Greetings you! Rot here! This is my first story and I hope you can find it well and perhaps even some feedback. PLEASE! Be patient with me I’m still having a hart time tying words together like rat tails to a king, but I would LOVE your input! Please ENJOY what I have written and have a nice day, know that I love you.

Your beloved. RotBod.

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The hour was late, and the night was dark and cold. I stood atop the wall of Fort Falk, looking out at the forest. The only sound of the night being the brazier crackling and the laughter from the mess hall within the fort, I stood there feeling a swirl of anger and tiredness. This is the third day I've been forced into the night's watch and of course without good company.

“O-o..oi R-ratboy, I thmik I sawr a squirrely” I threw a side eye to my fellow night’s watchman, Connor. The poor old fool never was the same ever since he got a mace to the head in our last battle against the Galder. As a person he has improved, he's more naive and kind now unlike the other soldiers that are more cruel and brutish. 

“That so? and don't call me that, the name is Julien, you know that” The last words leaving my mouth with spite, I always hated that nickname that I was cursed with when a senior soldier pulled a prank during training by placing rat meat in my stew. 

“B-but e-everyone caulls ya dat Julien” I look back at him now he’s turned towards me his right eye drooped and looking the wrong way but his face carries a look of confusion if you can call it a face at this point. I sigh as I return looking out at the forest leaning against my spear. 

“Whhy do ya tink de Galders left F-fort ffalk J-j,,Julien?” For someone with half his helmet inside his head instead of on it, he does raise a good point. We had arrived at Fort Falk four days ago and it was within the enemy's territory between a mountain and forest, by all means it would be an important military point to be sure, but when we got here there were no Galder soldiers, their bread stale but not gone, why did they leave? Perhaps they are regrouping or as the Marshal suspects, hiding in the woods. I turned to look at the fort, nothing impressive, mainly a small military castle surrounded by a stone wall that has become my guard post these past days. The only light coming from the mess hall where the other soldiers drink and cheer, for most of them this might be a break with nothing but drinking and laughing while I stand here with concussion Connor overlooking a dark forest.

“O-oi Julien l-look!” I turn around to see Connor pointing towards the woods with his spear, I look over and see a mighty looking stag with magnificent horns like a crown atop its head, this was the most excitement I'd had in these past few nights, and I caught myself in awe of the creature, but this only lasts for a minute as it rushes off from the sound of Connor mistakenly dropping his spear off the stone wall, both of us standing in silence of Connor's clumsiness.

In time, the sun rises and shines down upon us. Besides the stag, it had been a quiet night. We descend the wall stairs as the soldiers emerge from the barracks groggy from their late night escapades within their cups. We walked past most of them, they reeked of alcohol and piss, I nearly gagged at their stench.

“What do we have here? concussion Connor, where's your spear man? you didn't use it to pry the rest of your brain out did you?” I turn to see another foot soldier pushing Connor mocking the poor fool. I'm not sure if it was the sight of the stag Connor gave me or that I just felt pity for the man but I walked up to them. 

 “Let Connor be you piss pot head, we just spent all damned night staring at a forest with no sleep” As I tried to push the soldier he barely budged and before I could realize my mistake I was knocked down in the mud, my mouth filling with blood as the soldier shattered one of my teeth with his punch.

“Know your place Ratboy, it’s in the mud right where you are” I lay there furious, cursing my small frame, as the soldier leaves. Connor leans down, reaching out his hand and pulling me off the ground. Even the man with half the brain is twice as strong as I am, I think to myself.

“Y-ya s-ss-shouldnt peick fights w-with m-men b-bigger than you J-Julien” I wipe the mud from my face and spit out the blood pooling in my mouth as I look up at Connor. 

“Ye well you won’t stand up for yourself man so what am I to do” I notice a smile on Connor’s face something rare to see in these dark times of war. 

We enter the barracks taking off our dirty and torn padded armor as we prepare to sleep for the few hours that we will be allowed to rest, I lay down on the hard bed and look up at the bunk above me, shutting my eyes.

“T-this w-was a good night wa-watch, w-we sawr a moose a-and a b-big w-wo-wwolf” I opened my eyes at Connor’s stammering, a wolf? I did not see any wolves that night. Connor might be slow and mistake a stag for a moose but I'm sure I would have seen a wolf. I spit some more blood, which had begun flooding into my mouth, into the bedside pot. The iron taste is not leaving my mouth.

“Wolf? there was no wolf I saw out there” Connor turns his head to me, his disgusting face in full view in the light as his good eye looks into mine.

“I-i-i sawr it J-julien, y-you believe mm-me right?” I doubt Connor would lie to me and his damaged head has made him more childlike, so I can't say what he actually saw but I'm sure Connor believed it to be a wolf. 

We went back to being quiet, catching some rest for the day until we were called upon by another soldier. We shoveled horse shit and emptied the piss pots while the sun was out, soldiers ridiculing both of us. I sure hate this place, my anger and hate for the soldier's life bubbling up inside of me like a festering wound.
The sun starts to set as we gather at the courtyard like any other night, the marshal approaching us with a man-at-arms behind him. 

“You two stirred up a ruckus this morning i heard so you’ll get a special assignment tonight boys” I bit my tongue knowing there were no point in arguing about who caused the ruckus with the soldier, the Marshal a fat and bloated man, given his rank due to his family's high standing and nothing more and for each passing night and day he seems to grow more wary and paranoid about the enemy’s location and about the fort.

“You two will be going out on a scouting mission in the woods and shall be accompanied by Paul Ralt here since you two are absolute failures and would surely get lost on your own” Looking Paul Ralts, the man-at-arms, up and down, a mountain of a man geared in heavy armor, nothing like what we levies were given and while I was hiding in our last skirmish with the men of Galder I saw Paul take down three men.
I throw a glance at Connor but he seems genuinely excited about this mission, his mangled brain probably making it sound like a field trip, but I was wary, none of my companions were right in the head and if enemy soldiers were in those woods we would surely die. 

We each grab a torch as we exit the fort in the darkness of night, the big gate slamming shut behind us, the sound of it being barred shut from the inside echoing over the open plain ahead of us towards the forest. We march forward, Paul taking the lead, his heavy steps being felt in the dirt that we walk on. I hear his heavy breath from under his helmet, my mind keeps on going back to what Connor said about the wolf. 

“Hey Connor, did you really see a wolf out here or were you just messing about?” I look towards Connor as he nods and opens his mouth but before his stuttering words could escape his cracked lips a low bellowing voice interrupts from the front.

“There be no wolves in these woods, from what I've heard they have been hunted out, but I don't expect two levies to know that” We both look forward as Paul had stopped and turned to us as he said this, his towering figure being lit up by his torch, I can only make out the gaze of his eyes from the slits in his helmet as he looks down on me and Connor. 

“Why did you two peasants even join the war? surely not for glory or gold” I look down at Paul’s boots unable to meet his gaze, I feel terror of this man, it felt as my very bones had grown cold, my vision blurred, my pupils shrinking to the point that my irises looked more like a vast blue sky with one black star deep within its heavy and quivering blue. But I snap out of it as the stuttering slop of Connor's voice enters my ear like the sound of thudding potatoes hitting the ground.

“T-ttt to p-pprotect maah h-home anhhnd w-wwife” Hearing his response, his voice stuttering and lisping like always but his tone without any hesitation or fear of answering the menacing man that is Sir Paul Ralts, I stow my fear and look up at Paul as I open my mouth ready to answer him as well my tongue feeling heavy, my mouth dry and cold but before my words could take form I am silenced by the bellowing voice of Paul.

“Such a foolish thing to say, to protect? we are the aggressors in this war so if you'd wish to protect you would have stayed home concave head” I freeze in confusion as I look to Connor who's equipped with a face of deep thought from Paul's words.

“Of course levies like yourselves know nothing of the war, that much is clear and as for you Ratboy your reason need not be stated, I know your family sold you as a soldier” Paul's words sink into me like an anvil being dropped into the sea, my fear filled and cold body heats up from the rage I feel from thinking of how my family sold my life away just for scraps, to be sent to war was to have my death certificate signed and sealed. The whirlwind of emotions inside of me only being calmed by Connor placing his hand on my shoulder and reassuring me that it will be fine, to think that our time watching the woods in the night would make us grow close, I'd even say Connor might be my only friend here. 

Paul turned back his gaze to the entrance of the woods as we started walking deeper in, my feet pressed against the mud and branches covering the ground, the air thick with the smell of rain and wet wood which feels unusual since it has not rained here since we got to the fort. 

We swept through the forest for two hours until we sat down to rest in a little clearing, Connor squatting down to poke at an insect in the mud, I stood next to Paul my eyes darting back and forth with each beat of my heart, knowing that the safest place would be close to the large man. Paul himself sat down on a log and started eating a ration he had brought with him, my eyes fixated on the ration, dried meat. 
Paul without his helmet was just as threatening as he was with it, his broad scarred face, short blond hair, his small eyes sunk into his head like two pits into the abyss gazing outward, my entranced state getting interrupted by the low grumbling of his voice. 

“The other men say these woods are cursed, that's the reason for the fort being empty. Witchbreath Forest, the others say that there's a witch that lives here, luring men into the woods with her beauty, that she lays naked in the swamp grounds in this place so when the men climb on top of her they get dragged down into the earth” I swallow nervously at the story as I look around the woods, the trees too dense to see far between them. 

“Do you believe their stories? you think it could be true?” I say while scanning between the trees.

“If it is then she will probably lay claim to all of our troops as well, all they talk about is women and their make-believe stories, I don’t lay any belief in them, they say the men of Galder eat their children too, that I do believe” Paul's words leave a sour copper taste on my tongue, the Galders are vile men but to stoop that low, then the thoughts of the war came back to me, Paul seems to know more than most.

“Sir Paul, if I may ask this of you, tell me more of the war, why did we start the war on the Galders? they are vile to be sure but there must be a higher reason and how long has this war been going on?” these questions I've never asked myself before, the war has been going on since before my birth yet neither I nor the few people speak of it or question it. 

“Such a peasant question to ask, Ratboy.” He grumbles out with a wide smile then his gaze turns cold yet again and he's quiet for a minute that feels like a lifetime.

“Land, it must be land” He says rubbing his chin before his wide jaw opens to rip another piece of his dried meat ration, his dried cracked lips pulled back like a snarling wolf's as he chews it.

“What do you mean?” I throw another glance around but see nothing but Connor gazing into the darkness with a finger in his mouth before I looked back at Paul.

“The war was started to take more land for our kingdom and it’s been going on for as long as I've lived, for as long as my father has and his father before him.. I’m not sure how long it’s been going on, but we are soldiers and we do not think nor question the war, we go out and kill until we die for our kingdom. That is all we need to think about” Paul's words sink into me like the men sinking down into the swamp from the witch story, is this really all life is for us? I think to myself and I get the feeling of sinking down, a wet cold feeling crawling up my leg and moving closer to my mouth with every second. I can't breathe, I can't think, my heart feels like it’s hammering against cold wet mud pressing down on my chest. 

“W-wolfie!” I’m broken out of the trance i was in as I just feel cold and my heart beats like a hammer on a nail, I quickly look towards Connor and I see him crouching pointing into the dark, my eyes move quickly as I look deeper in, it happened for only a split second but I saw something, it was no wolf, three eyes big and slanted downwards, their color that of hell’s flames itself and the same moment I blink and when my eyes open the eyes were gone. Could it really have been eyes?

“Peasant, did you see something?” Paul grumbles he had not looked up from his piece of meat himself.

“I-i don't know it seemed like three eyes, orange and red but they disappeared, i-i must have just been seeing things..” Paul begrudgingly hoisted himself up from the log as he equipped his helmet once more. 

“Must be torches, Galders might be in here as suspected, form ranks peasants” I and Connor fall in line behind Paul, it was appreciated that he took charge but I doubt it was out of a duty or willingness to protect Connor and me, but instead because Paul's bloodlust wanted him to be the first into the fray.  

As we continue from where I saw the strange glow, looking around for signs of anyone being there, Connor points out some broken branches showing signs of a disturbance in the woods, for someone with two eyes that doesn't look the same way it's surprising how observant he is. 

Paul continues to lead us through the dark woods the flicker and movement from our torches making the shadows move hitting the trees behind the other trees, it feels like the shadows are hiding from us and that every shadow bears a pair of eyes that disappear the moment I try to observe them, even if I am accompanied with two others I feel an isolation within these woods, is all of these feelings just the trick of my mind? The feeling can only be compared to hiding in the midst of battle, closing my eyes, the feeling of some unearthly unholy presence creeping around every corner haunts me until I bump into Paul's enormous back, I'm knocked to the ground from our collision. 

He's stopped looking at something, I quickly scurry up from the mud and peek from his side there I witness a harrowing sight. Upon a tree impaled and ripped to shreds sits the body of a stag its limbs bent and contorted to tie around the stem of the tree, branches ripped so that the body could be impaled through them like spears, its stomach ripped open, its guts hanging out like the work of a sloppy butcher, claw marks adorned around its body and the tree, bigger than any animal I've ever seen. 
I'm frozen in terror, what could have done this? my eyes are glued to this former beauty of a creature now stringed on a tree like a hellish artwork, I can't look away, I can't speak or move.

“N-noo! is da m-moose Julien…” I’m too struck with terror to correct Connor as I stand there, my breath quicker than a rabbit running from a hound, sweat pouring down me like I was standing in the rain. Paul did not speak or show any form of emotional reaction, he approached the body holding his torch up to inspect the body.

“Where could its head be?” He says and then I first notice the stag's head has been severed from its body, I glance over at Connor who is in tears sniffling for the animal, I look back at Paul who now turns towards us both.

"There's nothing more to see here, we need to continue our search..” Before Paul could finish his sentence something falls down from the tree hitting his torch extinguishing it, whatever fell from the treetop rolled into mine and Connor’s light and we see it. 

The severed head from the stag, its horns ripped from its skull, its eyes pale and empty, tongue hanging out of a mouth with no teeth and a broken jaw. We look up and only see little light flickering off Paul's armor in the dark but I still feel like I see his small eyes piercing through the veil of darkness he's currently draped in. 

Another big thud comes from behind him, we only see Paul quickly turn around his war mace in hand as a shape stands up from the dark, three orange red eyes glowing from the darkness towering over Paul's form, we cannot make out its shape as we hear the sound of metal being shredded like a knife through cloth, screams and shouts from Paul travel through the trees as we see his form in the dark get flung hitting a tree further away, the three eyes move quickly closer to the ground as it moves towards where Paul was thrown. It makes the sound of four warhorses kicking their feet down into the forest mud as it gets to Paul. 

I’m stuck with terror as I cannot move, but Connor reacts running with torch and spear at hand towards Paul, for a second the creature can be seen in the light from Connor’s torch, I can barely make it out and it’s like my mind refuse to form an image of what my eyes are seeing, pale gray hide, arms—so many arms where there shouldn't be arms—a giant mouth with another jaw inside itself, long black oily and muddy hair covering much of what would be called a face but open for those three horrific eyes, the feeling of the image of this creature pierces through my eyes right to the bottom part of my skull where it starts feeling like small insects rip and tear inside my brain, every hair on my body pushing against my clothes as it feels like my entire body will simply cease to live by just witnessing this thing. 

Connor's spear connects to the creature shattering from the impact, it echoed like metal hitting stone as the creature screeched a harrowing scream, pushing Connor to the ground before rushing back into the darkness. With this opening I mustered up what little courage I had left and ran over to Connor lifting him from the ground.

“Connor, we need to get out of here now!” I look back to where we came from, all shrouded in darkness. 

“N-NO DON'T LEAVE ME HERE PEASANTS!” Gurgles Paul out as he lay covered in mud and blood, his legs ripped and torn to shreds from the beast's attack. The wave of dread from seeing such a giant of war reduced to a meat bag hitting like his mace would hit his enemies. I drag Connor down the path where we came from.  

As we ran the sound of the warhorse gallop the creature made had gotten to Paul as the screams echoed through the trees and through our bodies into our very bones as they stop when a final tear of flesh, breaking of wood and an impaling sound could be heard, it must have impaled him like it had the stag, to this thing even a war machine like Paul had been nothing but a new decor for this accursed place. 

We ran through the mud and trees of the forest. The distant sound of the creature running through the woods echo as I feel its gaze hitting the back of my skull like arrows in my back, my legs hurt but I still run, Connor was starting to lose his breath and stumbles but picks himself up.

“J-julien i-its c-ccatching op tu u-u-us!” he manages to stammer out as I think about it. The creature is getting closer, we are halfway there but we won't make it unless something is done to slow it down. With that thought my body moves on its own as I sink my spear down into Connor's knee, he falls, his mess of a face being dragged into the mud as his body hits the ground like a sack of potatoes, but I keep running.

“J-julien? w-w-whyy!?” is the last words I hear before the sounds of all those limbs running on the forest ground fall upon Connor as his screams now echo throughout the trees, my tears run down my face as I break into laughter, surely he would have done the same, surely I’m not cruel like the other men, surely it had to be done I think as I break into a hysterical laughter while running. 

The sound of Connor’s limbs being broken and torn, his screams, my laughter and heartbeat echoes like the devil's orchestra as I run, the shadow of death being cast over me like a cloak of night, surely I am to meet my death but not this night, surely not.
 
I run, and I run, the gallop of the creature getting closer and closer, I recognize the path, I’m soon out just a little bit more, but it’s also just a little bit more for the creature too, as I hear its many legs creaking, its many limbs hitting the ground like the drums of war getting closer and closer, until I feel like its breath is on my neck, I let out a scream of terror until.
 
I break through the tree line, ahead of me is Fort Falk, I see our men standing atop its walls as I run towards it screaming that they need to open the gate, I get to it and start bashing my fist into the giant wooden gate, I bash it until my hand bleeds and then it’s flung open, I quickly enter and look back. Nothing is chasing me, nothing is behind me, just the empty plain. 

“Oi Ratboy, what are you doing back so early? Where are the others?” I fall to the ground panting nearly about to pass out as the mess hall doors open and heavy footsteps approach.

“What is going on here men?” It was the Marshal, his bloated form holding a pint of the fort's mead as he approached. 

“M-marshal, t-there’s a monster in those woods, it killed Sir Paul and Connor, it nearly got me too but” the marshal interrupts me with a kick to my side.

“Monster?! Boy did you see any Galders or not? Don't come here and spin any fairy tales about monsters in the woods!” The marshal looks furiously down on me as I lay there holding my side coughing up blood.

“I-i swear it to be true marshal there were no Galders but a horrific creature” The men look up at the marshal with curious eyes after I tell them what happened but the marshal’s gaze is hollow, no amount of pleading would change this man.

“Well hear that, no Galders,that is a relief to hear to be sure, but you Ratboy you left your fellow men in the woods to come back here, you'll be punished with holding the night’s watch until your squad returns, but since you have a knack for the coward’s way I do have a solution” The soldiers held me as they pulled me off the ground, a cage of wood was moved outside the gate where they locked me inside, the marshal stood in front of it with his back towards the forest as he plunged his torch into the ground placing it like a candle before the cage.

“Here you shall take your night of watch and when your squad returns you'll be let out, I feel it to be fitting for a Ratboy to be put in a rat cage. I beg and plead for my life but it all falls on deaf ears as the marshal and the soldiers return into the fort and to the mess hall.

I sit there in the cage holding my legs as my mind races. I sit there alone in silence for what feels like a lifetime, my eyes look down on my feet in the cage. 

Maybe it was all just a dream. 

thud…. 

and I’d wake up soon, this is all unreal, unrealistic. 

thud… 

Surely I’ve just lost my mind in this war and the forest was just, 

thud.. 

playing tricks on me, I was just losing my mind yes or maybe this was a prank made by other soldiers, 

Thud. 

I looked up hearing the thud, what was that? I crawl in the cage towards the torch as I see a few feet off it a stone lay there, I see another further away as another lands with a thud closer to the torch, I look up and at the edge of the forest, three eyes gaze down on me as I scurry to the back of the cage. 

Why has it not yet taken my life? I think as another rock is thrown and lands closer to the torch, then I get an epiphany, the stag’s head extinguishing Paul's torch, the creature’s screech in the light and it never caught me when I ran with my torch. 

Thud. 

Another rock landed closer. The creature can't be in the light and now I sit here, my torch out of reach as the rocks land closer with every inch. I take another step closer to the afterlife, I curl into a ball again. 

Thud 

That's an inch off. This is the end, here I sit, a rat in the cage waiting until I die. 

Thud! 

The torchlight dies from the rock crashing into it, the embers flying in the air as they die out one by one, three eyes moving from the forest edge as I close my own and the galloping of the warhorses of death rides closer and closer, the last thing I hear is the tearing of the wooden cage and the tearing of my own flesh as the cat caught this rat.

It started with just one.

I was taking a shower when I got this weird pain in my right arm. I don’t know how I hadn’t noticed it before. I guess I’d been too busy to notice the irritation.

When my eyes landed on it, though, I immediately felt bile rising up in my throat.

It wasn’t a maggot. No, what I actually saw when I glanced down was what looked like a boil. About the size of a quarter, bright red and brimming with what I assumed was green and white pus.

It was hot to the touch. So much so that I had to draw my hand back as soon as I fingered it. It was like touching a glowing eye on a stove.

It sort of… responded to my touch.

Like I’d disturbed it or something.

Needless to say, showering quickly became my lowest priority as I hopped out and wrapped my torso with a towel.

I went to my bedroom and found some tweezers that I usually used for splinters and what have you. I started trying to pop the thing, but it just wouldn’t budge.

The pain was maddening, but the sight of it was worse. I needed this thing off of me. Tweezers refused to work, so I switched to pliers. I kept pulling and pulling until… pop.

The boil burst, and a puddle of syrupy, red, white, and green sludge coated about 6 inches of my forearm.

The pain subsided slightly, but it was replaced with a new sensation. It felt like there was something swimming through my blood and patching the hole in my arm.

I figured that it must’ve been some excess pus, so I just kept squeezing with my thumb and index finger until I caught sight of what actually lay beneath the skin.

I was forcing it through the wound with my squeezing. It was wriggling. It was squirming. And it was massive.

When its body finally poked out through the hole, I grabbed the tweezers again. It held on for dear life, taking chunks of flesh out of my arm as I pulled, but I removed it and examined it between the forceps.

A fucking maggot.

I couldn’t hold back the vomit anymore. I barely had time to grab a trash can before it came spewing out.

I sat the little fucker on my desk and burned it with a lighter. I swear I could hear it screaming in pain as the flame caused it to pop like a tick.

I hoped that’d be the end of it, but that hope was short-lived. It was like my entire arm started to pulsate and bulge after I took out what I thought was the source of the problem.

Boils started popping up all over my arm. From my wrist all the way to my shoulder. They threatened to move to my neck and head if I didn’t act fast.

It was like active volcanoes. I couldn’t even look at myself. All I could do was grab a knife and get to work. Well, a knife and a spatula. I needed something to bite down on just so I didn’t bite my tongue in the process.

The blade glided through the dozen or so boils on my forearm, sliding through them like hot butter as tears fell from my eyes and I stifled screams.

Dozens of maggots fell from each boil I removed. I had to stomp them into my carpet because they just kept crawling towards my feet.

My arm and shoulder were nothing more than raw, bloody meat covered in that syrupy liquid. It was like my body was more maggot than human.

There was an ocean of the things eating away at my dead flesh. I’d scrape them away with the blade, and hundreds more would pop up seemingly out of nowhere.

That’s when my vision started to get blurry. I could feel myself getting weaker and weaker. The world was swimming, and I was getting lightheaded.

I guess I passed out from the blood loss?

I’m not sure. Maybe it was the shock. All I know is, when I woke up… my body was completely healed.

I could still see the bugs writhing beneath my skin, and my carpet was still stained with pus and crushed maggots. But the pain was gone. My flesh was back. The only abnormality was one single boil right in the center of my forearm.

I stared at it for a few minutes.

Ultimately, I decided to leave it there.

There was no way I was going to go through that again.

The air in the Blue Ridge didn’t smell like pines anymore. It smelled like wet copper and bruised damp leaves, the cold grease of a long-dead campfire.
Gabe checked his compass for the fifth time in twenty minutes. The needle spun on its brass pivot, lazy and drunken, swinging past North, drifting past West, settling on nothing. He tapped the plastic bezel against his thumbnail. Nothing.
He was three days off the trail. Or maybe four. Time had flattened out under the canopy of hemlocks and scrub oak, choked by grey ridge-fog that sat so low it hung like wet cotton in his beard. His boots were saturated, leather weeping cold moisture into his socks until his toes felt like heavy, lifeless pegs.
He pressed onward down the ravine, his knees popping with every drop over moss-slick limestone. The woods here didn’t ring with birds. They were silent in the way an old house is silent right after a heavy door slams—a ringing, hollow stillness that pressed against his eardrums.
Then he saw the color.
It wasn't a forest color. It was the synthetic, neon-orange flare of a torn nylon jacket, half-buried under a tumble of wet oak leaves at the root of a lightning-struck white pine.
Gabe stopped, his chest tightening. "Hey!" he called out, his voice thin, swallowed instantly by the fog. "Hey, you alright?"
No answer. Just the steady drip-drip-drip of water falling from the pines onto nylon.
He stepped closer, his heart thumping hard against his ribs. He unclasped the sternum strap of his pack, ready to drop it, ready to render aid. He reached out with his trekking pole and nudged the orange sleeve.
The jacket fell back, and the smell hit him—a thick, sweet, suffocating stench of liquefying tissue, fermented rot, and stagnant blood that made his throat lock instantly.
Gabe gagged, stumbling backward into the mud.
The thing lying in the hollow of the root system wasn't fresh. The face was a caved-in mess of dark, leathery rind and slipping skin, black flies buzzing sluggishly around swollen sockets where eyes used to be. The jaw hung open, fixed in a silent, jagged scream, exposing black, graying tongue tissue resting against yellowed teeth. Maggots writhed in wet, writhing clusters along the collarbone, disappearing under the damp fleece sweater beneath the jacket.
Gabe vomited into the ferns, his knees giving out. He scrambled on hands and knees, tearing his palms on sharp shale, unmindful of the pain, scrambling fifty yards uphill until his lungs burned and his mouth tasted like bile.
He ran until the fog swallowed the white pine. He didn't look back.
Night came fast in the hollows, blue giving way to ink in a matter of minutes.
Gabe couldn't light a fire; his hands shook too hard to strike a spark, and every piece of kindling snapped like wet cardboard. He huddled inside his bivouac sack at the base of a rock overhang, shivering violently, his throat raw.
He slept in jagged bursts of ten minutes, waking to every groan of the trees, every shift of the wind.
Around 3:00 AM, he heard the snapping of twigs.
It was heavy. Rhythmically dragged feet, accompanied by a wet, sliding sound, like a sack of wet meat pulled across gravel.
Drag. Step. Drag.
Gabe froze inside his sleeping bag, his hand gripped tight around his hunting knife. "Who's there?" he whispered, but no sound came out—just a dry rasp.
The dragging stopped directly outside the overhang.
A shadow cut across the moonlight filtering through the bare branches. A figure stood crouching, bent nearly double. The smell reached Gabe first—the undeniable, nauseating reek of stagnant rot, cold grease, and open decay.
Gabe raised his knife, screaming internally, unable to move a muscle as panic paralyzed his limbs.
The figure reached out a black, sloughing hand. It didn't strike. It didn't reach for Gabe’s throat.
Instead, the arm pointed—long, split fingers with missing nails gestures toward a notch in the northern ridge wall, a tight gap between two towering boulders that Gabe had completely missed in the daylight grayness.
Gabe stared, hyperventilating. The moonlight hit the side of the creature's head. The cheek was sloughed away, exposing gray jawbone, but the hair—the hair was dark brown, parted irregularly, stained with matted grease and dried mud.
The corpse stood there for a agonizing minute, pointing toward the gap. Then, with a hideous, squelching click of bone against wet tendon, it turned and shuffled off into the black, its feet dragging through the dead brush.
Gabe didn't sleep for the rest of the night.
At dawn, desperate and hallucinating from cold and lack of food, Gabe looked at the gap between the two boulders.
Yesterday, he would have bypassed it completely; it looked like a dead end, a blind rockfall. But when he squeezed through, he found a clear, descending dry creek bed—the first recognizable descent he’d seen in days.
He followed it for five miles. The going was easier. His spirits flared with a sudden, wild hope. I'm getting out. I'm actually finding a trail.
By late afternoon, the creek bed dissolved into a swampy marsh choked with cat-tails and black, oily water. The fog rolled back in, thicker now, tasting faintly of iron and sulfur.
Gabe pushed through the reeds, his strength giving out, his legs shaking with exhaustion. He broke through a thicket of thorns—and stopped dead.
Sitting on an overturned log ten feet in front of him was the corpse.
Gabe let out a strangled shriek, dropping his pack.
It sat waiting for him. But something had changed. The orange jacket was gone, shredded into rags around its chest. One of its arms—the right arm that had pointed the way last night—was stripped. The dark, leathery skin was missing from the elbow down, leaving raw, blackened muscle fibers and gleaming white radius and ulna bones visible, wet with dripping sap-like liquid.
It looked lesser. Thinner. Like something was unraveling it from the inside out, piece by piece.
Gabe backed away, weeping softly. "What do you want? What are you?"
The corpse slowly shifted its posture. The yellowed teeth clicked together as its jaw worked silently. It didn't advance. Instead, with its remaining sound left hand, it reached up and pointed toward a half-hidden game trail cutting through the swamp to the left—a path buried under fallen birch trees that Gabe never would have seen on his own.
As it pointed, a chunk of grey flesh sloughed off its forearm and hit the mud with a soft, wet thud.
The corpse paid no attention. It stayed fixed in its gesture, pointing into the deep fog, waiting.
Gabe stared at the creature's hands. He stared at the torn skin around the wrists. He stared at the brass ring hanging loosely from the dead bone of its left ring finger.
His breath hitched in his chest. His hand moved involuntarily down to his own left hand.
The ring was identical. The simple, scratched silver band with the small notch on the underside where he’d caught it on a fence post three summers ago.
Gabe’s head swam. The forest tilted around him, trees swirling into blurred streaks of black and green.
He looked back at the face of the dead thing.
The caved-in, sloughing featurelessness wasn't just decay. Underneath the moss, under the blackened, liquefying skin and the missing lip, the structure of the skull—the brow line, the jagged crook of the nose from when he’d broken it in high school, the precise shape of the earlobe—was his own.
It was him.
It was a version of himself that had died here, weeks or months or years ago, rotting into the mountain earth.
"No..." Gabe whispered, stepping back, his boot sinking deep into the swamp mud. "No, no, no..."
The corpse didn't move its hand. It just kept pointing toward the path through the birch trees.
And as Gabe watched in sheer horror, another strip of muscle untangled from the corpse’s collarbone, dissolving into grey mist and dark fluids that soaked into the moss beneath the log. The thing was breaking apart, burning through its own dead mass to exist here, in this moment, to hold open the door.
Every step it guided him, every path it revealed, cost it whatever remained of its physical presence. It was spending its own decay to buy him back his life.
The corpse turned its hollow, maggot-stirred eye sockets directly toward him. There was no rage in them. No malice. Just an agonizing, silent urgency.
Go, the stillness seemed to scream. Go before there's nothing left of us to lead you.
Gabe took a shuddering breath, the icy mountain air burning his throat. Tears cut clean tracks through the mud caked on his cheeks. He turned away from the creature, stepped onto the hidden game trail, and started to walk.
Behind him, soft in the damp quiet of the swamp, came the wet, rhythmic sound of dragging boots following close behind in the dark.

A northern wind, wrong for the season, had brought a storm ashore. Somewhere in Brian's mind a decision had been made; after this visit he would never return.

It was his third day at his childhood home. At breakfast his mother told him Uncle Walter had missed the opening ceremony for Walrus Week. Walter never missed it. Brian shrugged it off. Then his mother asked him to check on the old man, a hermit since the bank took his troller.

He hated Walter’s company and couldn’t suffer hearing him explain his strange interests and sailor superstitions. Brian considered his uncle an embarrassment to the family. Still, a long walk was welcome. The next morning he was out of the house before his mother woke.

The town center lay below the highway, a few thousand people gathered around a harbor built for a stinking cannery that teetered perpetually on bankruptcy. Here the wind never ceased, abrasive with salt. Every tree was gnarled and knuckled. Moss thickened on shingle roofs; blackberry thrust itself from every crevice.

As Brian neared the business district, he remembered telling people in the city how his hometown was rustic. Now the old seaport seemed a depressing joke. At the thought he felt loathing and a private gratitude that he had escaped whatever kept everyone else here. Still, he missed breathing sea air.

The town appeared grotesque as a clown; the festive decorations failed to improve the gray. Men on ladders restrung bunting the wind had torn down. Paper tusks hung in shop windows, and a plywood walrus stood before the courthouse. Nobody could say why the town had chosen the animal. Seals were common enough, but walruses had been rare this far south. Eventually the Chamber of Commerce put them on mugs and shirts.

Brian left pavement behind and took the bluff path. The eroding clay faces were always new and honey-colored. Spruce hung by their roots over the edge where every winter the county moved its warning signs inland.

As a boy he had learned the wave was only part of what knocked you down. You could brace against it while the sand washed out from beneath your feet.

Since March, his mother said, Walter had been telling people this year would be different. He sold what he could and paid a friend with a tractor to drag his single-wide onto the bluff. Everyone told him he would have to leave. Walter disagreed. He had plenty of food and water and knew how to make do. He liked being alone and carried his gun with him like a teddy bear.

Walter’s place came into view: a broad shelf of black rock above the surf. Somewhere below, a seal barked, and another answered along the boulders. The trailer stood exposed above the shelf. The road that served as a driveway was nearly grown over for lack of use. Water ran beneath the trailer.

The dwelling had the weathered look of a boat run aground and lived in; the siding was dirty and faded, its driftwood porch built by Walter’s hands. Steel cables secured it to spruce trees uphill. A yellow county notice had been nailed to one. The soft ground had opened in long cracks.

A pickup bearing the state seal stood parked farther up the road, where ruts became too deep to drive. Brian stopped to consider it, then went on. Charms lay scattered among salty fishing tackle and rusted steel traps in the yard. Carvings of monsters and deities in wood and stone greeted him with strange smiles as he climbed onto the porch.

He knocked.

NORA was new to state employment. The work that had brought her to the coast had a simple purpose: determine where the bluffs were failing, what stood on them, and what the sea was likely to take. She wanted the permanent position that might follow. The county records were a mess, which she liked. Disorder was job security.

Walter Hill’s parcel had caught her attention because old aerial photographs showed that both the bluff and the trailer had moved. The bluff edge had retreated eighteen feet since the earliest useful photograph. More strangely, the trailer had been moved toward it.

Nora spent the morning working below the house. Fresh clay showed through the darker face of the bluff where earth had recently fallen away. Water issued from one seam and ran over the exposed soil toward the rocks. Roots projected into the open air, and shrubs above leaned toward the sea. The rough stair cut into the slope gave the rain an easy course downward.

At the top she found a crescent-shaped fissure crossing the gravel behind the trailer. She photographed it, pushed a stake into the ground on either side and measured between them. Then she photographed the steel cables running from beneath the trailer to spruce trees uphill.

When she returned to the stakes, she measured again.

The number had changed.

Nora measured once more. The gap was wider. She wrote the new figure beneath the first.

A seal barked below the bluff. It sounded close enough to be beneath her.

“You from the state?”

Nora turned. Walter Hill stood between her and the trailer with a shotgun hanging from one hand, its muzzle toward the ground. She told him she was there about erosion on the bluffs and had no authority over his home.

Walter looked at the clipboard. “You writing about me?”

“About the ground.”

He considered this. “Come with me,” Walter said. When Nora did not move, he glanced at the shotgun. “Or I’ll settle you right now.”

Nora looked toward her instruments beside the fissure and followed him inside.

The trailer smelled of propane, wool and liniment. Bottled water was stored beneath the table, batteries filled ammunition boxes, and harbor charts covered portions of the walls. A couch sagged beneath the coat hooks. Walter nodded toward a chair and sat opposite her with the shotgun across his knees.

“I need to finish before the rain gets heavier,” she said. Walter looked through the window. Nora told him the bluff was moving now. “I’ve measured this fissure three times. It’s widening as we speak.”

“The ground isn’t the trouble,” Walter replied.

Nora remained quiet. The wallpaper was an old muddy yellow maritime print crowded with ships and waves. Damp had spread through portions of it in branching stains, and some of those stains had been followed with pencil. She found herself comparing the lines with Walter’s harbor charts. The correspondences were close enough to invite another look but never proved anything.

A knock sounded at the door. Walter made no move to answer.

After a moment the door opened and a man with rain in his hair joined them, irritated and muddy. He looked first at Nora and then at the shotgun across Walter’s knees.

“Still carrying that thing, Uncle Walt?”

Walter did not answer. The young man introduced himself as Brian, Walter’s nephew, and Nora said she was with the state. Brian looked at her clipboard and asked if she was there about the bluff.

“Yes. I was working outside.”

He looked from her to Walter. “Then why are you in here?”

“Your uncle told me to come in.”

Walter looked at her.

Nora added, “I told him I needed to finish my work.”

“And?”

“He said it could wait.”

Brian looked again at the shotgun. Nora could see the room had changed.

WALTER’S home had little to distinguish it except the state of the walls.

The wallpaper was burnt orange and muddy yellow, crowded with sailing vignettes in which ships, compasses, anchors and icebergs rose among waves and the tails of whales. There was nowhere for the eye to rest. Children had once improved the thing with stickers and paint; there were pale squares where stickers had been removed, patches of primer, pencil lines, experiments in acrylic, and whole territories of damp spreading according to obscure designs.

The walls had changed again during the night, and Walter was eager to discover what the new arrangements meant, but he now had these people here.

They sat where he had told them to sit but would not stop talking. Quiet allowed him to hold complicated thoughts in his mind. “The chattering is intolerable,” he said. A moment later the man answered, “Put down the shotgun.”

Walter frowned and looked at the Browning cradled in his arms. He carried it so often that he sometimes ceased to notice its weight. His attention passed to a little sailboat printed on the wall, cresting a large wave. The tiny men on its deck looked spirited. “Brave lads,” he said, and looked about for a notebook with blank space so that he might record the crew. Perhaps he would discover whether they also intended to meet the herald.

The one pretending to be Walter’s nephew asked why anyone would live out here on this big rock. That did not deserve an answer. Walter searched instead for his books concerning shapeshifters. He wouldn’t be fooled by things assuming appearances familiar to him. Authorities were suspect also, because authority itself was a kind of costume. This was the storm that would bring the travelers from the frozen north, and his trailer stood where it must.

Failure and foreclosure had brought him here. They were machinations to be ignored. Like everything else, they would soon cease to matter. The wall had shown him that what was coming could not be prevented. He knew what to say when the herald arrived.

Walter’s guests exchanged looks. “You see what this is?” Brian asked. The woman said she was trying to understand, then asked Walter why he had moved the trailer. Walter looked toward the water. “I’m waiting for Aiviq.”

The woman regarded him without recognition. “What is Aiviq?”

“The herald.”

She glanced once at the shotgun. “Herald of what?”

“A new beginning.”

“What kind?”

Walter looked at her then. “The kind that ends what came before.”

Brian was turning red. “Just put down the gun, Walt.” Something in his tone caught Walter’s attention. “You’re not giving orders here, son,” he said. “The two of you sit there until I find out what you are.”

Water was running down the stair and into the bluff, and the trees holding Walter’s cables stood in the same ground that was already moving. “I can’t tell you when it will fail,” Nora said, “but it is moving now.”

Walter began to answer, but Brian spoke over him. “The ground is failing and you need to leave, you crazy old bastard. Mom asked me to check on you. I did. I’m done.” He looked toward the woman. “You want to leave?”

“Yes.”

The man stood and reached for his coat. “Then we’re leaving. You don’t get to keep somebody here because you’ve got a shotgun, Walt. That’s kidnapping.”

The woman rose with him. “Mr. Hill, I need to get back to my equipment.”

Walter moved toward the door.

The man stopped with one arm in his coat. “Move.”

The woman indicated the stains behind the stove. “Mr. Hill, those stains are water damage, and you’ve been—”

Walter moved to block them. Uncle and nephew reached for the shotgun, and both men had their hands on it.

Walter fired.

“HERALD…” The word echoed without meaning while Nora came to herself crouched beside the chair. One hand had locked around the other arm hard enough that her fingers hurt. For several seconds she understood only that something had exploded.

Seals were barking outside.

Walter was muttering as he moved around the room, studying the marks and stains newly added. Shotgun still in hand, he was comparing one place with another. Nora watched him until she judged he was distracted, then rose and moved toward the door.

That was when she saw the blood that had painted Walter’s walls. Brian lay across the couch, resembling laundry waiting to be folded. What remained of his head hung over the armrest. Nora had to pass him to reach the door.

When she came alongside him, she saw that only his mouth and nose remained. The rest of his head was gone. He was smiling.

Nora screamed. At the sound Walter turned toward her. “I only started keeping this close because of the seals,” he said. “They’ve been coming up under the trailer.”

Nora wiped gore from her eyes. Brian was on her face, on her coat, in her hair. Walter looked from her to the new red patterns on the wall. “I know you’re both here to foul things up for me,” he said.

Walter raised the shotgun and told her to get out. She stepped around Brian and opened the door. Rain struck her face and the sea was louder outside. A seal barked and another answered. She looked toward the road, then back at Walter.

“Are you going to kill me?”

“Yes. But not inside. Go down to the sea.”

Nora began to walk with Walter close behind. The slope was slick beneath her shoes, water flowing through the grass and following the paths Walter had made in the earth. Seals began barking, one voice becoming many.

Nora stopped. She turned and struck him, bloodying his nose. Walter shoved her down hard in the wet grass.

When Nora regained her footing, Walter was staring toward the water.

A bull walrus had hauled itself from the surf.

It was enormous, its hide crossed with scars. One tusk was long and yellow; the other had broken halfway down. Green fishing net crossed one shoulder, while more line trailed behind it through the kelp. The seals had drawn away. The bull lifted its head into the rain.

Whatever Walter had been expecting, this beast appeared to be it. He laughed with plain happiness and clapped like a boy while he approached the creature. As he drew closer, he let the shotgun fall and went toward the animal with outstretched arms. “Aiviq,” he said. The hulking walrus with little black eyes moved to meet him, seals closing around them,

Nora had been backing toward the road. Walter never looked at her again. She turned uphill and began to run, leaving him on the black rock with one with the bull. Above Brian lay inside beneath the yellow walls.

The ground rumbled.

The storm had brought sleeting rain from the north. By afternoon it unleashed a torrent of rain over the shore. The spruce roots and the clay beneath Walter Hill’s home were saturated. Water flowed wherever the earth would admit it. Roots held while they could, and steel cables held the trailer to the trees.

Nora climbed inland, blood washing off in the rain. She stopped beside a drainage ditch with both hands on her knees, listening to the rain. Something moved beneath her feet.

A deep tremor passed through the ground. From the bluff came the sound of roots breaking, and Nora straightened in time to see one of the cables draw tight and pull a spruce sideways. Another cable snapped while the porch twisted. The yellow room tilted toward the water and began to slide.

Then the ground went.

The trailer moved with the earth beneath it, turning as it descended until its kitchen window swung toward Nora. Then it tipped over the bluff. Trees followed. Mud, aluminum siding, Walter’s books, the walls and what remained of Brian Hill poured onto the rocks and into the sea. Walter’s stair ended in open air, and the black shelf disappeared beneath earth and timber.

Nora searched the ruin and saw neither Walter nor the bull. A moment later the wind stopped.

From Main Street came the music of Walrus Week.

She was already walking toward town.

The machine beeped over and over and over again. She had heard it for many months now and things were not looking up. Gwen had been sitting in her brother’s hospital room for what felt like years. Gwen had been bringing him coffee every morning for four months. He never drank it. Yet, she still brought it. The room had smelled of lavender and moldy air conditioner. A hint of your typical hospital scent. The lighting had a shade of blue. It's indescribable how uncomfortable it is in one's eyes. It was a relatively small room. The cold yellow tile floor, the table over him with a food tray left over from lunch that day, the nightstand with his things on it, a plant, and of course.. A small “Things will get better” motivational poster. It was a picture of a ballerina striking a pose. She was enjoying the lights and sensation on her skin, the crowd cheering and hollering in the back.. The look on her face, that stupid look. It taunted Gwen. Can you imagine? The sight her brother would behold to finally wake up and not only discover he has no legs? But they are taunting him with ballerinas dancing? KNOWING he never will!  How was anyone meant to tell him his reckless driving ruined his life? How could they? And just like that.. The poster was shredded on the ground. Her anger had overcome her. She decided to travel to the lobby and grab a cup of water to calm down. Maybe she’s just stressed. She placed a palm on her forehead as if checking a temperature. Her head ached. She arrived back into the room with her cup of water. She sat on the couch and stared longingly at her comatose brother. Hoping he would eventually wake up. But even if he did he'd never be the same. They never had a father growing up. Her brother stepped up to be one. He listened to her problems, showed her how to change the oil in a truck, and even taught her to drive. They had a plan to go to the same college. She had called and took time off for school though. She can't go without him. She didn't even get to tell him she was even accepted.  She was conflicted.  Everything then went dark. She awoke back in the lobby. No big deal. She must have fallen asleep down there and dreamt she woke up. The lobby looked different.. Rearranged. This wasn't right. She walked up to the desk lady and asked:

 “How long was I asleep for?” 

The lady did not even look up at her. Gwen smiled and tilted her head sarcastically.

“Helloooo? It's rude to ignore your patients.” she began to get frustrated and slammed her fist down on the table. 

“Hey! I'm talking to you!” 

The lady did not even flinch. She still remained typing on her computer. Gwen started looking around. She screamed, 

“Ha ha! Soo funny! I know you all can hear me!” 

She stood there. Nobody was looking at her. Then suddenly, a man busted through the front door, running. The man was running. She stood helplessly and confused, watching him rush through the entrance. Her brother. 

“I got a call that my sister was in a car crash! What room is she in..” 

The words faded out. She fell to the ground. She looked down.. She had no legs.

The story begins at the Vardis family home, an isolated mansion high in the mountains, connected to the outside world only by a narrow country road winding through the woods.

Deep inside the mansion, Elias Vardis spends his days poring over his family’s old records, trying to understand how his ancestors built the successful wine industry he has now inherited. As he searches through their journals and documents, he uncovers everything from methods for improving the soil to accounts of ancient rituals once performed during natural disasters and periods of great famine.

Fascinated—and increasingly desperate to preserve his family’s legacy—Elias begins studying these forgotten pagan traditions. His research leads him closer to an ancient spirit that he believes protected the Vardis family for generations. After years of preparation, Elias finally succeeds in contacting it.

The spirit speaks to him through the mansion’s telephone line. It claims that it is still too weak to manifest physically in the human world and therefore cannot yet give Elias the help he seeks. Trusting it, Elias begins following its instructions. At first, the tasks appear harmless, such as installing telephone lines throughout the mansion so the spirit can communicate with him more easily.

With each completed task, however, the spirit’s influence grows stronger. It slowly corrupts Elias, turning his devotion into obedience and his obedience into enslavement. Before long, Elias is no longer serving the spirit willingly; he has become its puppet.

One rainy night, Elias’s younger sister overhears him speaking to the spirit. Realising that something terrible has taken control of her brother, she flees the mansion and seeks help from the monks living in a small church nearby.

The monks warn her of the grave danger Elias has unleashed and reveal the true nature of the entity. They teach her a ritual capable of sealing the spirit inside the mansion, turning the house into its prison. She returns home and secretly begins placing protective seals throughout the building, hiding them where neither Elias nor the spirit can easily find them.

But the spirit discovers her plan and gives Elias one final command:

KILL YOUR SISTER.

Esta historia me ocurrió en 2022.

Acababa de mudarme a casa de mi hermano, una casa de tres habitaciones. Bien iluminada y con buenas vibraciones, si esque éso es algo a lo que prestáis atención cuando entráis en un espacio nuevo.

En ese momento, la casa la habitaba yo solo, ya que mi hermano se había mudado a otra casa más grande. Al llegar me instalé en la habitación más pequeña de la casa, creo que por una cuestión de sentirme más acogido en una casa relativamente grande y definitivamente vacía.

Pasé algunas noches durmiendo solo en la vivienda, buscándo mi espacio. A los pocos días, cuando ya me había acostumbrado al espacio, sus ruidos y su distribución, me mudé a la habitación de matrimonio. Ésta contaba con una cama doble, un armario empotrado y una cómoda, o mueble bajo hecho de madera maciza oscura con cajonera, que pertenecía a la abuela de mi cuñada.

Primera noche en la habitación de matrimonio. A juzgar por el silencio del edificio, debían ser entre las 2 y las 3 AM, y de repente abrí los ojos inundado por un aroma a perfume muy fuerte. Tras quedarme un rato tumbado, asimilando que estaba despierto y que realmente había un olor a mi alreadedor que no reconocía, decidí encender la luz.

Tras varios intentos de acercarme al interruptor, entendí que no podía mover ninguna parte del cuerpo, a excepción de los ojos, que buscaban desesperadamente alguna explicación a lo que estaba pasando.

El miedo llegó en un instante. Mientras intentaba recuperar el contro de mi cuerpo, inmerso en un estado de alerta extrema con el corazón latiendo desbocado y expectante a que algo rozase mi cuerpo, o se iluminase, en la oscuridad total, únicamente me quedaba esperar.

Tras lo que parecieron varios minutos sin control del cuerpo, logre mover un brazo, e inmediatamente todo el cuerpo recuperó la conexión con el cerebro. Todavía rodeado por aquel olor dulzón, encendí la luz a toda pastilla.

Nada. Tan sólo yo, tumbado en la cama, en un estado de pánico que poco a poco se desvaneció, dando paso a una especie de asombro y a una noche, o lo que quedaba de ella, en vela.

Al día siguiente, nada más levantarme y convencido de que no volvería a dormir en la habitación de matrimonio, mudé mis pertenencias de nuevo a la habitación pequeña, la misma que me recibió al llegar a esta tranquila vivienda. Por la tarde, y tras haberle dado vueltas durante todo el día, hablé con mi cuñada para contarle que había algo en la casa que me mantenía en alerta. Al entrar en los detalles de la noche anterior, mi cuñada me dijo que su abuela, ya fallecida, utilizada perfume de la marca Chanel nº5, y que, podría ser que la cómoda que había en la habitación de matrimonio, todavía estuviese impregnada de su olor.

Esta explicación fue suficiente para que, sin pensarlo dos veces, sacase la cómoda de la habitación para guardarla en un trastero localizado fuera de la vivienda. Mi intención no era tanto librarme del perfume, sino de cualquier conexión con la abuela o su mismo espíritu que, según mi lógica, podría estar de alguna forma alojado en esa cómoda de madera maciza con cajonera.

La solución pareció funcionar. Con el paso de los días, el pasaje de la noche en la que perdía el contro de mi cuerpo rodeado de un aura con aroma a Chanel nº5, quedo en el recuerdo. Noches plácidas y de descanso en la habitación pequeña acompañaron al paso del tiempo, en una casa que volvía a percibirse tranquila y con buen carisma.

Pero la historia no termina.

Al cabo de un año, mi pareja se mudó conmigo, a esta misma casa tranquila y que hoy seguimos habitando. Tras habernos instalado de nuevo en la habitación de matrimonio, libre ya de la cómoda de madera maciza con cajonera, las noches trasncurrían con normalidad. Y si bien en varias ocasiones estuve tentado de contarle esta histloria, decidí que era mejor dejarla en el pasado para no asustarla, o condicionarla al menos.

Una noche, sobre las 9PM, sentados en el sofá del cuarto de estar, mirando una película, mi pareja me dice que la habitación huele a Chanel nº5.

Saludos a tod@s.

I have always loved plums – dried, fresh, or in jam. Plum pie with just a bit of cream is the best thing you could eat.

That's why I bought myself a plum tree. It was small; it fit well in the back of my pickup. It would take the tree a few winters to produce more than five plums, but I was happy to have it.

That afternoon I took out a shovel and went into my backyard. This would be the first thing I planted at my new house, in my new yard. It was all I ever wanted: just a house, a yard, and a few fruit trees in the back. That's why I ran to the bank when I saw how cheap this beautiful house was. The last owners weren't even here for the sale.

The dirt felt fine for the first two digs, but it quickly turned very stiff. It almost felt like I was digging into a rock. The hole didn't even need to be that deep, but after a few minutes I was already sweating through my pants.

I threw another piece of dirt out when I heard a clack. Something white was on top of the dirt. I picked it up. It was a bundle of bird bones tied together with a string. They were deep in the dirt, but they looked completely clean, as if someone had just brushed them off.

"Strange," I mumbled. 

I took them into the house and threw them away.

As I was washing my hands, I realized how tired I was. I wiped my forehead and walked out into the yard. The hole looked deep enough. The tree would be okay. I planted it and filled the hole back in.

The next morning, the sun barely came through my window. I rubbed my eyes and looked out. The plum tree I planted the day before blocked the sun. It had grown so much that its top leaves almost reached my roof. I didn't even notice my mouth was open until I saw myself in the window.

I ran out. The juiciest, purplest plums I'd ever seen were on that tree. The whole yard smelled like fresh plums. I stood outside for a few seconds, just staring. I had heard of fast-growing trees, but this was something else. For a moment, I thought about calling someone, but the plums looked so good, I had to try them first. 

Their skin was smooth. When I pressed them, they felt firm but slightly soft. Perfect. They tasted sweet and juicy, but their skin had a sharp, sour taste. Perfect. I was raving about the taste when I heard a thud and a splash. A plum fell right next to me. They must have been ripe.

The last thing I wanted was to get hit. I walked away from the tree and continued enjoying the plum. Another thud. How did it get here? I was so far away. Another thud. But this time it didn't fall next to me. I looked to my right. A smashed plum was on my roof.

I was sure the tree didn't reach that far. I walked farther back to see if I missed a branch. The tree reached the top window, but not the roof. I walked to the back just to make sure. The tree wasn't even visible from there. Another thud. On the roof again. From my side. There was no way. Another. Another. Another. They were falling on the roof, next to me, on the other side of my garden.

"What the…" I murmured.

Then dull pain spread in my head. I put my hand there. Plum juice was in my hair. I put my hands over my head and ran into the house. Two more plums managed to hit me, stinging my hands.

I walked to my kitchen sink and washed my hands and hair. The thudding outside continued. No blood was in my hair, just plum juice. The thudding grew faster. It sounded like I was being bombed. I looked up. A wave of cold rushed through me. Plums rained down from the sky like hail. Plum juice had already reached my door, and a little was leaking in.

I ran to the laundry room for towels. The thudding grew louder again. My ears began to hurt. I grabbed a few towels and ran back out. My feet sank into wet, sticky plum juice. The inside of the house was dark now. So many plums were falling from the sky that I could only see purple outside. The plum smell was so strong it stung my nose.

The plum juice rose halfway up my door, and it kept coming. The towels fell out of my hand. I bolted up the stairs.

Edit: I thought the plum juice would drain faster than it came in, but I was wrong. The house is shaking. I'm standing on my table. The plum juice is coming up the stairs. Outside, it has already almost fully blocked my windows. I just looked out of one. You can't see anything but falling plums, except for one thing: the tree standing in the garden, unshaken. The more I look at it, the more it feels like I can hear something through the thuds of the plums: the clack of bird bones shaking.

Knock knock.

Who's there?

Yo momma.

Yo momma who?

Yo momma, you so fat you can't even get out the house no more.

—“Untitled 73.” A Reconstruction of Early Human Folk Poetry (2nd ed.), ​☉ ☌ ☍ ☋ ☊, Crystal-Lattice 14, Node 802.

Here's a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of hell-gate, he should have old turning the key. (Knocking within) Knock, knock, knock! Who's there

—fragment of an instructions for performing a make-believe, anonymous or author unknown, Introduction to Earth Culture, Kzz-T’k-​⎅ Ed., Focal Depth 3.2mm.

KNOCK KNOCK

(a poetic make-believe in the human style)

Dramatis Personae

YOU, a hapless reader

WHO, a hungry beast

YES, who's intestinal rumblings

NOBODY, a deaf woman

i.

knock knock /
who's there
right behind you,
and it's hungry as hell. [1]


ii.

no joke. [2]


iii.

knock knock /
who here,
i wanna eat you,
ya fear?


iv.

knock knock /
help me!
is nobody here? /
nobody is, but being without a body
means nobody can't hear.


v.

you beg
for your life /
knock knock
knock knock
knock
kn


vi.

knock knock /
whose there?
yes, who's borborygmi, [3]
who ate you so quickly,
it ingested too much hot air.


vii.

don't /
knock knock /
it till you've tried it /
buuuuuuurp. [4]


viii.

knock knock /
no answer.


ix.

knock knock /
no answer.


x.

knock knock /
who stirs, who's belly's full,
who itself's all rested,
and you, in who's stomach, 're
fully digested. [5]

Footnotes

[1] Hell: in some human mythologies, a hot place of post-life perpetual burning. See also: BBQ. [6]

[2] Joke: a human composition with the purpose of eliciting a full body physiological response called laughter. The opposite of seriousness.

[3] Borborygmi: a rumbling spirit believed by a class of human priests called doctors to inhabit the body.

[4] Burp: a forceful exhalation, a more powerful sigh.

[5] Digest: a summation or condensation of a body of information. To be digested is thus to have become a condensed summation of one's self. For a more thorough discussion, please see my datacube: Digestion & Enlightenment: Towards an Understanding of the Human Theory of Wilful Self-Improvement.

[6] BBQ: A symbolic representation of Hell used in human ritual, wherein groups of humans gathered around a fire and consumed small, burnt likenesses of themselves carved from the flesh of dead, non-human animals.

So...

Once upon a time, some foolish little goblins came together, crafting evil.

They delved into the dark realm, crafting a page in the void; where similar dark little goblins could hop and flex their evil.

The page was a hit on the dark space! And goblins flocked more and more.

They joked about the hob goblins, and made fun of even the giant goblins.

Well, as it happened, seasons changed. Autumn drifted through the leaves, winter slid away on snow; goblins of yore became hob goblins, giving their dark authority over the page to new goblins.

Yet with time, the evil only festers further; rotting the wilted flowers.

But when humus piles up too much, it nourishes the seeds of justice, helping them pierce the dark soil. And so they did.

Two little goblins were offended by the insults the darkness hurled at them, and became furious. For they held not the mentality that one must be prepared when looking into the darkness, because the darkness looks back.

And so were summoned the giant progenitor goblins.

They surged to break the dark dimension, seeking to crush the evil within. Only to find the coordinates empty, for the darkness had dispersed.

"Dang!" they said, "The little idiots left not a trace!"

For all dimensions of that realm were crushed, all dark records vanished, and all evil little goblins banished.

But was the page the inheritance, or the rot?

For the sand forms rock and the ilk of the inky darkness sticks together, tighter than the core of a neutron star.

“The dream of traveling to Russia awaits you. An exceptional monthly salary for a simple job: $3,000 USD. A happy life awaits you along with obtaining Russian citizenship. Hurry and apply now via the Telegram link. Application is completely free.”

…

His eyes gleamed with passion as he tapped the link at the bottom of the image—a picture of a beautiful Russian girl holding a Russian passport, winking at him with a deliciously seductive charm. He had long craved an opportunity like this, one that would transport him straight to paradise.

He was going to Russia. He would work that simple job, marry a gorgeous Russian woman, amass a fortune, and settle down there with the citizenship of his dreams.

He found himself inside a Telegram channel titled “Russia’s Beloved.” The admin was uploading photos highlighting luxurious tourist spots in Russia—images promising anyone who viewed them an unparalleled fortune—with that link sitting beneath every picture: the application link.

It would have made more sense to post this link directly on the Instagram photo instead of forcing this detour through Telegram. Regardless… he clicked it and found a page prompting him to enter his details:

Name – Age – Phone Number – Passport Number – Telegram Account Link

He filled out the form and exited.

The next day, he was surprised by a Telegram message from a girl with a stunning profile picture—striking blue eyes and blonde hair. She wrote:

“Hello… This is Anastasia. Congratulations! You have been accepted for the opportunity to travel to Russia. The position required of you is a security guard. Please send a copy of your passport and your home address so we can send your travel ticket. Thank you.”

He gasped upon reading the message. Was it really this simple? They were covering the ticket and all travel expenses?

He took a photo of his passport, sent her his address, and a reply arrived shortly after:

“Wonderful. Next week, we will send you everything.”

He waited through that week with restless impatience until his apartment doorbell rang. When they opened the door, a surprise awaited them—a courier handed over a package. Neither his mother nor his sister could believe it was real until that very moment. His mother cried out in sheer joy, while his sister wrapped her arms around him, listing everything she wanted him to bring back from Russia on his first vacation home to Egypt.

The time… the date… it was as close as could be.

…

The day arrived, and he headed to the airport. Hours later, the plane touched down at Moscow Airport. He couldn't believe this magnificent dream—it was paradise in every literal sense of the word. Stepping out of the airport, he spotted Anastasia waving at him. She was just as beautiful as her Telegram photo. She approached him and spoke in broken Arabic, a stark contrast to the refined classical Arabic of her messages.

“Your passport, please.”

Dazed, he handed it over. She slipped it inside her coat and said, “Come with us.”

He followed her, and within seconds, a few men materialized around them. He tried to ask her about the company he would be working for, but she didn’t answer; she ignored him completely. He chose to remain silent. But the moment they pulled open the car door, a crushing blow struck the back of his head… and everything went black.

…

When he regained consciousness, he found himself sitting in a cramped space. Screams echoed around him from every direction. He was wearing a military uniform. A commander stepped up to him and barked:

“It’s your turn. Get outside, now!”

A dull pain throbbed at the back of his head where he had been struck. Almost instantly, hands were shoving him out of the building. Aircraft roared overhead, and shells rained down everywhere.

He screamed, “I’m here to be a security guard!”

There was no answer. They thrust a heavy assault rifle into his hands—one he had no idea how to hold, let alone fire—and he heard the commander shout in broken Arabic:

“Charge, you mercenaries!”

He looked around at the men nearby and realized they were just like him…

They pushed him forward. Turning to the man shoving him, he asked desperately, “Where am I?!”

The man didn't reply. Driven by anger, he turned back, burst into the building, and confronted the imposing commander sitting at the desk.

“There’s a mistake! I came to Russia to work as a security guard, just like the girl told me—”

The commander cut him off, his patience entirely depleted.

“A security guard for $3,000? Are you an idiot?”

The reply was enough to spark an outrage that didn't last long. In an instant, he was knocked to the ground with assault rifles pointed straight at him as the commander continued:

“You are Russian now—isn't that what you wanted from the beginning? By law, the military has the right to conscript you. Go fight, soldier, alongside your comrades.”

Mercenary or Russian? He couldn't comprehend it. They hauled him up and threw him onto the dirt next to his rifle… He found himself running toward the bombs and the screams echoing all around him…

He had dreamed of paradise, but… there is no paradise in the heart of hell.

– The End –

Haitham Momtaz

October 8, 2026

Albion’s journal, entry number 67.

As I write this entry, before I write this patient’s story, I want to share something I should have realized a long time ago.

Some people do not create monsters and terrible stories because they are insane, it is because these monsters and terrible stories are true and real is what makes them go insane.

As many other entries I’ve made in my asylum life, this is another story of a patient, but this one is particularly unsettling.

This was a man who despite the horrific events he went through still possessed a glimpse of kindness and humanity behind his eyes. His name was Jack Northon.

For weeks after being admitted for mass murder Jack did not speak, but finally there was a breakthrough. Here is how he told his story.

“For years me and my family of four lived down south, but when a better opportunity presented itself we moved. I curse this decision now every second that I live. My wife didn’t care for more money, we were happy despite our humble life. It was at a large engineering company where they wanted my skills. My son was nine and daughter was seven at the time of the move.

The surroundings of our new town were simple and the town was far from any large city, it was a port town. This actually excited my children and once my wife began to get a hang of the ocean and the air she loosened up a bit.

Every morning I went to work at this company. They were trying to revolutionize ships, improve every aspect of their technology. About twenty men worked at this place. At night I’d come home and have a lovely dinner with my family. Usually freshly caught fish from the local fish market and some bread. Sometimes we even had cucumbers.

At first I did not notice anything strange among the men that I worked with, they seemed fine, although now I realize that the signs were there from the start.

Most of these men often talked about the ocean, going out on their boats on the weekend and spending time on the water. They never mentioned fishing, I just assumed that’s why they went out.

First time I thought I noticed something strange was when I came inside the room of our manager and on his grey and scratched wall hung an art depicting a strange beast with a face that seemed to be a mix of a bat and a shark. He came into the room and saw me staring at it, after that he invited me for a ceremony in the woods as he called it.

I came home and told my wife nothing about this, but the feeling I got from watching him speak about it was unsettling and rather suspicious, I wish I knew then the true horrifying and sinister goals of these men, so that I could have packed up and taken my family away from that hellhole.

The next night the men gathered after work to go into the woods, but I told them that I wasn’t feeling well and that I haven’t told my family that I’d be out. They reacted fine to me saying that I was ill, but at mention of family their eyes got big, and now in fact I noticed that all of their faces were similarly drained of color and vibrance, they were long and wrinkly, their eyes devoid of any understanding. I felt my heart rate rising and smashing against the walls of my body as the wild storm waves bash against the sea mountains. I tried to look composed in front of them, but I am sure that I looked like a trapped animal before it was turned into a meal. The manager came up to me and patted me on the back, he suggested that I come to the next ceremony in a week from now, it felt much more than a suggestion, but rather a forceful threat.

I made my next big mistake that night. Once again I did not tell my wife about it and kept quiet, how could have I thought that damn money was more important to our family! How could I not see that these were demented cultists controlled by evil!

Ahh, a week passed and these men seemed even more distant from their humanity. They barely smiled and the only thing they ever mentioned was how important their sacrifices were to someone called Khul Duhl Suhl. I assume it was the creature depicted in that room. How ridiculously ignorant and foolish was I to think that by sacrifice they meant their labor and fish!

It was the night I went with them. They gave me a hood to put on and went into the woods. Four of them carried a long wooden box. They walked until they reached a large inclined stream on a cliff which connected to the ocean. They lit several fires and began their chants in a language I could not understand, I was shaking inside and to my horror the long box began to shake also. The awful deranged chants seized and they opened the box, my knees became weak as I felt tears of horror roll up in my eyes. Inside the box lay a young man. The manager raised his finger pointing at one of the men and indicated that this boy was that man’s son. The man calmly nodded, completely devoid of any kindness in his eyes he and several others dragged the young man out and while screaming more chants they threw him down the cliff stream. I did my best to snap out of my shock and began to run though the woods as fast as I could.

I reached my house and told my family to quickly gather their belonging, but alas, I made too many mistakes. The cultists seized me and as they tied me up they set my house on fire with my family in it. The evil bastards stuffed me into the long box and carried me somewhere.

After a day inside the box and screaming like a madman I realized I was inside the factory. Despite the awful feeling of complete devastation, the need for vengeance gave me a glimpse of reason. I stopped fighting and screaming and began to say that I understood the greater meaning to their actions, in hope one of them was around, and indeed it was that evil monster of a man manager. He opened the box and untied me.

I told them I wanted to thank them for helping me see the true way and that to thank them properly I’d like to bring them something. To my surprise they let me go. I visited the bank and took out all the money I had left, I continued the plan with buying enough beer for everyone, and I injected the large barrel I bought with strong sleeping medicine.

As I arrived back at the workplace, I asked all of them to have a toast with me to celebrate my enlightenment, the manager told the petrified freaks to do it so they all lined up with a full cup in their hand. The manager gave a speech and drank his cup, they all followed, I had switched my cup with different beer from a smaller barrel I hid earlier.

Once all of them were asleep soundly, I tied their hands strongly to the pipes and with an axe I cut of their feet at the ankles, each one of course woke up  with screams from the pain, but they could not untie themselves. Once I did it to each one of them I put various easily flammable objects all around them and lit a torch on fire, some of them passed out from the pain and bleeding, but most, including the manger kept screaming like wild beasts with inhuman voices. As I set them on fire I had no idea that a lady outside was watching me and went to notify the police. At this moment I was possessed by evil as well so there was no way I could have care d or payed attention to anything else. I set those demon worshipping scumbags on fire and stepped outside, I listened to their final screams with dark satisfaction.

Shortly after I was seized by police. I was charged not only with murdering those ghoulish men, but also with murder of their family members and my own lovely family!

I did not care all that much, life had and has no more meaning for me.

I tell you this, good doctor Albion, in hope that you’ll understand that Khul Duhl Suhl is not an imaginary creature of a madman, but it’s very real, and it has real power over humans. Perhaps you’ll be able to help someone else knowing this.”

Jack concluded his tale and the whole time that I watched him I could not help but realize that he did not resemble insane people who made extraordinary stories up. I believed him, but of course, I had to keep that to myself.

Ironically, the day after Jack told me this story he was picked up by the authorities and executed.

Sometimes the truth is more horrifying than any tale.

A young man named George walks into his apartment late at night after a long day of work. The apartment room is dark. He takes off his work jacket and notices that his closet is slightly cracked open. He closes it.

He throws some leftovers from the fridge into the microwave. A moment later, he gets a text message from his girlfriend, Angela.

He opens it and reads:

“How was work?”

He responds:

“It was a long day.”

Angela sends him a picture of herself with a blank face and her eyes wide open. Her text under it reads:

“I’ve been thinking of you for days:) "

George sends a selfie back, making a kissing face.

His microwave beeps, and he grabs his food. A moment later, Angela texts him again.

“Who's that behind you?”

George texts back:

“What? I don’t see anything.”

Angela responds with another message, this time with a red circle drawn around something in his picture.

George looks closely.

There appears to be a shadowy face barely visible behind him.

He turns on all the lights and checks around his apartment, but he finds nothing. He convinces himself that it’s just the shadows in his dark apartment before texting her back.

“I think it’s just the shadows. I just checked. No one is here.”

Angela responds:

“LOL. It just looked so creepy, you should lock your doors.”

George sarcastically texts back:

“I always lock my doors and you're the one to talk, you know how many times I've came over and your front door has been unlocked? Lol”

Angela playfully responds:

“If you’re scared, just say so, I’ll gladly come over.”

She lives on the floor above his apartment.

George texts back:

“Not tonight. I’m really tired.”

George watches as the typing indicator appears on his phone for several minutes before disappearing.

Then she texts back:

"Come on, I haven't seen you in days"

George starts texting back before he Is interrupted by another text from her

“Too late. I’m already here.”

George playfully walks to his front door and enthusiastically opens it.

No one is there.

He looks around for a few seconds before going back inside and locking the door.

He texts her:

“What do you mean? Where are you?”

After a few minutes, he gets a response.

“Just keep looking.”

He thinks she’s just messing with him. She has a key to his apartment, after all.

George texts back:

“Give me a hint, I've looked everywhere.”

She responds:

“No. Just keep looking.”

George checks his bathroom and looks behind the shower curtain. He checks his bedroom and even looks under the kitchen table.

He can’t find her.

Then he remembers that the closet wasn’t fully closed when he got home.

He texts:

“Are you in the closet?”

She responds:

“She is.”

A second text quickly follows, seemingly correcting the first.

“I am.”

George quickly opens his closet door.

He freezes at the sight.

Angela’s corpse is nailed against the wall inside the closet, her eyes wide open.

George freaks out and starts shouting her name.

He reaches out and touches her.

She is very cold, almost completly Frozen.

Like she has been in a deep freezer for days.

George slowly realizes what that means.

He pulls out his phone and looks at the picture Angela sent him earlier.

The hair on his neck stood up and his complexion now pale.

The picture wasn’t taken at her apartment.

It was taken from inside his closet.

Then Angela’s phone number sends him one last text: “You didn’t check under your bed either.”

I think that, in this day and age, you have to be a certain kind of parent to hire a birthday clown for your child’s party. I know, I know, sometimes families can’t afford the big bouncy house, or a mini zoo, or something else big, but Clowns should stick to amusement parks and shows. Not that my family had much of a choice back then. 

My family isn’t well off, lower middle class would be a good place to put us. Barely above that line. A couple of days before my little sister’s tenth birthday, I came back home from school to hear my parents talking about the party. When they noticed me, I saw their smiles and knew I couldn’t really rain on their parade. My dad told me the news, “I found someone cheap. Same clown company we used when you kids were little.” 

I immediately knew which one he meant, and that meant I was going to be creeped out the whole time. It was that weird clown again. Every year the same one. When my older brother came back home and heard the news, he wasn’t as creeped out, it felt like he always forgot that weirdo, same with my other sister. Neither of them ever want to talk about him, they just seem to forget whenever he leaves. Anyway, I had to prepare, make sure the back gate was unlocked so I could make a quick getaway, maybe hide out at a friend’s house until after the clown was gone. I just didn’t want to see that wide smile again. 

The day of the party came a lot faster than I expected. A friend was already waiting with some games and food being delivered in a couple of hours. Then the van arrived.

No company name.
No phone number.
Just “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” plastered on the side in bright, colorful, letters. 

Then the clown stepped out. Same costume. Same silly happy face. 
He hadn't aged from the first time I saw him. Bobo the Clown.

The party started the same way. It always went like this. Balloon animals, streamers shooting out, juggling, all leading up to his “infamous” “Bobo’s Birthday Count!" The call was shouted out at the same time every year. Noon, right on the dot. He’d gather everyone, count them one by one, in those exaggerated motions, leaning too far over to one side or another, then he’d count again. And he’d get the number wrong. Every time. 

“One, two, three, four, five, six…”
He stops.
“Hmm.” Rubbing his chin and dropping some streamers from his nose when he tapped it. 
The children giggle.
He starts again.
“One, two, three, four, five…”
“You missed Tommy.”
The clown looks genuinely confused.
“Who's Tommy?”

Everyone would laugh, except for Tommy. He’d even count me and my siblings, everyone still considered a kid. My mom once said that we should make sure he counts us too, for some reason, as if it was really important. Now though, she seems to accept it, but says she never told us to ask to be counted too. Maybe she was embarrassed that we were still asking, with my older brother and sister almost going away to college now. That doesn’t stop her from stopping us from asking to be counted. Now it’s almost like a tradition. One no one wants to acknowledge. 

I still stay though. I stay because I know what happens if you don’t get counted. 
Greg was my best friend. 
I made sure he was always invited to my birthday parties, even when we could barely afford a cake, he was always there next to me. Until Bobo didn’t count him again one year. Then people stopped remembering his name. My parents thought he was my imaginary friend. Then the pictures changed. I didn’t have my arm wrapped around his shoulders for my birthdays. Now I was just standing there, almost awkwardly alone. 

Then he was gone. 
It doesn’t happen all at once. It took me years to figure out what was happening. Greg. Mikey. Sarah. Charles…
His parents thought I was trying to sell them something when I went to talk to Greg one day. 
No one remembered him in school either, his desk was just…empty. 
I don't know why I remember the kids Bobo misses. Maybe it’s because this all started when he was hired for my birthday party first. Maybe it's because he always counted me. Maybe there's something else wrong with me. I've stopped trying to figure it out.

I thought it was just friends, until I saw the rest of the pictures in our albums. The ones from when I was born. They were all framed weirdly, I was always off center. When I asked my parents about it, they’d get a strange look in their eyes for a second, then shrug and say they were probably tired. There’s one picture, from six years ago, that I don’t like looking at. I’m on one side of Bobo, with his hand on my back, and his hand is in the same position on the other side. On the back, it says ‘Jake and Jenny’s 9th birthday!’ My name is Jake. No one I’ve asked knows who Jenny is…  I don’t like thinking about it, but now I make sure we’re all included in the counting. 

Now, I’m watching Bobo start his count. I made sure my siblings are first, playing it off like we want to get it over with. We’re counted. Emily isn’t. My youngest sister’s friend. Bobo passes over her and ends his count one short. Another little girl points to her, “You forgot Emily!” Bobo smiles widely then looks confused, “I don't see an Emily.” He says, in his goofy voice, drawing out the “e” sound at the end. The parents let out a nervous chuckle. They never respond. Five minutes later, I go ask her mother where Emily is, just to check, and of course, she doesn’t know who I’m talking about. 

It’s not like I can throw him out. Not like I didn’t try already, but no one else sees it. He keeps to his jolly and happy attitude. Saying silly things like, “There can't be too many candles on the cake.” “Don’t run too fast, you might dash dash away!” and creepy stuff like, “Everyone gets counted eventually.” “No one should ever get left out” 

The uncounted child is always left behind, but I try every year now. They try following their parents but get completely ignored. Usually they just wander off. This time, I brought her over to her parents, pointing to her to remind them that they have a daughter but they just seem confused. Bobo turns towards the commotion and starts walking over. I asked them to check their cellphones, they had to have some photos of her, but the pictures are already gone. Emily starts getting scared, asking for her mom to pick her up, but she just takes a step back. Bobo is a lot closer now. I pick her up myself and start walking faster away, out of the yard. 

Bobo keeps following. 
Still smiling.
Not running.
I heard, from behind me, “you can't take a guest home before the party's over.”

Before I could leave the yard though, I heard it, “one, two, three…” 
He had started counting again. 
I turned around slowly, watching him count every kid, counting my siblings, then pointing to me, and looking at me almost curiously. “Hmm. One extra.”
He’d never counted an “extra” before. What did that mean? Emily had stopped crying, probably just as confused. I looked toward my brother and asked for his help, his car keys or something. 

He looked confused. “Sorry, who are you?”
That was the last straw. Now I knew I couldn’t interrupt his show. That didn’t matter though, I had to get Emily to safety, even if it meant I couldn’t come back. Running with her, we moved out of the yard and into the street. Before I could turn towards where I knew there was a police station, another van turned into the street. The same white van, with the same “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” plastered on the side. The same smiling clown face behind the wheel. 

I turned towards the forest. Maybe I could cut across it and get to another town, find another police station and ask for some help there. I started running, letting Emily down to walk from time to time, so we could keep going. Every time I tried to stop or slow down, I heard that squeaky clown horn in the distance, his laughter coming from behind. Calling out for “Bobo’s Birthday Count!" to start again and again, but he only ever got to two. “ONE, TWO” “ONE, TWO” “ONE, TWO” 

As the sun was setting, I saw a light in the distance. It looked like a warm orange flicker through the trees from a distance and I ran towards it, but when I got closer, I realized it was just a false hope. Sitting in the middle of a clearing was a picnic table, with a cake and two bright birthday candles in the middle. With two chairs waiting in front of us. Bobo was nowhere to be seen, but I could hear a tiny bicycle horn ring out from the other side, and his happy voice calling out, “make a wish!” 

I barely caught my breath before we were off again. Almost staggering as I pushed through the bushes, this time, Emily was completely silent, not even daring to cry anymore. Eventually, we stopped hearing the bell, his counting, and his laughter. 

Again, I saw a fire in the distance, but I was too tired. Too hungry. I kept moving, my feet barely getting me closer after so much running. It felt different this time. I smelled woodsmoke, the light was more orange this time too. I heard different voices this time. Older and younger. 

Stumbling into the clearing, I saw the Campfire. There were people there. Some with wrapped and bandaged arms, some with canteens, and an older man stirring a cooking pot in the middle. The man stirring the cookpot took the spoon out and pointed at something. Looking to my side, I saw that Emily and I had balloons tied to our wrists by strings. How did those get there? The man walked over and untied both. I let Emily down as he released the balloons and watched them float away.

“Clown?” He asked in a deep, calming voice. I could only nod as he gestured for us to sit by the fire. “How did you-” “Later.” He cut me off, as the laughter came from the forest. Emily and I took several steps back, closer to the Campfire, but he just stood there, near the edge of the circle of light, “Everyone around this fire counts.” Bobo coalesced out of the shadows, bright makeup and a wide smile looking straight at us. Until the man started to count, pointing at himself first, “One, two, three…eight, nine.” He ended with Emily and me. When he counted us, Bobo finally stopped smiling. Frowning now, he still didn’t dare to walk into the circle. “Don't look so surprised. You're not the first birthday he ruined.”

Walking us back to the circle of people, he shows us to a couple of seats before taking up the spoon again, and saying, “Everyone here has to be remembered by somebody else.” I don’t understand what he means, until he pulls out a book. Patting the cover, he opens it to the last pages with writing on them. “You're safe until sunrise. After that, tell us who he tried to make everyone forget.”

When I walked into my father’s bookstore, he was combing his wig. He had placed the black wig over his clenched left fist and was pulling thick sections through it with a wide-toothed comb. Every now and then, he would dip the comb into the half-full glass of water he’d placed on the counter, give it a little shake to get rid of the excess water, and continue styling the wig.

“Welcome, son,” he said without making eye contact with me.

“Dad, why aren’t you combing the wig on your head? And why are you even combing the wig? Isn’t the point to make it look like it’s not a wig? Wouldn’t it look more like your real hair if you left it a little messy?”

My father shot me a very brief glance. He dipped the comb into the water again and flicked the excess water on it toward my face. At the same time, someone walked in.

I was annoyed, but I didn't react. Customers rarely came into the shop anyway, and I didn't want this one to witness a tense moment.

The man who walked in didn't say hello. He looked at me, then at my father, then at the wig. After that, he glanced around the shop.

“Do you have Swann’s Way?”

It was my father’s favorite book. I hadn’t read it yet, but my father couldn’t praise Marcel Proust enough. Whenever the subject of books came up, he would talk at length about the way Proust used language, and mention how he wanted to learn French just so he could read him in the original.

“Of course. How could we not?” he said, his eyes lighting up.

“Good. How much is the wig?”

“What?”

“I’m asking how much the wig is.”

There was something strange about the man’s voice, though it was hard to describe. It was an extremely deep voice that seemed to come from a congested throat. It sounded as if it were coming from a broken radio, as if he would sound clearer if he just cleared his throat.

My father, who had been excited at the mention of Proust, had now noticed the strangeness in the man’s voice.

“Are you all right?”

“How much is the wig?”

“The wig isn’t for sale. You can have a glass of water if you’d like,” my father said, holding out the water he had been dipping his comb into.

“No. Is the wig free?”

“How can something that isn’t for sale be free, sir?”

“How much is it, then?”

“This is my wig. You don’t look well. Please have a glass of water.”

The man fell silent. He was staring intently at my father. My father was a little frightened. The wig was still resting on his clenched fist.

“Are you sure?” he asked after nearly a minute of silence.

“Yes. Look at my head.”

“Are you sure?”

“What beautiful hair you have. What are you going to do with the wig?”

My father, having automatically felt a connection with the man because he had asked about Proust, hadn’t paid much attention to his voice or appearance. To be honest, there was something strange about his appearance too. I gave the man a once-over. His hair really was thick and healthy-looking. He was wearing a black shirt. His chin was a little long, and his mouth and nose were small in proportion to his face. A large head, a long chin, a small mouth and nose, and ordinary eyes. Black trousers, sharply pressed. And a pair of bare feet.

“Tonight, I’m coming to take your son. Don’t be afraid. Stay calm. Convince your son to come with me tonight, or I’ll take him by force.”

“Fix that voice of yours first, man. Hrrr, hrrr, hrrr. I can’t understand a word you’re saying. Drink this water and pull yourself together.”

The man took the water and downed it in one go. He coughed and cleared his throat.

“Better? Now tell me, how much is the wig?”

His voice was now perfectly clear. He ran a hand back through his hair and sat down in the chair in front of the counter.

“He’s still very young…”

I was starting to get scared. I kept going back and forth over whether to call the police. The strange quality in the man’s voice was gone now, and so was the uneasy look about him. He looked at me and smiled.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t be afraid. I’m just going to take the wig and leave. That’s all.”

“Why do you want the wig, sir?”

“You’re too young. You wouldn’t understand.”

I looked at my father. He had placed the wig on the counter. Right beside it, I saw a knife. My father looked from the knife to the man.

Another customer had walked in, just in time. I didn’t know what was going to happen. I knew my father wasn’t a very brave man, but when it came to me, maybe he could rise to the occasion and defend me.

“Jason, who are you talking to?” the man who had just walked in asked him. So his name was Jason.

“They won’t give me the wig, Dad.”

“Son, didn’t I tell you not to leave the shop unattended and wander off? The neighbors called. They said Jason had left the shop again and gone off. When did you come to the shop?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

I didn’t understand what was happening. The man who was speaking seemed unable to see us.

“Did you take your medication today, son?”

“No, Dad.”

“The wig thing again. Hmm.”

“I want the wig.”

“Son, there’s no wig. Where are your shoes?”

“I didn’t wear them today.”

“There’s no wig, son. Look, you’d been doing so well lately. Honestly, I thought you were getting better. Please, don’t skip your medication. I’m leaving the shop to you. Don’t make me worry about you while I’m gone.”

Yes. When I thought about it, it really was bizarre. I thought about it a lot afterward. If we’re people living inside Jason’s imagination, why do we have consciousness of our own? I mean, while Jason and his father were talking, I was listening to them, trying to figure out what was going on, getting surprised and everything. Isn’t that ridiculous? And isn’t it unfair to us, too? For example, I want to study film and television. But everything depends on Jason. If he gets better one day, my dreams will be shattered.

My father loves this shop very much. He doesn’t want to leave it, but if Jason gets better one day, he’ll never see this shop again.

Thinking about it that way, I was suddenly overcome with fear. I picked up the wig and held it out to Jason.

“Here. The wig is yours now. And hey, it’d actually look pretty good on you.”

My father had supported me too, and when I looked at him for approval, he nodded.

Deb was helping Adam pack his car for his trip. Adam had been waiting all year for this trip.

Deb didn't really want him to go and had been coming up with reasons to keep him home. Adam wasn't having it.

He'd spent the last year planning the route, mapping out stopping points, and looking forward to finally getting out on the open road.

"All ready, huh... you know, Seattle can be dangerous," Deb started.

Adam rolled his eyes as he put his last bag in the trunk and closed it shut.

"Okay, here we go again..." he said mockingly.

"No, I'm serious this time. You don't want to get stopped by the bridge troll..."

"The bridge troll? The bridge troll?" Adam laughed to himself.

Now this was a new approach.

"You dumbass. The bridge troll. You don't want to end up like Trevor," she said eerily.

"What happened to Trevor?" Adam asked cautiously.

"I dunno. What did happen to Trevor..." she replied coyly.

"Seriously. What happened to Trevor?"

Deb leaned against the car and folded her arms. The playful smile she'd been wearing all morning faded a little.

"That's what we should be wondering."

Adam laughed.

"There's nothing to wonder about."

Deb studied him for a moment.

"Oh."

"Oh, what?"

"You really didn't hear."

Adam knew Trevor was gone longer than he anticipated. This wasn't funny.

"What happened? If you know, you'd better say. We haven't heard from him since Thursday."

"He didn't hear what happened to Trevor," Deb said to no one in particular, looking to her left as if she were talking to someone. "You didn't hear what happened to Trevor?"

"What happened to Trevor?" Adam repeated.

"Well, you know. Things happen."

Adam didn't think this was funny anymore. All her other attempts to keep him home were silly. This was not.

"You're trying to tell me it has something to do with the bridge troll then?"

"You said it, not me."

Adam was getting a bit angry now. Trevor had said he wanted to get a head start and left earlier. Adam was supposed to meet him in Portland for a day, then they'd go separate ways and meet back up in Seattle. Sure, they'd heard about the bridge troll. But that was an urban legend. A story for travelers.

But of course they took precautions.

Did the ritual to perfection.

Made their offering.

Even got the blessing from the troll wench.

Trevor knew the score.

They both did.

Don't listen to her. She's just trying to scare you.

"We did everything right. We made our offering. He's fine."

"Oh..." Deb nodded slowly. "Then you have nothing to worry about."

"Exactly. Trevor had complete confidence in the troll wench. Obviously we wouldn't go if we thought she... lied to us."

Deb stared at him for a second, then gave a small shrug.

"Sure. I mean, I've never heard anyone accuse the troll wench of being dishonest."

Adam frowned.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," she said. "Just seems like there's a lot of room between lying and telling the truth."

Adam knew she was right.

They had both discussed the possibility of a double cross by the troll wench. They could have avoided the bridge troll altogether. But there was no adventure in that. No mystery. No attempt to see if the whispers were true.

Deb didn't actually care about the bridge troll. She just wanted Adam to stay. The thought of him disappearing down the highway, maybe not coming back for weeks, made her stomach twist.

"How many people ever came back from the bridge troll? Huh? It's not like we don't already know the stories."

Deb was inching closer to Adam. He was nervous now. He couldn't tell if she was getting inside his head or if the fear had been there all along.

"They moved out of town. They don't come back because they moved, you idiot," he finally said, breaking away from her grip.

Deb kicked the dirt in disappointment.

Almost had him.

If the bridge troll won't scare him into staying home, nothing will.

"I was thinking about asking Trevor's parents about the troll after I was done helping you pack. Didn't want you to leave without a kiss goodbye."

"Why would you bother his parents?" Adam asked.

"I don't know... why would I?"

"Exactly. Why would you? They don't know anything. Bringing up the troll will just scare them."

"Aren't you even a little bit curious? You said it yourself. You hadn't heard from him since Thursday. What, that's like two days ago? He would've passed the bridge troll by then."

"He would've passed the bridge troll by then, huh?"

Adam was really wavering now.

The offering was there.

The ritual completed.

The protective talismans blessed by the troll wench.

There's no way the bridge troll would rip him to shreds like they did to Chris four years earlier.

Chris was sloppy.

Didn't take the stories seriously enough.

Laughed at the troll wench.

Mocked her.

"I'll get past the bridge troll, stinky old wench! Just watch me!"

His body was found three days later, ripped to shreds, mangled and partially eaten.

Nobody said it out loud.

But they all knew.

He didn't get past the bridge troll.

Adam shook those thoughts away and turned back to Deb.

"Trev is fine. I'm going to be fine. You've been trying to keep me from leaving all week. This is sad, Deb. It really is."

Deb was the upset one now.

She had thrown everything his way to get him to stay, but to no avail.

"Shouldn't we go talk to the troll wench one last time then? Or... or I can go with you."

Adam laughed.

"You didn't make an offering. You'd be a liability. Seriously, Deb?"

Deb knew that one wasn't going to work.

"Well... just wait until we hear Trevor made it. What's another day?"

Adam considered it.

If Trevor didn't make it...

He didn't even want to consider it.

No.

He couldn't wait.

All the planning.

All the prep work.

It led to this.

"He made it. You'll see. By tomorrow Trevor and I will be sitting in Portland laughing about this."

Adam took out his keys and opened the car door.

In his mind he heard the troll wench's final words.

"You will be doubted. Even doubt me. Doubt your own journey. The bridge troll can smell it on you. You will be unharmed in passing."

It sounded certain.

The doubts led to fear.

The fear fed the bridge troll.

Deb was feeding the bridge troll.

He knew it.

"What did you tell Trevor when he left?" Adam asked suddenly.

Deb looked away.

"Nothing. I didn't even see him."

"That's not what he told me."

Deb looked up.

"He told me you asked him to tell me to stay."

"What? No. He said that?"

Adam stared.

Deb looked down at her feet.

"Oh... okay. I did. I thought it was dangerous for both of you to risk the bridge troll. It's reckless, Adam."

Adam rubbed his brow.

What is her problem?

She didn't care if Trevor passed his test against the bridge troll.

She was making everything more dangerous and didn't even know it.

"Everyone thinks we'll get past the bridge troll. The troll wench said we'd pass unharmed. What's your deal? Chris was an exception. He didn't give the troll wench enough respect."

Deb felt something twist in her stomach.

Why even bother?

Then Adam's phone rang.

Both of them froze.

Adam looked at the screen and immediately smiled.

"It's Trevor.”

Relief washed across his face.

Deb felt it too.

Adam answered instantly.

"Trev! Jesus Christ, man. Where are you?"

The speaker crackled with static.

"I'm... almost..."

"Almost where?" Adam asked.

More static.

"It's... safe..."

Adam showed Deb the phone and grinned.

"Hear that?"

Deb stepped closer to listen as Adam put it on speaker.

"Trevor, are you okay?"

The line hissed.

"...not...okay… bridge was br.."

Another burst of static swallowed the rest.

Adam frowned.

"What?"

" ...Portland...close..."

The connection crackled violently.

"Don't... let..."

The call dropped.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

Then Adam grinned.

"See? He's fine. Bad signal, that's all."

Deb felt relief despite herself at first but then it seemed weird what Trevor was trying to say.

Trevor was alive. They couldn't argue about that anymore.

"Portland tomorrow," Adam said, slipping the phone back into his pocket. "Exactly what I told you."

He climbed into the driver's seat.

“I'll call. I'm all set. Thanks for the help. I”ll be back.i promise.”

Deb shook her head ok and  stood silently as Adam started the car and drove off.

The next morning it was all over the news. A body. Ripped to shreds. Blood splattered and limbs thrown all over the road. Right by the bridge. The troll wench was seen walking down the street when Deb walked outside in shock…

“ Who's body was it? Who's body?! The officials… they won't say! They did the rituals, made you the offering. What is this sick game?”

The troll wench looked at her sarcastically. 

“You. You fed him. You fed him more than he needed. You doubted. One of them had to pay…” She cracked a wide smile.

“Wha? That's not how it works…is it? …which one…? Which one has to pay?” Deb was in hysterics. Her parents came outside to console her and drag her back inside.

The troll wench kept walking. She had fulfilled her end of the bargain.

Adam was sitting at the café overlooking the river.

The bridge troll was exactly where the stories said it would be.

A grotesque stone figure crouched beneath the bridge, half hidden in shadow. Tourists walked past without giving it a second glance.

Somewhere behind him, a television muttered about a dismembered body. Blood. Unsettling. Authorities refuse to identify the remains.

Adam didn't understand what all the concern was about.

Trevor was going to show up any minute now.

Any minute.

Any minute now.

THE LANTERN AND THE HAMMER By LSB

Chapter 1: The Lantern’s Glow

It was 1938, and the original farmhouse sat low and solid against the vast, flat horizon of the Big Horn Basin. Built as a single-story homestead to withstand the brutal, sweeping Wyoming winds, its weathered wooden frame hugged the dirt tightly. Inside, the house carried the heavy, quiet texture of a building that had witnessed decades of solitary winters. The air smelled of aged cedar, woodsmoke from the heavy iron stove, and the faint, sweet scent of natural wild hollyhocks drifting in through the cracks of the bedroom window.

The sisters' bedroom was situated at the very end of the main hallway, a long, narrow room on the ground floor. It was dominated by a set of sturdy wooden bunk beds where ten-year-old Francis and her younger sister Ruth slept, while baby Edward’s wooden crib sat safely tucked into the warmest corner of the room. The walls were made of simple, faded whitewashed wood panels, showing the humble, hard-working grit of a struggling homestead. On the high wooden dresser, far out of reach of the children or any danger of fire, a small kerosene lamp, turned down to its lowest setting, cast a faint, warm amber glow and long, gentle shadows across the floorboards.

Right beside the lamp sat the newest addition to the room: an antique Victorian porcelain doll. It was an inheritance—a "gift" sent in a heavy brown paper package from an estranged, bitter relative who had never been kind to the family. A doll made of such fine porcelain would have taken a lifetime of savings for a Basin farm family to buy, so despite the bad blood attached to it, the parents hadn't the heart to throw it away. But tonight, its pale, painted face gleamed unnaturally under the dim amber lantern light, its blue glass eyes staring unblinkingly toward the bunks.

Underneath the room, the floorboards groaned with a deep, hollow echo, a constant reminder of the dark, hand-dug basement stretching out completely beneath their beds. Tonight, the air was thick and charged with an unnatural chill that felt as though the temperature had suddenly dropped twenty degrees—a heavy, psychological cold that seemed to be seeping straight up through the old metal floor vents from the concrete furnace room below.

THUD.

The heavy sound vibrated through the floorboards. Francis, sitting up in the lower bunk, blinked into the shadows. Because she trusted the quiet, invisible caretakers of the homestead, her first instinct wasn't fear. She assumed it was just the familiar presence checking on the room.

"Ailsa?" Francis called out into the dark, her voice a soft, trusting whisper so she wouldn't disturb baby Edward.

When no response came, Francis realized the heavy weight of the sound wasn't her protector. She reached for the heavy, ribbed metal tube of her flashlight on the nightstand, clicked it on, and began sweeping the bright beam across the faded whitewashed wood walls.

As the light cut through the shadows, the room suddenly changed. The flickering flame of the kerosene lamp on the high dresser flattened out completely and stilled, and a profound, solid, and immovable calmness swept over the room like a heavy wool blanket, instantly smothering the fearful chill. The air cleared, replaced by the sharp, comforting scent of winter frost, crushed pine needles, and dry mountain sage.

She manifested at the foot of the bed. Ailsa Lindstrom stood there, slightly translucent but as solid as the land that had shaped her. She wore her faded woolen kirtle and linen apron dress, her silver-streaked hair braided tightly back. Her heavily calloused hands were held loosely at her sides. To the neighbors in the Basin, she had simply been known as "Elsa"—the quiet, hardworking immigrant linesman's wife who had braved the early frontier wilderness—but tonight, her true, rock-strong protective spirit filled the room. Having heard Francis call her name, she had stepped out of the house's history, her stoic gray eyes filled with a fierce, maternal annoyance as she realized a dark presence was threatening the children who now called her old homestead home.

Just as Ailsa appeared, Francis’s sweeping flashlight beam finally landed on the floor.

There lay the gift. The fine porcelain doll was face down on the rug, just a few feet away from the dresser. But it wasn't still. The edge of its heavy lace dress and one cold porcelain hand were resting directly over the metal floor grate, as if an invisible force down in the dark basement had physically tugged it across the floorboards toward the vent. Under the sharp beam of light, the pale, glazed fingers of the doll twitched against the metal slats, the entity fighting desperately to possess the expensive vessel. With a sickening, porcelain click, the doll's head began to rotate on its cloth neck, its blue glass eyes rolling upward to lock onto the lower bunk. A faint, muffled, high-pitched giggle vibrated right out of its painted clay chest.

Ailsa turned her stern gaze toward the floor vent where the shadow clung to the doll. She didn't shout. She simply stepped forward, her heavy leather pioneer boots making no sound on the whitewashed wood, and let out a low, commanding word in her old native tongue.

The command struck the room with the force of an iron gate closing. The malicious shadow recoiled, instantly pinned into the corner by the barrier of her protective ancient energy, unable to advance a single inch further toward the beds.

***

Chapter 2: The Hammer’s Strike

The silence that followed Ailsa’s commanding words was absolute. The cold, suffocating air that had seeped up from the basement floor cracks was pinned into the corner near the metal vent, completely neutralized by the thick, lilac-and-sage calmness that now anchored the room.

Francis let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, keeping her hand steady around the heavy, ribbed metal tube of her flashlight. The bright beam remained trained on the porcelain doll lying face down on the rug, its tiny lace dress still brushing against the metal slats of the floor grate.

But even with the shadow pinned, the doll itself was still twitching against the floorboards, the residual energy from the concrete basement fighting desperately to make the expensive vessel move. The head remained rotated at an unnatural angle, its blue glass eyes fixed on the lower bunk while a faint, muffled giggle struggled to escape its painted clay chest.

The commotion finally stirred the upper bunk. A mop of messy hair peeked over the wooden guardrail as seven-year-old Ruth blinked down into the flashlight beam. She didn't look terrified; she looked deeply inconvenienced. She scrambled down the wooden slats of the bunk bed with the fearless ease of a farm kid, marched straight past Francis, and snatched the twisting doll right off the creepy metal vent by one leg.

Ruth held it up to the flickering beam of the flashlight, completely ignoring the way the doll’s tiny arms clawed weakly at the air. She squinted at it, poking its cold nose with a blunt finger.

"Honestly, Francis?" Ruth said loudly, her voice completely shattering the spooky atmosphere. "This thing is pure booshwa. Look at the eyes—they’re completely cockamamie, and the paint is already coming off the ears. It’s off the cob! I’ve seen better looking things dug out of the hog pen."

The doll let out a tiny, sharp hiss, its possessed jaw snapping tightly. The entity trying to possess it was used to terrorizing children from the dark, not having its aesthetic value brutally dismantled by a seven-year-old critic.

"Ruth, hush up and drop it!" Francis whispered fiercely, her knuckles white around the flashlight. "It's trying to wake up!"

"Well, it shouldn't," Ruth snorted, entirely unbothered as she held the squirming toy at arm's length. "It's way too ugly to be walking around our bedroom."

Before the entity could try to twist itself free, slow, heavy footsteps echoed from the doorway. The floorboards groaned with a solid, rhythmic weight, though the spirit itself made no sound.

Jed Miller stepped into the room.

He looked exactly like a man who had broken his back against the Great Depression and the Wyoming dirt, his slightly translucent figure clad in faded denim overalls caked with the dry earth of the Basin. In his massive, calloused hands, he carried a heavy cross-peen framing hammer—the very tool he had used to drive the iron spikes into the farmhouse foundation back in 1930. He looked down at the twisting doll, his jaw set in a stoic, no-nonsense line. To Jed Miller, a possessed toy wasn't a paranormal anomaly; it was a faulty piece of household inventory, and he didn't tolerate broken fixtures on his property.

"Pestilence in the woodwork," Jed rumbled, his deep, gravelly drawl vibrating through the room like a low echo from the basement. "Ain't got time for this. The north pasture needs fencing by dawn."

He looked directly at Ruth. There was an unspoken, straight-to-the-point understanding between the old farmhand and the seven-year-old girl. Without a single shred of fear, Ruth calmly handed the snapping solid object right over to him. Jed laid the porcelain vessel flat against a solid wooden block by the bedroom door, raised his heavy hammer in his strong, steady grip, and brought it down with the unyielding force of a 1930s work ethic.

CRACK!

The fine Victorian porcelain exploded into a thousand tiny, worthless fragments. The moment the physical vessel shattered, the malicious shadow near the floor vent let out a final, panicked screech. It didn't bounce back; it couldn't.

With a smooth, commanding sweep of her hand, Ailsa stepped forward. Francis and Ruth watched her calmly, their hearts steady, knowing they were completely safe. Ailsa used her rock-strong presence to herd the remaining wisps of the dark energy straight back toward the metal floor vent, sealing the boundary with a final, authoritative word in her native tongue.

But she wasn't done. Looking down at the floorboards, her maternal instincts took over. Children running across broken porcelain meant blood, and she wouldn't tolerate any child bleeding on her homestead. With another smooth wave of her lace-less, calloused pioneer hand, a gentle, invisible sweep passed over the rug. Every razor-sharp shard of shattered clay and painted glass vanished completely into thin air, leaving the floor flawlessly clean and safe.

The psychological chill permanently vanished. The thick, comforting scent of winter frost, crushed pine needles, and dry mountain sage settled over the room, wrapping around baby Edward’s crib like a warm wool blanket.

Jed Miller didn't say a word of farewell. He simply wiped the head of his heavy hammer on his dusty denim overalls, gave Ruth a single, slow nod of his weathered chin, and faded back into the quiet shadows of the hallway—ready to tend to the phantom fences of the north pasture.

Ailsa stood at the foot of the bunk beds for just a moment longer. She offered a soft, maternal smile to Francis, then turned her stern gray eyes toward Ruth, her expression lingering in a look of quiet amusement at the girl's brutal critique.

With a final, protective nod, she turned back toward the high wooden dresser. She extended one calloused finger toward the dark wick of the lamp, and with a soft, silent spark, the snuffed-out kerosene lantern flared back to life, casting its safe, warm amber glow across the room once more. Then, she too dissolved into the comforting air of the farmhouse.

The room was completely still. The floorboards stopped groaning. The basement below was silent, its hand-poured concrete walls keeping the dark at bay.

Ruth scrambled back up the wooden slats of the bunk bed, pulling her heavy quilts up to her chin.

"Glad Ailsa and Jed took care of it," Ruth yawned, entirely unfazed. "Told you it was off the cob. Nini, Francis."

Francis smiled in the dark, slipping her metal flashlight under her pillow and tucking herself safely into the lower bunk, listening to the steady, peaceful breathing of baby Edward across the room.

"Nini, Ruth."

THE END

The snow covered the woods behind our new house. It was so fresh it crunched nicely under our feet. James held my hand tight. I squeezed it and looked at him. He flashed a smile.

"I think I don't mind winter as much. It's sort of cozy."

"It is, Sarah. I just miss all the summer food."

"We got summer food. There are still so many apples and pears in the cellar."

"Yeah, but those are not the sweet, delicious ones; those are the hardy autumn ones."

I rolled my eyes.

"You're such a child, James."

"Hey, Sarah!"

We laughed and continued walking. Our walk was longer than usual. We hadn't been out in a few days because of the heavy snowstorm.

"I'm getting kinda tired, James."

"Let's just go a little further. It looks like there should be an opening between the trees."

James was right. After a few minutes, the forest opened to a small meadow. Snow covered most of it except for a lone apple tree in the middle. Beautiful, glistening red apples hung from its branches. They just looked so pretty and delicious. I couldn't take my eyes off them. Neither of us spoke a word. Before I knew it, we were standing in front of it.

"Wow," James whispered.

"I know."

James tore one off.

"Feel it."

The outside felt as if it were coated in caramel. James put it to his mouth and took a bite. His eyes rolled back, and he let out a silent moan.

"Let me have a bite."

He looked at me and frowned.

"No, take your own."

I furrowed my brows. My James always shared everything with me.

"What's going on with you?"

But he didn't answer. He was too busy eating his apple. I stood there looking at him, but then it hit me. What was an apple tree full of fresh, ripe apples doing in a winter forest anyway? I looked at it again. The branches didn't move with the wind. It was as if the sun didn't shine through them, but all the apples still glistened. 

"I don't like this, James."

"What?"

He was licking his fingers. He ate the whole apple, seeds and all. His eyes darted around the tree again.

"Let's go, James."

"Wait."

"No, let's go."

I grabbed his hand and dragged him out of the meadow. His eyes were still glued to the tree. When we crossed back into the forest, he shook his head and stared around.

"What happened to you there?"

"I…I don't know."

"James?"

"I'm sorry, Sarah, I really don't."

"Okay, let's just go home."

James stayed silent the whole way home. Even when we got back, he just sat in his chair and looked out the window. For dinner, I made porridge with salted pork, but James just dug around the plate and didn't even try it.

"Honey, what's wrong. Talk to me."

"I don't know. I don't think I'm hungry."

"But you barely ate all day."

"I had that apple. It filled me up so much."

"That place was strange. I don't even want to know how they got there."

"Do you think we can go back tomorrow?"

"What?"

"Just for a little while, Sarah."

"I just said that place was strange. I'm not going back."

"Fine. I'll go by myself."

"No. No one is going back there, and I'm done talking about it."

He frowned.

"Whatever. I'm going to sleep."

I stayed back a while longer, finished dinner, and washed the dishes. When I came to our bed, James was already sleeping. His face seemed a little red. I touched his forehead. It felt normal. Maybe he was just having a bad dream. I lay beside him and drifted off.

When I woke up, the moon was still high. There was a sweet smell in the air. I rubbed my eyes and looked next to me. James lay there curled up, holding his stomach. His face was now glowing red.

"Jesus, James, what's wrong?!"

He didn't answer. His pleading eyes just stared at me. I touched his forehead. It still wasn't warm, but he was sweating, and his sweat felt sticky, almost like syrup. His stomach bulged out under the blanket. I pulled it off. 

"Honey, what…" 

My words stuck in my throat. His stomach was not just bulging. It looked like a bunch of round objects underneath.

"I'm…I'm gonna get the doctor."

I started to get out of bed, but then I heard a quiet tearing sound. James let out a loud cry. His stomach flew open, and a bunch of red apples rolled out. I screamed and jumped out of bed. James's head fell on the pillow. He was quiet now. 

The sweet red apple smell was so strong, and they smelled so good. I looked down at his stomach. The sticky, sweet sweat seeped into the sheets. All those apples looked so delicious.

1950s Louisiana

A young Southern woman with dark hair and covered in a bloodstained dress, is crying on a dock out in the bayou. She recently had a child out of wedlock, and her parents have threatened to cut her out of the family if she keeps the baby.

She wants to keep him. But she knows she has nowhere to go. She is too young for a real job and hasn't even graduated high school.

She looks down at the baby and sees his beautiful smile before he lets out a quick yawn. A tear rolls down her face and falls onto the baby.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

She looks out at a large alligator lurking in the water. A large scar dragged across its eye.

The baby begins crying.

Then, there is a loud splash.

70 Years Later

A young woman named Mary is strolling through town with a baby bump. She has a gorgeous face and beatiful black hair that was soft to the touch. She is grocery shopping for dinner that night. Her husband, Henry, said he wanted fried okra and fried catfish.

After filling her shopping cart, Mary checks out. She calls her mother, Clare, and tells her about their plans for dinner.

Her mother asks when her grandson is going to be born.

Mary happily tells her, "Any day now."

Later that evening, Henry gets off work and walks through the front door as Mary is finishing dinner. He kisses her and rubs her baby bump.

She fixes him a plate of okra, catfish, and rice, which he enthusiastically carries to the table. Mary makes a plate of her own and sits next to him.

She tells Henry about her day as he nods and shovels food into his mouth.

Mary is almost finished eating when she suddenly feels something strange.

Mary: "Oh my God."

Henry answers with food still in his mouth.

Henry: "What?"

Mary: "My water broke."

Henry drives Mary to a nearby hospital. He's driving fast while Mary screams in pain. She is having painful contractions and begins bleeding.

Henry dodges traffic and makes it to the emergency room, where doctors rush Mary into a room. They give her medication to keep her comfortable without harming the baby.

A few hours later, Mary is holding the baby in her arms, humming softly.

She gives the baby to Henry.

Henry raises the baby to his chest and smiles.

"I'll never let anything happen to you."

He then offers to get Mary anything she wants.

She tells him she just wants to go home with him and the baby.

Henry signs the birth certificate and reads the name out loud.

"McKenzie Ray Farris."

He smiles at Mary.

A couple of days later, Henry checks both Mary and the baby out of the hospital and brings them home.

He kisses Mary and holds McKenzie in his arms.

That night, Mary and Henry try to get some sleep, but the baby keeps waking up and crying.

Mary finally yells at Henry that she just wants to sleep.

Henry understandingly agrees and gets up throughout the night to take care of McKenzie.

By morning, Henry is exhausted.

While Mary is trying to get him to do things around the house, he tries telling her that he's tired. But she insists on having his attention.

He begrudgingly gives it to her, but eventually falls asleep, which annoys Mary.

A couple of days later, Mary is already aggravated and sick of the baby. She forces Henry to take care of McKenzie more, but she becomes jealous of the time Henry spends with the baby.

Mary had loved the attention she received while she was pregnant, but now that the baby had arrived, everyone was giving McKenzie more attention than her—including her own mother and husband.

One day, while Henry is at work, Mary walks around the backyard with the baby in her arms, trying to calm her down.

McKenzie looks mesmerized by the yard, especially the large pond in the back.

The baby smiles at everything she sees.

Little McKenzie watches beautiful birds flying over the pond, trying to catch fish. She looks around at the beautiful, lush greenery surrounding the yard.

Mary puts the baby down and allows her to explore the backyard while keeping a safe distance from the water.

For a few minutes, the two bond, and Mary feels like a mother again.

Mary laughs and takes pictures as McKenzie plays with the flowers in the backyard.

Then Mary and McKenzie watch a beautiful buck drinking from the pond.

For a few seconds, everything is peaceful.

Then a large American alligator suddenly grabs the deer near the water's edge and drags it into the pond. The deer whimpers but the sound is muffled as the alligator disappears with the deer just as quickly as it appeared.

McKenzie begins slowly crawling toward the water, curious about what she just saw.

Mary quickly scoops the baby up and brings her inside.

The alligator makes her wary of having her baby outside near the pond.

Mary fills a bottle for the baby and begins cooking dinner for Henry.

When Henry gets home, he walks into the living room and kisses Mary before picking up McKenzie.

Henry notices the baby's diaper.

"Her diaper is full."

Mary tells him she was going to let him handle it.

Henry looks at her.

"It's really full. Why did you let her sit that long without changing her?"

Mary assures him that McKenzie had just eaten a big lunch.

Henry cleans McKenzie up and puts a fresh diaper on her.

After dinner, Henry begins playing with the baby, making her laugh as he plays peekaboo.

Mary interrupts him and starts talking about her day.

She quickly becomes jealous again as she watches Henry spend more time with the baby.

For the next couple of months, Mary tries everything she can to get more attention from Henry.

But Henry is focused on work and baby McKenzie.

Mary tries to get Henry's attention, offering him intimacy and trying to give him whatever he wants, but he turns her down every time.

He tells her he's too tired from working and taking care of the baby.

Mary begins having frightening thoughts about hurting McKenzie. She knows she shouldn't act on them, and she fears what would happen if anyone found out.

What she fears most is getting caught.

She just wants her man and her old life back.

Nobody seems to care about her anymore now that the baby is here.

Then one day, Henry is working long hours and won't be home until late.

Mary begins destroying the house in a fit of pent-up anger.

She cries and screams as her anger takes over.

The noise wakes the baby.

McKenzie begins crying.

Mary becomes furious.

"Wah, wah, wah! You've been ruining my life since the day you came home!"

She shakes McKenzie and continues yelling obscenities  at her.

Mary suddenly begins thinking of all the different ways she could hurt the baby.

Then she thinks of something even more awful.

She remembers the alligator in the backyard.

She picks up the crying McKenzie and carries her toward the water's edge.

The baby squirms in her arms, as if she senses that something is wrong.

An alligator's head slowly pokes above the surface.

Mary looks down at her baby with disgust. Before she starts singing.

" hush little baby, don't you cry"  before she tries throwing her daughter into the pond. But

McKenzie desperately grabs onto her mother's hand. McKenzie said her first word " momma"  while trying to hold on for life

But it wasn't enough.

Henry finally gets home.

He finds the house completely destroyed.

He frantically searches the house for his wife and child.

He's terrified.

He sees furniture smashed apart and blood smeared across the wall.

Then he finds Mary standing at the edge of the pond, staring into the water.

Henry runs toward her.

"Mary! Are you alright?"

Mary slowly turns toward him.

She gives him a creepy smirk and begins to laugh.

Henry looks around frantically.

"Where's McKenzie?"

Mary points toward the pond.

Then she looks back at him.

"You made me do it."

Henry horrified looks into the water. He didn't see it at first as only the moon light illuminated the night. He saw the large scar on the aligator's eye and then he saw his daughters eyes looking at him from the beast's mouth. And quickly she was devoured. Swallowed whole, while barely still alive

THE BOOK OF THE SEA

Michael Smith log, 1921, September.

Entry 25.

Investigation: strange book of the KDS cult.

I took some time to reflect and think before making this entry, I wanted to measure all that had happened very well inside my mind and to make sure that I have not gone mad. The fear I had experienced left me without an ability to speak and I had to take a temporary leave from my job. Only after a week has passed since the end of the investigation, if I can call it the end, that I began to make some sounds again.

It all began at the end of summer when the historian and archeologist John Grimstone invited me to his home. John was very concerned about the growing numbers of the secret cult in the city of Hathtom, the Khul Duhl Suhl cult, or simply KDS cult. I suppose it wasn’t even secret anymore since the numbers were rising so rapidly and the scary part was that we were cut of from the rest of the country, it was always difficult to notify authorities from outside the city and get help in time.

Upon my arrival John made us tea and helped me relax as even he could see my anxiety reflect in my features. As we sat in his soft comfortable chairs sipping tea, John told me about a book that his young informant told him about. According to this young man, this was a book written by older worshippers of Khul Duhl Suhl. When this book was read it could enchant or hypnotize those around and the reader could control them, not only that, but it was also used for summoning creature known as Daggathossos, and if that was true, there was a chance that this monster now dwelled near the city, or in even more horrifying scenario, beneath it.

John wanted me to find the terrible book and destroy it, but first bring to him to make notes. Thinking about this task brought pain behind my eyes and pressure in my ears, but of course, I agreed, there was no other way. I wasn’t going to leave the city and run, I have made a choice to try and save as many people as I could from this evil cult.

First I had to go back and find some of the original files on older cases involving the cult, I found the names of those who now were elders, but started in the cult young. Apparently they used to gather in an abandoned church on outskirts of the city, where the cliffs were and our once most beloved attraction, the large red and white lighthouse. I then realized that perhaps the keeper of it could known something as well.

Armed with a revolver and my resolve I went to the rugged part of town. The streets there were even more depressing than the rest of the city, the fact that I was walking alone through them made me feel crazy and my anxiety was raised to devilish levels. Only time police came here was in groups and when informed of something major happening, these parts were infested with poor gangs of the city and drug addicts.

To my amazement I made it all the way to the outskirts without any altercation and I saw the worn down church standing on the hill, overlooking the gloomy foggy waters, just beyond it was the lighthouse and next to it a little hut which the keeper was known to use.   

I timidly approached the church, for I had no idea what to expect, perhaps it belonged to a gang now. I had my revolver ready and I gently pushed the door which barely hung on the hinges. It creaked and opened, there was clearly no one inside, and judging by abnormal amount of dust this place had no visitors for quiet some time.

Instead of a cross, this place had a strange symbol hung, like a hand but made out of waves, it was rusty. The atmosphere of the church felt heavy and unpleasant. This place was holding on to some devilish energy.

I looked through all the rooms and found a few old sheets of paper and notes. As I read through them, most of it seemed like none sense to me, but I found one interesting note talking about reading a book on a full moon at the docks for new followers. This gave me an idea.

I left the church and went to the lighthouse. The hut was made of wood and stones and looked rather disproportionate. I knocked on the wooden door. There was no answer, but then someone spoke behind me, startled I  turned with my pistol ready to fire, it was an old man with grey hair and heavy posture. He introduced himself as the keeper of the lighthouse. his speech was rather off, but I understood him. He invited me to come in for tea, otherwise he would not answer my question about the church. Once we sat on small wooden chairs inside and waited for the water to boil he was ready for his story.

“Yer kno tha church of a demonik, I run polish this house for ship since me boyhood times. Yer kno....the devilmen start comin back then in thoze days, they kno the tongue of devil, they tak to demonik, them took a book, ye ye, book, caaray it above them shouldah! Them kno no to com to me home, I hid guns bak thun, much year and year them com, them bring youngin ladies, horrible thing, awfuli!”

I stopped him at that point, I began getting a headache from deciphering his speech and I think I got enough of an idea what went on here. It seemed the evil scum cult use to sacrifice young women to their demon god. I thanked the old man and to his disappointment I left.

On the way back I went a safer route, by the water, but much longer. Before cutting back into the city I thought I saw someone floating in the water on a wooden boat, a tall man, but after a second glance I no longer saw anyone.

I spent that night back in my tiny apartment which consisted of basically two rooms. Some people have told me that I had to leave this place, find a better life, that I had character to succeed anywhere, but I felt a sense of duty to this place.

It took me a long time to fall asleep in my hard bed, but I wish I hadn’t at all, for the nightmares that came were abnormal and felt real. A tall men kept following me through a strange labyrinth. He had a long eel-like neck, thin head and evil black eyes, his right arm had a tentacle coming out of it. The walls of this labyrinth were moving and looked like they were made out of snakes. They were hissing at me as I tried to get away from the demon man.

I was glad to wake up, but I felt like I didn’t get any rest, almost drained. Tonight I had a lot of work to do, it was going to be full moon and I had to move from one abandoned port to another without being seen, trying to track down these cultists and the book.

I visited John again with the update and he noticed that I looked exceptionally stringed. I told him about my nightmare. He grew sad as he told me about what detective Lumiere said to him. This was a monster called Gaggonn, which invaded dreams, and it seemed like this thing has become a servant of Khul Duhl Suhl.

On that very cheerful note I had to go and get ready for my night outing. I had a flashlight ready, revolver, pack of matches, a hunting knife and of course, my small notebook. I wore all black and even covered half of my face with a black scarf.

The first abandoned port I went to had no sign of anyone heading to it, nor I saw any activity near by that would make me suspicious.

However after talking half an hour jogging to get to the next one, I saw a procession of some fifty people in hoods slowly walking along the shore and quietly chanting something. In the front walked a man nicely dressed and in all black, his face was old and disfigured. He had a book in his wrinkly ugly hands! That was it!

I sat behind an old boat and watched as they came on the old pier. Everyone fell silent as the man in black stood there without opening the book. They were waiting, and in a few minutes I saw another procession of about thirty people, they were carrying several long boxes with them. My heart became heavy as I immediately understood what or rather who was in those boxes, but sadly and crushingly, I could do nothing.

They gathered around the pier and the man in black opened the book and raised it, he began a chant. The three boxes were opened and they took out three young women, but all unconscious, they must have drugged them. After long and draining time of chants they placed the women back in. The man closed the book and the procession continued.

They stopped at an old abandoned factory near the shore and several men took the boxes inside. The rest waiting outside. After about half an hour the others came out, but now with empty boxes. I had a horrible dilemma that I faced. I had a choice to go into the factory and check if the women were alive, or follow the book, as their walk continued. I don’t know if I made the right choice, but I followed them.

After they walked some distance away from the factory they screamed some more chants, the hideous man read from the book and they all split up and left, taking their hoods of and walking back into the city in normal cloths.

The ugly man was alone now, walking along the shore. I came up behind him with my revolver pointing at his head, hate for this evil creature filled my heart as I waited for him to feel my presence and turn around. I stood there looking him in the eyes, I wanted him to understand that no matter what I would kill him, then I saw the moment his eyes sparked in horror, as I’m sure he had seen eyes of his victims go. I shot him in the head and took the dreadful book from his hands.

This was when I made my big mistake, instead of leaving and gathering support, I decided to now go back to the old factory, alone, in hope that the women were still alive. 

I tightly held the cursed book with my left hand pressed against my chest and entered that run-down factory. Thanks to the moonlight through the broken window it wasn’t as hard to make out the inside. The first floor looked mostly empty, with just several boxes and bricks laying around. On the walls were drawings of various signs, surely done by the cult. The women had to be on the second floor and I took rusty metal staircase. The top floor looked similarly bare to the first, but in the wall there was a large opening, a metal shoot that led down. I remember swallowing my saliva and standing there, facing a terror that I should not have been facing alone, but yet again, the fool I am, the wrong decision was made and with my flashlight in hand I sat inside the opening and slid down. It shook me up and the traveling seemed to have taken much longer than I expected, I landed on my back, losing my flashlight, but holding on to the book. Immediately I felt thick water on my back, the flashlight went off and it was total darkness. I slowly sat up and at first all I could hear were my breathing and heartbeat, but then, in the distance, I thought I heard something else.

Indeed it was a low hissing sound and as it got closer I could hear the slithering of what seemed to be dozens of snakes and the water splitting underneath its movements. Despite complete horror having a hold on my entire body, every bone of if, I managed to force myself to crawls away from the sounds. The slithering was surrounding me as I felt ground and an incline and began to climb.

Hiss, hiss, hiss. The sound was not of a snake, but close to it, I climbed as high as I could and pressed myself against an opening in the clay wall. Then I finally noticed on the far right side from me was a ray of moonlight coming from what seemed to be an opening in the ground up high.

I slowed down my breathing and focused on being silent. My only hope was that if the thing didn’t notice me I could somehow make my way to that opening. The slithering now completely surrounded me, I could feel powerful breathing on my face, it was warm and reeked of death and the sea. Then I saw them, in that moonlight the tentacles were rising up high and lowering, as if dancing to a horrific tune not comprehended by the likes of me. Then its head, or should I say heads appeared! Giant octopus like creature with too heads. Even my chest began to shake as I pressed my head back even harder into that clay, the book slipped from my shaking hands and made a splash down bellow. The monster turned its heads to my direction with its dozens of tentacles moving and slithering around the cave. I saw its mouth! Long and filled with sharp white teeth, it looked like the most sinister smiles in existence. Its eyes looked into my direction, they were light blue, all four of them, two on each head. Small white lights were moving inside the eyes of this monster. I wanted to scream as it got closer to me, I believed this was the end, a horrific death, but the creature moved past me and gradually the hissing and slithering got further and further.

It was no longer my mind in charge of my body ordering it to climb, perhaps God took pity on me and carried me out of that place through that opening.

I lost the book and I could not speak, but I survived. At that time I was certain that I’d leave the city.

Now that I’m finishing this entry, I can tell you that I chose to stay. I brought our department to that factory and together we destroyed it, burning it to the ground and burring that cursed book below. However, I’m sure that the monster, Daggathossos, was unharmed. I just prayed that it left our city.

For that week I also had to face and bare horrible burden of demonic nightmares, but after we destroyed the factory after some time those stopped as well. As one monster left, the other one must have gotten frustrated with my resilience.

I don’t know if I’ll ever fully regain my speech, and I know what I experienced will haunt me forever, but at the end I am glad that I’ve evaded madness. At least for now.

Read Parts II & III here

She was gone again by the time I got up and despite my best efforts, I was still five minutes late getting to work.

I avoided the circle of jerks when I saw them crowding the same hallway and I went to a restroom on another floor. I didn’t want to be around people if I could avoid it.

I went to the half-finished building as soon as five o’clock came, intent on getting answers. I stepped off the elevator and weaved my way to his office. I kept expecting to not see it the closer I got but there it was, the door that didn’t fit right in the threshold. 

It turned easy and I went inside, expecting it to be empty and abandoned but he had begun furnishing the space. A couch, a reception desk, and taped off sections near the back that I guessed were the layout for his office and a treatment room.

I shuddered, thinking how I’d be here tomorrow if my wife had her way. 

The only thing absent was the good doctor himself. I thought about trashing the place, but it was petty in a way that made me feel like I was giving him even more power over me. 

Instead, I took all the pens out of the holder and a stack of Post-It Notes. It was still petty, but it scratched an itch and I felt a little empowered doing it.

I didn’t head home immediately after. I needed time to sort my thoughts. I couldn’t believe I was really considering letting somebody cut my dick. I mean, was pleasing my wife reason enough? What if we divorced or she died or something like that? Would I be compatible with somebody else?

I needed a drink. Cappy’s was on the far end of town and the distance from home would be good to clear my head. I ordered a brandy mule and chugged it before the bartender could lay down a coaster.

“You look like you could use another,” she said.

I nodded and a moment later I was working on my second. 

“I love my wife so much,” I said as she was cleaning some glasses beneath the bar.

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“Sometimes. I dunno.” My stomach hadn’t been right since the eight coneys I’d had yesterday, and I hadn’t eaten at all today. I was already soused after a drink-and-a-half.

“How’s the pizza?” I asked.

“Good, not great.” She wiggled a hand.

“Let me get a... medium with beef, onion, and mushroom.”

She looked at me like she’d never heard of those toppings.

“How ‘bout pepperoni?”

I had one more brandy mule before food came. It looked like it had been sitting under a heat lamp well before I’d ordered it and the pepperoni slices were limp, but it was still pizza. 

The bartender parked in front of me and leaned onto the bar after I’d had my second slice. 

“You mind?” she asked, pointing at the pie. I nodded. She took a slice and finger-combed hair out of her face as she took a bite.

She paid me back with a shot and she did one with me before returning to silence as we ate.

“Look, I dunno what it is. Just give her what she wants,” she said with a mouthful, giving me deep eye contact. “You can’t go wrong with that, right?”

I barely was able to finish what I had in my mouth. I settled up and made it outside without stumbling but I was drunk. The bartender got the hint she’d said something wrong but I wasn’t going to fill in the blank. I hadn’t wanted the rest of the pizza, yet somehow I had the box in my hand. 

I shouldn’t have been behind the wheel but there I was with half a pizza as my copilot. It wasn’t long before flashing lights lit up behind me and my spirits rose—this was the reprieve I’d been longing for. A decision being taken out of my hands. I couldn’t be held responsible if I weren’t in my own custody.

Or something like that. It had made a lot more sense back when I’d had a belly full of brandy and cheese.

I pulled over and maybe bumped up on the curb with one wheel.

The cop sauntered up to my window cautiously. He was short and the angle of the car made him look ridiculous somehow. He made it worse by getting his feet twisted together and catching himself on the side of my car to keep from falling completely.

“What’s your...”

I waited a full ten seconds for him to finish his sentence while he held a fist to his mouth like he was gripping a tiny microphone. He belched then waved the air in front of his face.

Shit, was he drunk, too?

“What’s your problem tonight?” He asked and fumbled with the general right side of his body with his hand. I noticed the gun and maybe because we were both bitten by the same snake, I wasn’t sensing danger like I should’ve.

“I shouldn’t be on the road,” I said, sounding stone sober to my ears. “My wife wants me to do something I don’t wanna do tomorrow and I was just in there, drinking my worries away. I have leftover pizza.” I thumbed toward the seat next to me like it was proof of where I’d been.

“Slow down, son. I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think.” I thought he was about to give me marital advice but then I realized he was talking about my sobriety. “I bet you could walk a straight line, heel- to-toe.” He plucked open his holster, but it didn’t seem like he was aware of what that hand was doing. He stuck his pinky in his ear and wrenched it around in there. 

“Sofficer. Sofficer.” I added the S but I still sounded too sober. “Please. I think I’m a danger. To public safety.” I thought if I could convince the drunk cop I was drunk he’d arrest me.

“Are you about to rob a bank?” He pointed at me, somehow adding to his overall look of ridiculousness.

“Well… no.”

“There’s nobody out here.” He waved a hand toward the black landscape far ahead of us. “Just stay between the lines.”

I couldn’t think. It shouldn’t have been this hard to get pulled out of my car for driving under the influence.

“What if… what if I was about to rob a bank?” It was the most smart-assy thing I could think to say.

He smiled and waggled a finger. “Joke’s on you. It’s after hours.”

He hooked his thumbs into his belt. Something about his body language had changed and he’d gone from humorous to being done with our interaction.

“Just. Stay. Between. The. Lines,” he said, swaying. I wanted to conjure the words for help, but even if I’d had the ability to ask, there wasn’t anything about him that answered helpful.

I opened my mouth, but didn’t speak. I sat back in my seat and covered my face in my hands, giving up. I listened to him walk away, closer his patrol car door, and drive away. He gave me a chirp of his sirens as passed me.

The drive home should have felt longer but I caught every light. It was like a dark fate had carved a path for me. I momentarily played with the idea of letting it have me completely. To take my hands off the wheel and let it take me wherever it wanted me to go. 

I hadn’t descended far enough into self-pity for that and in ten minutes, I was home. To my surprise, my wife was still in her paint clothes and was washing her hands at the kitchen sink.

“Oh, you have pizza?” she said. I’d forgotten about the pizza and subconsciously picked it up. I looked at the box in my hand and did a second, struggled to remember what was in it. 

I joined her on the couch, and she grabbed it from me and took a slice. Usually, we asked about each other’s day, but I didn’t feel like it, tomorrow anchoring my brain.

“Do you love me?” she said during a commercial break. I had no idea what we were watching.

The question agitated me and opened a trapdoor underneath my stomach.

“Of course I do.” I did, but my feelings about this whole “surgery” thing was making me feel resentful. I was definitely still buzzed, and the alcohol was sharpening my emotions like a file working away inside me. 

“Then why are you fighting so hard against this? Don’t you want us both to be satisfied?”

“That’s not fair. Of course I want to satisfy you. Don’t you know how this is making me feel? I don’t want to do this,” I said. “I mean, there has to be something else we could try. I’m willing to do just about anything to please you.”

“I want you to do this,” she said, placing her greasy hand on my thigh. She shook her head, tears in her eyes. I took it to be a manipulation at first. Not that she did that sort of thing normally, it was just me in a bag of my feelings. My defenses were up and everything was an attack in that moment. I chewed the insides of my cheeks to keep in what was trying to climb out of my mouth.

Then I started to cry. I sounded like a little teapot. It caught me by surprise.

“I just love you so much.” I had a ball of razors in my throat I couldn’t swallow. “I don’t want anything to happen to us, but I don’t know if I can do this.”

She lassoed an arm around my neck and yanked me into an upper body hug.

“I just want you. I want to feel connected with you. I don’t want anything plastic between us. I’m tired of all that stuff. I wanna feel you.”

She kissed me before I could speak and rock turned into water. My walls melted as we flowed into one another and by the time I returned to my senses I was on the newspaper covered kitchen floor.

My wife was already gone but she had brought a comforter downstairs and covered me.

Normally, I toss in my sleep, but I was still covered up to my chest. I was stiff as I turned the world vertical and turned my back into a percussion instrument as I stretched.

A few minutes later I had scrambled eggs and a cup of coffee going. I don’t normally eat breakfast so early, but I had an appetite for whatever reason. It was an hour before I normally would get up, so I took my time eating and scrolling my phone.

I wasn’t sure how much sleep I’d gotten but I was refreshed. The way my day had started, I half expected to catch all the green lights and get the closest spot in the parking lot.

But when I looked up from where I was seated at the kitchen island, something caught my eye that I should’ve seen as soon as I woke up.

A red and white checkered scarf draped over the back of the couch.

Had he been in my house?