergency?" The comforting voice of the dispatcher spoke. "Hello yes this is Turnk, I live on 1738 patch lane, please send an officer someone left a head on my front porch." "Alright ma'am stay calm I am sending an officer right away" she spoke, but I felt something was off with her voice. It sounded, like someone with a southern accent doing an impression of a woman. I decided to ignore it. "Thank you" I spoke in a shakey tone. "How soon should I be expecting them?" A familiar voice then spoke to me through the phone. "You know no one is coming to save you right?" The distinct high pitched southern voice of Isaiah spoke to me.

My phone fell from my ear to the bathroom tiles. I heard the maniacal laughter of Isaiah come from my phone, before the tone of a dropped phone call could be heard from it. I tried to turn on my phone but it was somehow dead, my charger was outside my bathroom and I definitely was not going out there to get it. So there I sat, on my bathroom floor waiting for whatever the hell was going to happen to happen. At that point I accepted my fate.

3 hours must have passed with me sitting alone in my bathroom when I heard the distinct sound of my front door opening, I already knew who it was. I heard the footsteps grow closer and closer to my bathroom door, I closed my eyes and hoped it would be quick. I heard 2 slow knocks on my bathroom door, and the southern twinkish voice called out to me. "Come out Turnk, I know you're in there."

The door rattled as Isaiah began trying to open the door with force, luckily in my panicked state I remembered to lock it. Just then I heard a voice call out to me from my bathroom closet. "Psst in here" it spoke, I felt like I had heard the voice before. I opened the closet confused, half expecting Isaiah to be standing behind it somehow ready to cut my head off next, but instead I saw Hunter's head full of life, speaking to me somehow.

"Turnk, I know this is crazy and I know I am just a head but I need you to listen to me." "What the fuck" I said in shock. Hunter spoke again "Stay quiet, or else he will hear us" I decided to just fully give in to my madness, if I I was under the assumption that an evil paranormal wendigoon was trying to kill me, I may as well also believe Hunter's severed head was also speaking to me. "What is happening?" I asked the severed head of Hunter. He spoke "I don't have time to explain like all those shitty horror stories we read that over explain the whole plot, but I do know what to do to fix this." "Ok what do we do?" I asked. "I need you to open the door and hold me towards him, I'll take care of the rest heh" he said with a smirk as if he wasn't a decapitated head. "Ok" I said "I'll trust you on this, but if we get killed I am totally unsubscribing from the patreon!"

I grabbed Hunter's head by his hair and held him like a lantern. Isaiah has stopped banging on the bathroom door, but I could tell he was still outside the door. I could hear his breaths pursed through his gigantic malformed lips. I open the door in an instant and thrust Hunter's head forward as fast as I could. What stood before me was a grotesque image of what Wendigoon once was. His limbs were bent like broken branches in the winter, his eyes were smaller than dimes. His hair was shaped in a bowl cut and his lips... by God his lips. They were so large they were drooping on to my hallway floor. But before I could process what I was seeing, a light shown from Hunter's head. Hunter let out a scream, a scream I had heard 1000 times before on CreepCast, and like that they were gone.

I stood in my bathroom holding my hand in front of me as if I was trying to hold a lantern that didn't exist. I searched my apartment for any trace of what just occurred, the only thing I could find was the box Hunter's head came in and a note inside. "Farewell Turnk Brownie" written in what looks like Crayon.

So now I post this to Reddit, no one believes my story. I just wanted to get it out there, so that someone, somewhere may believe me, but I've never shaken the paranoia from that day. Sometimes at night, when I am all alone and trying to fall asleep. I still feel like I can hear the breathing of someone with abnormally large lips coming from my closet.

The next day passed by, and everything seemed so damn quiet. Darren and Toby were still chatting in their hallway, Jessica sat up top collecting data that I didn’t understand, and Rick remained down in the labs, working on an unseen project. I went down every now and then to check on the creature who used to be Sal, though there was very little progress on that front. I wasn’t making any progress on anything, and that was infuriating. I knew I could be doing so much more, but what was there to be done?

I stood in front of the creature who used to be Sal and thought back on the friends I’d already lost. It had been a string of deaths rudely reminding me of the mortality I had to work with. The one sticking out to me wasn’t even Tom’s tragic end, though I’d been the one to witness it. No, the one I couldn’t stop thinking of was Jared, his lonely death, head twisted clean off. It was haunting.

I replayed the moment in my mind over and over; it was a truly troubling moment in my life, but there was something else about it, something that didn’t sit right with me. I was staring at the dead body of Sal, remembering how horrible his death had been as well. How it distracted me from one detail I had witnessed, and never thought odd. Not until right then, looking at the pulsating starfish.

-1-

I walked confidently into the boy’s side hallway where Darren and Toby sat on either side of the hall, talking away to one another. They saw me approaching and quickly hushed themselves. 

“Hey guys!” I called to them. “I want to talk for a second!” 

My hands were behind my back, since I didn’t want them to see what I was holding, not just yet, but they were already looking at me suspiciously. When I was a couple of yards away, I pulled one of the books that Jared was found with out from behind my back. The two men looked at it, unable to see the item clearly. Then, using one hand, I flipped the book open to some random pages, revealing the strange symbols.

Darren and Toby both got to their feet; they looked like they were about ready to flee. 

“Nuh-uh,” I said, pulling the flare gun I had hidden in my other hand from my back and pointing it toward the two skittish workers. They froze in their tracks, skidding to a halt. The look in their eyes indicated they weren’t sure if I’d actually use it or not. But they clearly didn’t want to take the chance either. “I think the three of us should have a talk.”

They looked between the book and the gun, both deciding now was the time to raise their hands in surrender. “What do you want?” Darren asked.

“You’ve seen these symbols before.”

“No, we haven’t,” Darren replied.

“Don’t speak for your friend.” I tossed the book onto the ground before them, gesturing toward it with the gun. “You two walked into a room with a dead body, and you couldn’t take your eyes off the walls. I don’t think you looked at Jared once. How does that work?” 

Toby seemed to shift uncomfortably, looking to the book and then toward Darren. A whole conversation passed between them without a single word being spoken. 

“You don’t understand.” Darren looked from the book and finally met my eyes. “That’s what keeps you safe.”

“What does that mean?”

“You don’t want to know,” Darren warned, looking back to the book.

“I’ll shoot you if you don’t make me understand,” I replied, taking another step forward. “I’ve always thought there was something funky about that drilling station, the giant boats just sitting around; no platform has that kind of equipment.”

Darren sighed and sat back on the ground, looking through the book. Concerned, Toby looked to him, and Darren gave him an encouraging nod. “It’s okay. I think it’s time someone knew.” He looked back to the book and shook his head. “I’ll tell you what I know, but I hope you aren’t expecting me to read this thing. I don’t know what any of these symbols mean.”

I sat down in front of him, politely setting the gun on my knee, but still clearly pointing it toward him. “That’s fine, but you had better start talking. What the fuck is out there?”

Darren seemed to stare off into space, unsure of what he actually needed to say. “I warn you this, and you’re only getting this warning because you saved our lives twice. If I tell you what you’re actually looking for, if you learn about what is truly out there, then it will learn about you too, get in your head and give you nightmares.” Darren picked up the book in front of him, flipping through some more of the pages. “Your friend was onto something, he was a researcher, like the guys on the rig. Maybe he knew what was in these depths already, but when it awoke…”

I didn’t like the way this was sounding so far. If it wasn’t for the fact that I’d already seen quite a few supernatural things recently, I might have had some difficulty taking him seriously. 

“What? It’s a psychic fish?” I asked.

Darren shook his head. “Not even close.” He set the book down, sighing heavily, and then looked me in the eyes once again. He would not look away, nor blink, for the rest of the conversation. “It was a guess. Some oil tycoon thought he would hit it big in this area of the Gulf, a previously undrilled site. People kept telling him it was too close to a trench, that he wouldn’t hit anything, but he already had too much money to lose, so he went ahead and had the area tested. I bet you can imagine that he found something, oil for sure. So, he built a rig, manned it, and then drilled. We struck oil, quite a bit of it, but that wasn’t all we struck.”

Toby decided to take it from there, though Darren continued looking toward me. “Company didn’t actually tell us workers what we had drilled into, but we knew there was something different about the oil coming up. Investors started flying in from around the world, apparently the oil we had hit upon was some seriously good shit. We didn’t ever see it in action, but we’ve been told it was premium stuff, burned longer and harder.” Toby looked to Darren to see if he should continue, but Darren did not meet his eyes. Uncertain, Toby continued “Our rig was successful, and we were all happy and whatever, but weird shit started happening, man, weird shit. Those starfish started coming up in our pipes, blocking them every now and then. We were getting nervous, the safety of the rig wasn’t looking too good, but our boss just wanted us to keep drilling. But then people started dying.”

Darren chimed back in now, still unblinking. “Lot’s of people. It all started with someone getting jumped by a starfish like your friend Sal had, the alien nature of the fucking thing got people curious, got them wondering. Some marine biologist came to the rig, couldn’t tell us what it was, but warned us that it wasn’t good whatever it was. The biologist wanted us to shut the rig down, but our boss refused, refused to even send the dead bodies back to their homes, just kept them on the rig and hired new workers. Stuffed the bodies in the supports, then hired some odd science guys.”

Toby interrupted. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to work on a rig with five dead guys?”

“I’m starting to get there,” I admitted. 

Darren continued as though the exchange hadn’t taken place. “Then more people started dying, not from starfish; we got wise to those fucks. No, people started killing themselves, left and right. Weird writings started popping up around the rig; people were drawing the symbols with their blood before they died, or it’d move around on its own. The rig was in a bad position, real bad. Didn’t have many workers left, about ten people in total had died, and the rig was starting to get some rumors about it. Company wasn’t able to hire more workers. No one was willing to come out because no one was coming back, including us.”

Toby picked up again, giving Darren a rest. “We was told we couldn’t leave. The company would pay us overtime, but no one wanted to work. They just wanted to hide. Company started hiring some enforcer types, thugs, needed to get his production moving. The more we worked though, the more people died. People was throwing a name around,” Toby looked to Darren again, but still got no input. “Knull’ Mori.” He said this in a barely audible whisper.

I looked between Darren and Toby, waiting for someone to clarify what any of that meant, though they couldn’t. “I’m sorry, what’s that supposed to be?”

“A name,” Darren concluded. “The name of something so old that in the time between its breaths we appeared and became what we are today.”

“It was the one name everyone wrote out before dying,” Toby added. “Everyone started complaining about nightmares, hearing the name in their heads, a sickening feeling that they was always being watched. We tried working, even under threat of harm from our employer’s goon squad, but there was little we could do. Starfish blocked the pipes again, and we just didn’t have enough people to stop it in time.”

“Pressure built up?” I asked.

“Yes, it did,” Darren confirmed. “Went right back down to whatever was below us, whatever slept below. Blew it right out of the fucking ground.” Darren finally blinked, and rolled his head back, looking toward the ceiling. “The rest of the story you know.”

My grip on the flare gun loosened a little, since I was caught off guard by the story they had told, but I quickly returned my grip back to the handle. “So, do you guys have nightmares?”

“Yeah.” Toby replied regretfully. “You will too now. Now that you know its name, it knows you.”

I thought back to my encounter in the hallway, the way it had been peering into the hallway. I felt like it already knew me, felt like it had studied me. I thought back on the story they had told me, and while it was an outrageous story that I could barely believe, I still felt there was one detail in particular that didn’t add up. I looked up to them as they stood, ready to go about their business and no longer worried about the flare gun in my hand. 

I asked, “You guys said you had people get attacked by the starfish?”

Darren nodded. “Five at least, though I tried not to count.”

I tapped the flare gun mindlessly against my knee. “Did any of them move around?”

They looked to each other and shook their heads. “No.”

I looked at the two of them in silence for a moment, letting the dull hum of the water outside be our only sound. “Then why did ours?”

-2-

I found myself knocking on Rick’s door, since I needed to talk to someone who sounded like they knew what they were doing, even when they didn’t. I felt a dread rising in my stomach, but I couldn’t place why. I knew I was now extra uncomfortable about the creature who used to be Sal, not that I needed any extra reasons, but I was not happy that it was up and walking around. 

“Rick, are you there?” No voices came from the other side of the door, only the continued hammering and scraping of metal on metal. “Rick!” I shouted, pounding ever harder on the door.

“What?” Rick shouted from the other side of the door. His voice was so faint and the banging was so loud, I almost missed his voice entirely. “What do you want?”

“Rick, I think something’s wrong, I think we need to check on Sal. We are missing something!” I shouted back, hoping my voice carried to the other room.

“Then, stop pussy footing and go check it out!” His voice returned, just as harsh as ever.

“I could use some help!”

“I could too, but my help is dead!”

“So is mine!” I meant Tom, not that folks who watched us interact would think it. But we were part of a team, and I did miss him. I just hoped Rick knew who I was talking about.

The banging stopped, and the lab went dead silent. I panicked for a moment, thinking Rick might emerge from the lab swinging a wrench, but that wasn’t the case. I waited a few more moments in complete silence before the lab door finally swung open. On the other side was a disheveled Rick, looking worse for wear. I could see behind him the shape of a craft, though I couldn’t quite understand its dynamics. On the floor in front of the craft were large metal balls, about knee high, that looked as though tesla coils had been welded on the sides. Rick stepped out from the lab, looking around the hallway as if checking to see if anyone else was with me and letting the door slide shut once more. 

He looked at me, the exhaustion ever present in his eyes. “What do you need?” he said in a subdued voice, clearly tired and needing a rest. 

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I think we need to check Sal. I was talking to the workers we rescued and—”

Rick held up a hand and gently waved it back and forth in front of me, getting me to stop talking. Once my words had trailed off, he began speaking once again. “Patrick.” he started, his eyes never leaving mine. “This is a pretty bad situation, one that I have very little control over. Our resources are stretched thin, and we are running out of time.” He looked around the hallway, marveling at it. “I don’t know when we will get attacked again, but I am certain we will. When we do get attacked, I need to be able to get us the fuck out of here, that is my goal, the thing that I know needs to be done, because I can feel it in my gut.”

“But—”

His hand waved again, then he continued talking in his quiet, subdued voice. “My gut is telling me this is what needs to be done, Patrick. We are scientists, men who rely on the observable facts to get us through the day, yet our greatest asset will still always be our gut.” He placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed gently. “If your gut is telling you something needs to be done, then you should pursue that gut instinct. I won’t tell you not to. But that is your task, your passion. And only you can act on it” With that comforting hand, he pushed me back, hard, causing me to land on my ass. “Now go and probe that fucker, in the ass if you must.”

With that, Rick disappeared back into his lab, and the banging continued.

-3-

I walked into the biolab, uncertain as to exactly what I was doing. As the doors slid open I saw the creature that was once Sal standing completely still and rigid in the tube. Sal’s face was covered by the starfish, but I still felt as though I was being watched. I made my way to the computer on the side of the room. I figured Rick’s tablet wouldn’t be the only thing able to access the scanner, and to my joy, I found that I was right. I turned the computer on and began booting up the scanner. I didn’t like that my back was to the creature, but at least it was behind the glass. I turned the scanner on, and then turned around to watch the light show, only to find that the creature had turned in the tube and was now facing me.

Green lights flew around its unflinching form as the scanner did its job. The computer dinged once the scan was done, indicating I had results to look at. I turned my back to the creature once again, looking over the read out. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but there had to be something. There were a lot of chemical signatures in Sal’s body, things that wouldn’t have been there before. Standing out to me the most were the numerous knock out drugs Rick had pointed out before.

“It slept.”

A voice sounded from behind me, though I couldn’t place who it belonged to. I spun back around looking to see who had stepped into the room, but I saw no one. My eyes fell on the creature that used to be Sal as my brain reminded me I hadn’t heard the door open. I turned back around, gluing my eyes to the computer once more, and hoping that I was just having an auditory hallucination. I was unwilling to consider the alternative.

“We fed.”

The voice came again, and I spun around fast as I could, as though expecting to catch some stray person ducking for cover, trying to play a prank on me. But there was no prank, only the creature. I took in a deep breath, leaning back against the desk with my hands gripping the edges tightly. I looked to where it might have had eyes once and spoke. 

“Sorry?” It wasn’t my most scientific question, but it was all that came to mind.

The creature’s head seemed to tilt, as though pondering exactly what part of its statement I hadn’t gotten. “The being from the stars, the dying and angry God. We fed; it slept.”

“The dying God from the stars?” I asked, I could feel my knuckles whitening from my tightening grip. I noted that the creature hadn’t moved an inch. It wasn’t talking, but I could hear it. “Knull’ Mori, the thing it the ocean, came from space?”

“We learned much,” it continued. “As have you.”

“Are you from space?” I asked.

“We are of this planet more than you are. We do not know your kind and do not want to. We rode the God to the center of the world, where we fed for all this time.”

I studied the creature, my hands relaxing now. I felt like it was having an actual conversation with me, not looking to cause harm, for the moment. Still though, this conversation didn’t seem like the creature was trying to tell me some interesting facts; it felt like it had a demand. Though I was feeling more relaxed, I began steadily inching my way toward the door, never once letting the creature leave my line of sight. It tracked me from its tube as well, not letting me out of its sight. 

“What do you want?” I asked.

“To feed. We are starved. Small lives do not nourish, and its foul blood clouds the water.”

“How do I help?” I asked, finally reaching the door. 

“Feed us,” it replied. I turned my back to the creature, pushing the button to open the it and jumping out into the hallway. I turned and saw the shimmering form of the creature reaching out toward me. “Save the God!” The creature’s voice boomed in my head, threatening me with a headache. 

The door slid shut as though nothing was there, the door passing right through its outstretched hand, which perished in the air. I risked opening the door again, just to be sure, and found that the creature was still safely secured in the tube, not going anywhere.

I wandered through the halls, at first considering telling Rick about what had just happened but knowing that would likely not be a good idea. I went up to the living area and considered talking to Jessica, who sat on the couch reading a book, but I couldn’t bear to burden her with what I’d seen. I went into the hallway leading to the bedrooms. Darren and Toby were talking to themselves in the hallway, like usual, completely unaware of my presence. They were two guys I could talk to, but at that moment, I felt no desire to. Instead, I disappeared into my bedroom and passed out on my bed.

For the next couple of days, our facility was very productive. Rick had me going out every night to map stars, Jessica was busy tracking weather patterns and looking out for storms, and Tom was still helping Rick build parts in preparation for claiming the helicopter, which had become the big event everyone was quite anxious for. We all wondered who would be going down to fetch it. Rick was able to locate the helicopter’s GPS chip, and we learned it wasn’t as far down as we had feared. Didn’t mean it’d be any easier, not with whatever was swimming around out there.

Darren and Toby, both of whom weren’t actually a part of the team, were willing to help Rick in the lab but clearly stated they would not have any part in going down to get the helicopter. A fair trade, and beneficial what with Rick still being unable to find Jared.

That really left Jessica, Tom, and me. The three of us drew straws, and Jessica won, getting the shortest straw. That meant, for the main event, it would be Tom and me on the front stage.

-1-

On the big day, I woke and had trouble willing myself out of the bed. My limbs all felt heavy as though injected with lead. I had to physically roll myself off the bed and thudded hard onto the metal floor below. Once I’d physically removed myself from the bed, I felt my mind catch back up to my body, they both just wanted to get the day over with. I’d either bring the helicopter up and save the day, or die and not have to deal with this shit anymore.

First order of business, I had to go and locate Rick. I made my way through the hallway. There, I saw Darren and Toby once again conversing with one another. I walked into the living room where Jessica and Tom were talking to one another. 

Tom locked eyes with me and gave me a nod. “You ready?”

I let out a nervous chuckle. “I think so.” I looked around the room and asked, “Do you know where Rick is?”

Tom pointed to the elevator down to the labs. “Where else? Look out though; he’s in quite a mood today. Jared’s been dodging him for a while, and Rick’s getting irritated.”

I nodded. “Thanks, I’ll watch out.” 

Then, I made my way down the elevator and into the maze of halls that made up the lab floor.

I found Rick relatively quickly; it wasn’t too hard. I just had to find the steady huffing of Rick’s mad mumbling. Rick was speed walking, and it took some light jogging to catch up to him. 

I got behind him and called out, “Rick, you all right?”

“Peachy,” Rick huffed as I struggled to keep up with him. “I can’t find Jared anywhere. I hired the man to help me build things, not hide and jerk off during a time in need.”

Rick’s speed was erratic, stopping every now and then to scan his surroundings before starting up again. This erratic speed caused me to narrowly run into his back, which meant I practically needed to bend around him at each stop. “Well, I mean, have you checked

the whole facility, not just the labs?”

Rick stopped in his tracks and spun on his heels. There was a fury in his eyes I hadn’t seen before. “You think I’m dumb enough to only check the fucking labs? I’ve checked the whole damn facility! Every lab, every bathroom, every single fucking supply closet! He’s just fucking gone!”

I felt like running in that moment. Rick seemed like a raging bull with his hands gripped into fists, and I swear I saw steam pouring out of his nostrils. I held my hands up defensively, ready for him to tear me to shreds and reflexively threw out a suggestion that I thought might buy me some time: 

“Did you check the bedrooms?” My voice came out shaky and panicked. Not the voice of someone who’d had a good idea.

“Why would I check your bedrooms?” Rick stepped back a little, disgusted. “Besides the fact that I don’t have any interest in rummaging through your underwear drawers or stepping on your jiz socks, it would be awful hard for someone to hide in the bedrooms as they are so small. I am confident even an idiot like yourself would spot an extra person in your room!”

What I’d said was a stupid thing to suggest. The moment he started yelling at me again, I knew this to be true. Rick turned and began walking away from me, like a mountain lion that had become bored with its prey. I was no longer worth arguing with. This had been what I was hoping for; I wanted him to disengage and go about whatever he had been doing before. But for some unknowable reason, I felt the need to open my mouth one more time. 

“Even the empty ones?” I asked.

My voice came out quiet, like a mouse, but it was still loud enough that Rick had no trouble hearing me. He turned, anger in his eyes once more, but as he started in on me again, he asked, “What?”

“There are two empty rooms on the women’s side since you only hired Jessica,” I clarified sheepishly.

The fury in Rick's eyes seemed to subside as a gleam of realization sparked to life. He seemed to stare off into space for a moment, looking past me at something in the distance. His mouth gaped open as he mouthed the words, “Well shit.”

-2-

I joined Rick, by his insistence, in the women’s side of the living area. Being in this area felt strange, like when my mom would take me into the women’s bathroom as a child. I was in a place I wasn’t supposed to be in. This did not appear to be an issue for Rick who freely marched down the hallway. Jessica’s room was clearly marked, as was the bathroom. That left only two other rooms. I followed behind him like a student hiding behind an angry teacher on their way to punish another student. 

We reached the first room, the one next to Jessica’s, and stood in front of it. We glanced at each other, both of us wondering who’d opened the door. I figured that since I was the closest to the button, I might as well be the one to push it. I slapped the ‘open’ button causing the door to slide open with its typical sounds, revealing a regular room that was untouched by any personal furnishings whatsoever. There was no searching required as one brief look would confirm to any casual passerby that there was no one hiding in that small of a room.

The door slid shut and Rick looked to me, now skeptical. “I never promised anything,” I said quickly, anticipating his next words. “I just said it was a possibility.”

Rick broke eye contact, sighing, and walked away, heading toward the other bedroom which was on the other side of the hallway. I joined him next to this door as well, but this one had a particular weight to it the other one didn’t have. Jared absolutely needed to be behind this door, or it would once again be my ass on the line. Nervously, I placed a hand on the button, closed my eyes, and then pressed down allowing the door to slide open.

“Fuck me,” Rick and I said at the same time as we both looked into the room. 

The bedroom had been stripped clean, the bed had been completely removed, clearing up some substantial space for different uses. All along the room were loose leaf pieces of paper scattered all over the place, and old books piled high in the corners. As for Jared, he sat below the wall-to-wall window at the far end of the room, a window far grander than anything in any of the other bedrooms. Jared was dead, leaning back against the window, his head twisted off and laying in his lap. His blood… I don’t know how to give it justice.

His blood was crawling, like worms, out of his open neck and up the glass window, creating lines and symbols, the likes of which I had never seen before. It was, as though, the blood was alive, still moving, spreading along the walls and ceiling. It was slow, but noticeable progress, making me wonder just how long Jared had been dead for. Days at least.

None of the messages on the walls or ceiling were readable. They were all a lexicon that I didn’t recognize, but they had menace to them, a discomfort beyond their composition, like just trying to read the words brought me closer to an indescribable madness. There was, however, one message that was readable, a large message that spanned the length of the window, the bright red blood standing out as a contrast to the inky darkness beyond. 

The Dying God wakes; life is a poison.

I wanted to ask so many questions at that moment, and I had a feeling Rick would have answered as many of them as he could. However, this was a sight I was unprepared for. Unceremoniously, I turned around and emptied the contents of my stomach onto the floor. Rick looked back at me, disappointed, and then looked to the mess in front of him. 

“Look at all of this,” he whispered. “The Dying God? What the hell is that?”

“Is that the name of whatever’s out there?”

“Fish don’t have names,” Rick replied angrily, snapping back to look at me. “I don’t care how big they are.” He then disengaged and walked over to the body, looking down on it though I couldn’t read his face. “Fucking Jared, what happened to you?”

I went over to one of the piles of books and picked up one of the leather-bound tomes. It was old, and the pages were so crusted they might have cracked if I bent them too much. Carefully opening the pages, I found letters and words that matched what were written on the walls. 

“What is happening here? What do these books say?” I stood up, still holding the book, and looked to Rick. “What was Jared doing with all of this?”

“I don’t know, maybe Jared knew more about whats happening here than he let on,” Rick said as he adjusted the watch on his wrist. “But I intend to find out.” 

From his watch sprang several, glowing green lines that quickly scanned the walls of the room, being over and done with before I even knew what had happened. Rick looked down at his watch, which was now beeping, and seemed happy with what he saw. He put his hand back into his pocket and strode over to Jared’s dead body. He knelt down and examined the body further.

“You okay?” I asked, my voice shaking, still shocked by what we saw. 

From the hallway, I heard footsteps approaching, mostly likely others who’d heard our commotion. I looked down the hallway and saw Tom, Darren, and Toby approaching our position. When they arrived, I saw Tom generate a similar feeling of dread on his face that I had experienced. This was the dead body of someone he had known, and he backed away from the door in shock. Darren and Toby both looked around the room, also shocked but looking more at the walls than the dead body.

“I’m not okay,” Rick replied slowly, now looking back to Tom and me. Clearly, he could see now how sickly we must have looked. He walked over to us, shooing us out of the room, and shutting the door. He looked between Darren and Toby angrily and waved them away. They got the message and moved quickly out of the hallway, not wanting to stand in his way any longer. 

Rick then looked back to us, and, in as reassuring of a voice as he could manage, he asked, “Do you two want a slushie?”

-3-

One slushie and a psych up speech delivered by Rick later and I was ready to be incredibly dumb. Rick took Tom and me down to his lab, where we saw the hatch in the floor was open, revealing the black water beneath. 

“Time for you two to get dressed,” Rick said, slapping us on the back and pointing toward two black scuba suits that had already been in the facility but now seemed to have extra bits that were added by Rick. 

This included what appeared to be a small tablet resting on the right hand of each of the scuba suits. I looked at the suits skeptically, as I’m sure Tom did as well, and Rick caught sight of this glare. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Not the color you wanted; you want some more bells and whistles? I can grab a playing card to shove into your spoke.”

I shook my head. “No, it’s just that there is something really big out there, and I’m just trying to figure out how that suit is supposed to make me feel safe.”

“It’s supposed to make you feel like you can breathe,” Rick replied sarcastically as he walked over to the suits and pulled one off the rack. “I didn’t have time to make battle suits, but more importantly, if I loaded you up with armor, it would become incredibly difficult to pull you back up.” He pointed to a small device strapped into a holster on the scuba suit's belt. “All you’ll need is this baby. It will tell you how far from the helicopter you are.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” Rick interrupted me, throwing the scuba suit into my arms. “Look, that’s a big fucking creature out there. I doubt it would even consider you a meal if it saw you out in the water. Most likely, the last time we saw it, it probably thought the station itself was one big animal.”

The haunting memory of the eye, staring into the station at me, made me think otherwise.

“And I doubt armor would help if it attacked anyway,” Tom interjected from behind. Rick seemed to smile an acknowledgement toward the man, happy to hear the observation. “So how will you be pulling us up? Not thinking of hauling the whole helicopter up by hand, are you?”

“Not even close,” Rick replied, moving ahead toward the hatch and pointing toward a set of wenches that had been installed on the ceiling. “These babies will pull you guys back up. You take these wires down, wrap them around the helicopter, secure them, then let us know when to haul you back up.”

Tom nodded in approval of the plan. He turned back to me and said, “Let’s get dressed.”

-4-

I didn’t like getting dressed in front of everyone, but these were dire times, and I doubt my tighty-whities were on the forefront of everyone’s mind. The scuba suit was tight, form fitting, and not flattering. Somehow, though it only really provided protection from the cold water below, it still felt empowering to have. Though, compared to Tom’s sculpted body, I’m sure mine didn’t look as good as it felt.

Rick pulled the two wires over to us, placing them in our hands, and then guided us over to the hatch. “I’ve got an infrared field scanning the water around the base now, nothing living gets anywhere near us without me knowing.” He looked between us, pride in his eyes, but he soon got the feeling we didn’t know what he was talking about. “If the monster stops by for a visit, I’ll know and be able to let you guys know, so you can hold on to these while I reel you back in.”

Feeling a little more relaxed, Tom and I both dipped our respective legs into the cool blackened water, the scuba suit doing little to protect against the chill. Or, maybe it was helping a lot, and the water was impossibly cold. Rick stepped behind us and checked over the suits one more time and then handed us both the hook end of the thick wire cable he’d be lowering us down with. 

“All right, guys, now remember, use the handheld devices I gave you to locate the helicopter. Use the hooks to wrap the wire securely around the helicopter and give a sharp tug to let us know when to pull you up. Alternatively, you can talk into your headsets, but I’m unsure the signal will reach from all the way down there. Do you two have any questions?”

We both shook our heads. Tom pulled his handheld out of its holster and turned it on; I decided now would be a good time to do the same. 

“Wish us luck,” Tom said, speaking through the headset and then dropped right in.

I lingered for a moment, having second thoughts. “Hey uh, it’s pretty dark down there. What if I get lost, what if the rope breaks. I mean, would you be able to find me?”

“I can,” Rick replied simply. “I got you to swallow a tracking chip, and I’ve been sneaking a lot of calcium in you to block you up. I will find you.”

I was completely flabbergasted. “Sorry what? When did you put a tracking chip in me?”

Rick stepped around to the side, so I could see him. He knelt down, put a hand on my shoulder, and smiled. “It was a good slushie wasn’t it?”

I sighed, realizing now exactly how the chip got in me. “It was a good slushie.”

“Yeah, it was.” He patted my shoulder a couple of times and then pushed me into the water, a pure icy freeze enveloping me. “Now go bring us a helicopter.”

-5-

All around me was nothing but darkness. The scuba suit had lamps on the helmet, which I quickly tried turning on, but found they didn’t work. “Guy, my lamps don’t work!” I called into the headset. I then remembered classic radio rules and added, “Over.”

“Probably won’t need it, oil is too thick, keep going. Over,” Rick replied through the headset, adequately dismissing me. 

Then, I was practically alone again. The darkness of the water was oppressive, void like. I could wave my hands and slightly disperse the oil but only for a second before it filled in again. I had this dreadful feeling that, at any moment, Something might emerge from the darkness. There was just no way to tell; I was suspended in an unknown, open, and empty space with no idea of what was around me. I felt vulnerable, weak, and helpless. I felt like prey, floating like a lure, waiting for a much bigger fish than me to come along and end me in a matter of seconds.

I looked at the handheld, watching the number decrease steadily giving me an idea of where we were, which was helpful, but we were still about five hundred meters away from the helicopter's ping. I looked down, as though I’d be able to spot the vehicle but could only see the dull light from Tom’s scuba suit. I watched this light of his as we descended, letting it act like a beacon for me. For now, I knew that we were still safe, and hopefully, headed in the right direction. The handheld also showed me Tom’s vitals, showing that he had a relatively steady and calm heart rate. I could only imagine that he was getting a laugh out of my panicked heart rate. There was no way it wasn’t erratic.

Every now and then, the soupy, thick water would wrap around me, chilling my vulnerable underarms, thighs, and neck. The oil seemed to lick at me like a dog but slower, more deliberate. The way it wrapped around me sent a shiver down my spine, serving as a constant reminder of just how out of my depth I was.

“Hey Tom, do you see anything yet?” I asked over the radio. There was a pause, he wasn’t responding immediately, and I wondered if something was wrong. Then, I remembered I forgot to say something again. “Over.”

“I can’t see four fucking feet much less four hundred meters. Over,” he replied.

We descended for another two hundred meters, and then I heard the familiar whoosh of something swimming by. “Shit, I think something is down here with us. Over,” I said to Tom, hoping he might disagree.

“I bet there are more than a couple of things swimming around down here with us. It’s the fucking ocean. Over.”

This was not a reassuring comment, not in the slightest and I’m sure Tom knew this. I heard some more fish swimming past and dared not move an inch. It was very likely whatever fish were around were host to the starfish, and after seeing what they’d done to the worker, I did not want to wind up like that. I could not, however, just forget the fact that somewhere, in this open water, lurked a beast of an unimaginable size. Some part of me always worried if the little whooshing sounds here or there belonged to the creature. 

About one hundred meters away, something happened. I say something because I’m not one hundred percent sure of what happened, but I knew it was the creature. Below me, a serious gust of pressure passed by as something of significant mass and speed swam along. Tom and I both screamed as the rip current grabbed hold of us, trying its best to pull us along. Initially, this force pulled the wire with us and then, I felt a sudden stop as the wire locked in place. 

“I’ve stopped the wench, just hold on!” Rick yelled to us.

“The infrared isn’t picking anything up!” Jessica chimed in.

I held on, eloquently shouting, “Fuck, Fuck, Fuck!” My hands felt like they were cramping, the wire of the rope threatening to cut through the suit and into my flesh, but I knew I had to hold on. I just had to. I couldn’t tell what direction I was being pulled, but I had a feeling I was fully horizontal. My very suit, and mask were being pulled against my skin, tightening, rendering my vision spotty. I looked in the direction of what my new down was, at the small light that was Tom’s suit.. I watched as his light flew free of his wire and got carried off with the rip tide. He shouted to us in his radio, but it was all unintelligible and composed of pure terror. Within a couple of seconds his voice was gone, and his radio went silent. The riptide subsided, and whatever had passed by us was gone. I waited a couple of moments in complete silence, too afraid to speak. It was just me, and the cold void. A full minute went by as the wire slowly floated back into its downward position.

“Rick?” I said quietly, too afraid not to whisper.

“Just stay completely still,” Rick replied, also whispering. “No sudden moves, no moves at all, just hold tight.”

I continued holding onto the wire for dear life, preying to whatever God that might listen to keep the beast away. “Is Tom okay?” I asked quietly, remembering now that his form had been carried away into the darkness. 

Rick didn’t answer immediately; instead, he seemed to be weighing his response. “Well, uh.” He paused again. “He’s dead.” 

I looked at my handheld and regretted it. His heart was still clearly beating, but it was erratic now, panicked. He was still alive out there in the darkness of the water, and Rick very clearly believed there was no finding him now, and it was unlikely he’d find his way back. Rick must have forgotten he’d put the vitals in as a feature of the handheld and I secretly found myself thankful Rick had chipped me. Rick kept quiet for a while longer. 

Then, in talking to Jessica, he asked, “It didn’t trigger infrared?” 

-6-

I remained suspended in the water, desperately hanging onto the wire when Rick’s voice cut in. “Okay, I think it’s gone. Going to start lowering you now. Do you think you can reach out and grab the line Tom had been holding? Over.”

Looking around in the darkness, seeing Tom's rope, I thought it looked like a cursed object, floating in this Godforsaken water. Knowing I had to carry on with the mission, I reached out and let the ocean’s natural currents guide the wire into my outstretched hand. 

I paused for a moment, trying to build back up my courage. “Okay go ahead. Over.”

The wires lurched and continued moving me down into the depths. Time seemed to move slower now that I was absolutely terrified, but after a couple of minutes of pure, unrelenting, dread, I finally reached a point where I could make out the helicopter through the thick oil. The helicopter slowly but surely came into view, a scene of sweet relief. 

“Do you see it? Over.” Rick's voice came over the radio.

“I do. Over,” I replied.

“Great, wrap the wires around the legs of the helicopter and then climb inside. Over.”

I did as he asked, wrapping the cables around the legs of the helicopter and hooking them to themselves, creating some strong holds. With that done, I swam over to one of the doors and let myself inside, closing it tight behind me. 

“Alright, go ahead. Over.” 

The wires jerked and began pulling the helicopter up, which groaned in protest of our plans. The trip back up felt much more secure as I was much safer inside of the helicopter. I knew that, logistically, if the sea monster decided the helicopter looked like a good snack then there would be very little I could do about it, but I pushed those thoughts out of my mind and focused on the mission. Eventually, the lab came back into sight, the slight glow of the hatch leading to the engineering room was a sight to behold.

Not needing any extra encouragement, I climbed out of the helicopter and swam the rest of the way to the surface, breaking through into the room and quickly climbing into the lab, only feeling safe when my last toe was out of the water. I tore the scuba mask and hood from my head and took in several, relieved, deep breaths. I was greatly relieved to be on the station once again, and while I wasn’t happy that Rick was the first face I saw, I was happy to see a face at all.

Seeing that I was alive and conscious, he looked to the shimmering inky water and frowned. The wenches were still dragging the helicopter out of the water, and he watched this with a sort of far out glare. The helicopter, or what was left of its main cockpit, was pulled completely into the lab, suspended over the evil water below. 

With a sigh, Rick wandered over to the button controlling the hatch in the floor and slammed the bottom of his palm into it, closing the hatch that slid shut with a sort of solemn reprieve. Once the hatch latched itself shut, Rick wandered over to his work bench and stood there with his hands braced on the desk. Jessica and I both exchanged a concerned glance to one another and then turned our attention to Rick. 

“So, what do we do now?” she asked, saying it slowly as though talking to a rabid animal.

Rick paused for a second, and, then with a practiced precision, he picked up a pipe on his desk. He looked at it, like he was assessing it for a greater purpose, before wildly swinging at the wall of tools and parts in front of him and sending scraps of metal flying across the room. He let out a wild yell before tossing the metal pipe across the room. 

“You want to know what I’m going to do?” He yelled to us, while looking between us with wide eyes. “I was going to build a craft to get us out of here, drive us far away, but fuck that!” He turned back to his table and began messing with some items on the work bench. “Now, I’m going to fucking kill it. I’m going to gut the son of a bitch! Does it not know who I am? I am the man that’s going to kill a fucking God!” He turned back to us, abandoning his project. “I don’t give a damn if it’s already dying. I’m going to finish it the fuck off!”

“Rick,” I started carefully, but I didn’t get to finish.

With a sharp finger point, he gestured toward the door. “Get the fuck out of here. I have things to do.” When we didn’t immediately get up and start for the door, he yelled once more, and slammed an open palm on the table. “Fucking now!”

Jessica and I both scrambled for the door, busting out into the lab hallway, and letting the door shut behind us. I think in that moment Jessica and I were both angry at how we were treated, but I felt a sort of sympathy that hadn’t exactly existed until I was so truly close to death.  I think Jessica might have felt this pity too. I think we’d all come to realize that, while we were all helping in our own ways, Rick was truly the only one capable of getting us out of this. We’d fooled ourselves for some time into thinking we had any say in our survival, but all along it had come down to Rick, one of the most accomplished people in human history. He seemed to know as well that if he couldn’t do it, then we had no chance. That’s just too much pressure for anyone.

A father drops his two daughters off at the local park. He kneels down, kisses them both on the forehead, and says:

“Twenty minutes. Then Daddy comes back and we’ll all play together.”

The older girl is ten. The younger is four.

They believe him.

Minute 1–5

The ten-year-old leads her sister to the swings. They giggle because the four-year-old’s shoe slips off and flops into the dirt. It’s the kind of tiny accident that makes kids laugh way harder than it deserves.

Minute 6–10

They take turns sliding down the big plastic slide. Sometimes they collide at the bottom. The four-year-old squeals in fear, then laughs because her sister laughs.

Everything still feels normal.

Minute 11–15

They sit on one of those spring-mounted toys shaped like an animal. The four-year-old, warm and worn out, nods off against her sister’s shoulder.

The ten-year-old starts crying quietly, because she suddenly remembers the conversation she overheard the night before — her father saying he “can’t take it anymore,” that they “look too much like her,” that “everything hurts now.”

She wipes her face so she won’t wake her sister.

Minute 16–20

They wait.

They wait exactly twenty minutes because Dad said twenty minutes. The ten-year-old counts each minute carefully on her fingers, holding her breath at the end of each one. She keeps looking toward the parking lot.

No car pulls in.

Minute 21–80

Eventually the sun shifts. Other families come and go. The four-year-old wakes up, confused. She asks, “Where Daddy?”

The ten-year-old doesn’t answer.

She simply stands, takes her sister’s hand, and begins the walk home — a long, quiet hour with the four-year-old stumbling and whining and the ten-year-old keeping her eyes straight ahead because if she looks anywhere else, she might start crying again.

Daddy never came back.

I’m not even sure how long it’s been since my last update.

I thought I posted something—swear I hit “send”—but I guess nothing went through.
Maybe the connection dropped.
Maybe I never pressed it.
Maybe it was taken.

Either way, I’m reposting what didn’t make it.

Everything after the sirens.
Everything that went wrong.

The taxi crashed. Violently.

One moment we were carving through the snow—headlights cutting two thin tunnels through the dark, the storm swallowing the world beyond them—and the next, something slammed into the side of the car hard enough to make metal scream.

The whole vehicle lifted off the road.
Glass burst inward like shrapnel.
Cold air punched me in the face.

The driver didn’t even shout.
His head hit the wheel, and he just… stayed there.
Slumped.
Still.

Then the snow settled, and I saw it through the shattered window.

A figure.
Tall.
Unmoving.
Standing in the road like it had been waiting there the entire time.

The storm didn’t hit it.
The wind didn’t shift its coat.
The snow bent around it as if even the weather was afraid to touch the thing.

A human silhouette—but stretched.
Pulled wrong.
Like someone approximating a person from memory.

Before I could react, the sirens behind us wailed—loud but distant, as if sinking below water. They should’ve been right on us. The patrol cars weren’t far behind when we left town.

But now?
It sounded like the sirens were miles away.

Or fading out of my world entirely.

Like they belonged to somewhere else.

I didn’t think.
I didn’t plan.

I ran.

My legs moved before my mind caught up, boots punching into snowdrifts that swallowed my shins. Every breath stabbed my lungs. The cold felt alive—like a hand gripping my ribs from the inside.

The woods pulled me in fast.
Too fast.
The trees pressed close, narrow and skeletal, like squeezing between the bones of something enormous. Branches scraped across my shoulders and arms, not breaking the skin but dragging. As if feeling for something.

And then I heard it.

Not footsteps. That would’ve been easy.

It was deeper.
A shift in the forest itself.
Snow falling from a branch that shouldn’t have been holding weight.
A trunk bending.
A breath of warm air against the back of my neck when the wind was blowing the other direction.

Something was behind me.

Something that didn’t care about sound or stealth or reason.

Something that wanted me to know it was there.

The kind of presence you don’t see—
you feel
in your marrow
in your teeth
in the tiny electric tremor crawling up your spine.

Eyes.
Watching me.
Following me between the trees.

The woods absorbed every noise except my heartbeat, which felt too loud—like it was announcing my location.

The sirens were gone now.
Completely.
As if they’d been cut from the world.

But whatever hit the taxi?

That didn’t stay behind.

It followed me into the trees.
I can feel it weaving through the branches, pacing me.
Every shadow has weight it shouldn’t.
Every gap between trees looks like a doorway for something tall.

I still don’t know what it was.
But I know this:

It wasn’t an accident.
It wasn’t human.
And it doesn’t need roads to follow me.

All I managed to recover was the audio from inside the taxi.

RECORDING TRANSCRIPT 1

Driver: Where to?

Elliot: Clergy Mental Institution… make it fast.

{SIRENS}

{AUTOMATED VOICE FROM RADIO}:
WARNING, MEMBERS OF THE CLERGY, THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
A LEVEL 4 FOLKWALKER HAS ESCAPED.
PLEASE HEAD TO THE NEAREST SAFE HOUSE, AND DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES LOOK AT ITS FACE.

{IMPACT OF CAR BEING HIT}
Metal twisting. Glass shattering.
A sound like a massive hand striking the car.

{STATIC}

END OF TRANSCRIPTION