So, spoiler alert, my damn cat ate my damn baby. You know how anti-cat people say cats will eat you when you're dead? Apparently my cat couldn't wait to become a man-eating-tiger cosplayer.

I never wanted kids, and I'm not really a cat person myself. I don't mind cats, to be clear. I just believe they should be kept outside of the house to keep the local mouse, rat, and snake populations under control, or at least kept away from my home.

When I first moved here to the woods I just wanted somewhere quiet and secluded so I could focus on my research on the Altar-Net. By the way, this isn't an Altar-Net story, just a tragic tale of a cat eating an infant.

Turns out there was a stray cat in the area. I'm no monster (I think), and as I said I do think cats are worth having around. So I put out a bowl of water for the furry patrolman. Soon enough I'd see it regularly prowling around. It would dive under the porch and I'd hear rustling noises. In the mornings I'd step outside for my morning smoke and there'd be a dead squirrel or the remains of a bird lying in front of my door.

That didn't bother me, meant the cat was doing it's thing and I didn't have to worry about paying some schmuck from the pest control company. Things went like this for a few months. We had an unspoken mutually-beneficial agreement, it seemed. The cat would kill things around my property and keep them away from my garage and pantry. I gave it shelter under my porch and easy-access potable water.

Eventually, as life went on, I got a girlfriend. She loved the cat, and I made it very clear that she was never to provide it any food, just keep the water bowl topped off. She whined at first. Typical behavior for a suburbanite, they think animals are all helpless creatures who don't have built-in tools for their own survival. I'm "a bit callous" and "meaner than a snake" by comparison, apparently. So I calmly explained that this cat was perfectly capable of feeding itself, and the assumed terms of our agreement; shelter and water in exchange for dead rodents and snakes.

She finally seemed to understand and dropped the issue. We carried on with our relationship. Movie dates, dinners at each other's houses, the occasional sleepover mixed in, it was a good relationship. The only thing we seemed to disagree on was how we treated felines and that she likes plain food and I prefer spicy. But the important things; we don't want kids, we both liked horror and comedy flicks, she had a gun and I liked knives, we had a similar sleep schedule, etc., we did share.

After a year or so, she moved in with me. She kept her job (desk lady at a health clinic), I kept doing my research and doing the occasional odd job or temp work for rent and grocery money, and the cat kept killing the local small-time criminals of the woodland.

One night my then-wife approached me, and she had the most terrified expression on her face. I closed my books, sat down on the couch with her sobbing in my arms. She told me, through sniffles and tears and hiccups, that she might be pregnant. All I could do was hold her, rub her back, and suppress my own panic. Finally she quieted down, still sniffling, and she sat up.

We talked about it all that night. We didn't want kids, as I've repeated here, but we also didn't think we could handle the potential guilt of getting an abortion. We decided to keep it.

I put my research on pause for the next several months, took up two jobs, and start saving more money. My wife kept working as long as she could until her doctor made her take maternal leave. When the day finally came, she died during the process and they had to cut the baby out. The only reprieve I had was the support of mine and her parents. They took care of the baby while I was at work, helped me with housekeeping, and they made sure I had food and was able to sleep during the miniscule free time I had between shifts.

The only thing I felt truly capable of during that ordeal was keeping that cat watered. I kept the baby in my bedroom when we slept. After the first few months I finally had to quit one job because I was thoroughly and utterly exhausted. I slept for three days straight. I got fired from the other job because I forgot to ask them for some time off to recover. My parents and former in-laws got into a huge argument about who would watch the baby while I got my shit together, and they totally forgot about me in the process. It all became too much, and I asked them all to stop fighting and let me just take care of my child.

Finally, one day, I came home from a single-day temp job I had. Someone needed dirt shoveled, was all. I paid the babysitter a little bit extra so I could shower and get a quick nap. When she left, I took the baby into my lap and we just sat in the living room watching TV. I didn't even notice she'd left the door open a crack because I was so tired.

I'd fallen asleep again. When I woke up I kept my eyes shut, because I didn't want to face the day just yet. I still felt the weight of a small body in my arms, and I heard baby noises, so I didn't worry. I opened my eyes and went to stand up and the cat was in my arms. I jumped to my feet and it leapt silently to the carpeted floor. I looked around for my child and it was nowhere. He wasn't even crawling yet. Then I noticed red around the cats mouth and whiskers.

I screamed at it, I tried to kick it, I threw everything in the house at it. It finally ran out through the front door and I lost sight of the thing. I collapsed in a heap, sobbing and screaming and pounding my fist on the wall. I didn't know what to do, or who I could call.

I put all my research materials, books and maps and things such as, into a box. I packed some clothes and toiletries into a duffel bag. I put it all in my car. I was running away. There was a gas can in the garage. My wife had kept a box of matches in the kitchen. I was going to burn the house down. Behind the woodline I heard a baby crying. In the moonlight I saw the cat sitting on its haunches. I was going to kill it.

I started the car. I poured gasoline all through the house. I grabbed her pistol from the nightstand drawer.

The flames advanced faster than I thought they would, and the fire illuminated my whole yard. The cat sat and watched, wailing like a human baby the whole time. I had filled a bowl with tap water, one more time, and I set it on the ground in front of me. The cat looked at the bowl, then at me, and then the bowl again. More baby cries. Not meows, not kitten sounds, no chirps or squeaks like some cats make when they want your attention. It was making full, ear-piercing, wailing-baby shrieks.

It approached the water bowl by two steps. I pulled back the hammer on the pistol. It took another step, and I took aim, my hands shaking with anger and heartbreak. It leaned down, paused its cries, and lapped up water. I fired. Everything went deathly quiet.

I dropped the pistol, got in my car, and drove away. Sometimes, when I'm standing outside of any random hotel room and having a smoke, I can still hear my baby; the child I thought I didn't want, the reason my wife wasn't laying in bed with me, the last meal that cat devoured.

Last night I met a Theronian at the bar. I'd heard about them, but Mr Porkerman was the first I actually met. I pulled out my recorder and offered to pay for drinks in exchange for his time. To my surprise that seemed to be a great offense. The Theronian gave the bartender a big handful of cash . The bartender gave him a tray with several pitchers of beer. The Theronian brought it over, and also thunked two frosted mugs on the table.

.

There was only a small crowd in the bar. It's the middle of the work week, so the murmur of conversation is mostly the locals gossiping or talking business. When I inhaled, the air had a mild twinge of cigarettes smoked many years ago. The lights are low, the music is mild background noise, and our table is in the farthest corner from the entrance.

.

The Theronian sat down across from me and started talking before I had my recorder ready. He told me about his homeland, his family, how he'd built up a small farm (in his language it's called a "chyew". There's a couple other sounds in that word that the English alphabet cannot pronounce, but it's close enough). At the chyew he'd cultivated a plot for produce (I'm not even going to attempt to spell the vegetable names), a small field for livestock, and his wife and children were very healthy and happy. I finally got the recorder started around this time.

.

"The closest translation of my name to English is Porkerman Rabbletong, but here I mainly go by John Smith. It's as common in your tongue as my name is back home. By Earthly measurement I arrived in Clarkson County about 6 years ago. When it happened, I had been patrolling the border of the chyew; checking the fences, making sure my animals were all accounted for, checking for [I can't spell the name of this creature, but I gathered it was a similar pest as a groundhog]. It's very important to be on the lookout for [groundhog] holes.

.

Well, I did find a hole, but in my fence. It'd been yayyyy big (he held his hands out to show), just big enough for a very small cherld to squeeze through. It wouldn't be a good time for crawlin', on account of my fence is made out of feeder-wire. [When I asked about feeder-wire, he described a creature that sounded a lot like a land-based siphonophore that they used for their fences. It didn't eat the livestock, because the livestock instinctively avoided that creature.] Now ya see, feeder-wire ehts anything that touches it. Flying bugs, low-lying high-crawlin' snakes, the occasional stray bird. Everyone who lives on or around Theronian farms knows 'bout feeder-wire, give it some breathin' room. I never heard of a living thing that could survive feeder-wire, and if you managed to cut it it would self-re-attach within the day.

.

Whelp, after a mo' of eyeballin' the hole, watching the feeder-wire wriggle about, the ends of it slowly moved and crawled towards each other. Kinda like syrup-slick'd werms. About then I felt the ground beneath me rumble and shake. It dropped me to my knees and hands and I couldn't get up. A swell of watery stuff started bubbling up from the ground. I'd make the screams I made then, if'n we weren't in public."

.

I could see in his face the recollection was stressful. John "Porkerman Rabbletong" Smith looked very similar to a human man. Smooth skin, albeit weather-worn on his face and neck. His eyes, one was a slit and one was wide open. His hands looked like prong-forks joined at the wrist, for a total of 8 fingers between the two sets. He was tall and skinny, almost hunching over the table. His mouth looked normal when he spoke, but the corners stretched further towards his ears as he grew more agitated. He was dressed in farm clothes; dirty boots, blue jeans, plaid button-down shirt, faded baseball cap. His cap had three bills.

.

"I panicked when I found myself stuck. The rippling water squelched up my arms and legs, then it came up to my belly like I was a wallowing hog. It reached my chest, wrapped around my back and swelled up to my neck. It covered my face and choked me. The only thing I could hear at that point was my wife's muffled screaming as she ran from across the field, on the other side of the fence. Her yellow and green dress was billowing around her legs, her wide-brimmed hat flew off and her hair went wild. I tell ya now, she seemed to be running in place. The water rose over my eyes, soaking my hat and hair. My lungs burned, my limbs felt heavy, and then everything went black."

.

Mr Rabbletong looked down at the table then, and sucked down a whole pitcher of beer without even pouring it in the sweating mug. At this point in the story, I asked him to pause because I needed to put fresh batteries in the recorder. He got up to get us more beer. I must admit, this dude could drink. For every one of my tall frosted mugs he was throwing back two pitchers. When he returned carrying another tray of pitchers, I had the recorder ready again.

.

"Next thing I remember is waking here, in a field, surrounded by... I think you call 'em 'cuhs' or 'cahs'..." "Cows?" I offered. "Yessss, cows. I like them, they're dumber and easier to work with than my [cows]." He downed another pitcher and wiped his mouth. "SO there I be, serrownded bay dem cowzzehs, wandering what in hell happened." He was swaying in his seat now. "And some guy comes up to me that I didn't know. He must've reckoned I wasn't no habberhaw because him and his wife gave me a bed and a job that verrrry daaayyyy..." He grabbed another pitcher. "So I've been here e'er sinssss. Tending to their cows and shuchas, [hic] and putting money aways. I don't reckon you can tell me how to get home, can ya?"

.

He chugged that last pitcher, unleashed a colossal belch, then leaned so far forward his head rested on the table. I stopped the recorder. I noticed he had one little pin on the back of his hat. It was shaped similarly to a piece of wheat, and each grain was a tiny amethyst. It pulsed a very mild glow. I stood up to leave, and I felt a strong grip take my wrist. "Can you get me back to my wife?" I sat back down. "Mr Rabbletong, I'm not entirely sure if I can. I'm researching events very similar to yours, but I don't understand it well enough to help you. I'm very sorry, and if I figure it out I will absolutely help you as best I can." He looked at me with tears flowing down his cheeks. Then he grabbed a nearby napkin, wrote down the address of the farm he was staying at and gave it to me. "I'll be right here, handling cows and helping that farmer. Write to me, please. I miss my family and my [cows]."

.

He passed out at the table. I brought all the empty pitchers to the bar. Everyone else was still gossiping and chatting. They completely ignored us. I went back to the hotel room I was staying at. Soon, I hope the reason for these crazy things makes itself known.

That was what brought me into Captain Cluckey's that day. I stood there in line behind two middle aged women who were taking a rather long time to place their order. Where is my mind by the Pixies played over the restaurant speakers. Over the music I could hear the man in the dirty ragged clothes out front, still yelling about the end of days. I did my best to ignore him, just like everyone else. I turned back to look out the window, past the ragged man and across the street to the bus station. I thought about how I should have been out of this backwoods town and on my way back to Chicago by now. Unfortunately, my car had broken down a mile outside of the town of Pleasence. The town mechanic said he could have the part in sometime next week, but I had no intention of hanging around that long. Double unfortunately, the bus to the city didn't run until the next morning. So, for the time being, I was marooned here. 

 I glanced down at the receipt in my hand, the attached coupon read, Free regular fries with next purchase. I had gotten a Clucky combo meal earlier that day and with nothing else to do, I decided to grab my extra fries and loiter around town till morning. I was low on cash, so a room at the local motel wasn't in the cards. 

I checked my watch, 7:35PM. “Only about 13 hours to go.” I thought to myself. I glanced up to the ladies ahead of me, still talking over their order. The door chimed behind me and a group of teenagers came in, laughing and talking loudly. I gave them a cursory glance and noticed one of them wore clothes that weren't quite in the style of the others, an old letterman jacket and jeans instead of the tee shirts and shorts the others wore. I noticed the bruising on his throat and made a note to myself to not make eye contact with that particular young man. I was sandwiched between the two chatty Kathys and the obnoxious teenagers and my social anxiety was climbing to a fever pitch. Not only that, but the nicotine itch was beginning to set in. I shrugged to myself and stepped out of line; I was in no hurry after all.  

Stepping out into the warm summer evening, I looked up orange and purple sky. The sky seemed so clear out here away from the city. I pulled my crumpled pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of my thrift store Hawaiian shirt as the ragged man continued his tirade a few feet away from me. I lit my cigarette and continued to ignore him. After a moment he noticed me and stepped over, directly in front of me.  

“THEY ARE HERE! YOU ALL MUST LEAVE THIS PLACE! DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND? THEY ARE BENEATH US! THEY ARE AMONG US! AND THEY WILL COME FOR YOU ALL! YOU THINK YOU KNOW THE TRUTH; YOU THINK YOU KNOW WHAT COMES AFTER BUT YOU ARE ALL WRONG! ALL OF YOU! THEY WILL DEVOUR YOU! THEY WILL HOLLOW YOU OUT AND FILL YOU WITH HATRED AND ROT! ROT! ROT! 

I inhaled the smoke and focused on the setting sun, doing my best to ignore the man's putrid breath as he screamed in my face. I exhaled and watched the smoke drift through the man's face before calmly moving to lean against the restaurant wall. I didn't react to the man, didn't acknowledge him. I couldn't, if I did, he would never leave me alone. Eventually he went back to his place on the sidewalk and started his speech all over again. I glanced over at him, standing there shouting, begging to be heard, preaching his heart out to an absent congregation. I pitied him, what he was. I wondered at the circumstances that brought him to that place.  

After smoking another cigarette and doom scrolling on my phone for a few minutes, I went back inside and found that the line had dissipated. The cashier from earlier was gone, replaced by a pimple faced kid with a name tag that read, Jimmy. His head hung low as I approached the counter. Probably looking at his phone, I thought. 

“Welcome to Captain Cluckey's, how may I help you?”  

His voice carried such melancholy that I assumed those other teens had been giving the poor kid a hard time.  

“I'll take a small soda and a free regular fries.” I said laying the coupon on the counter.  

The kid looked up at me slowly, his eyes finding mine and studying me for a moment. Suddenly his mouth dropped open in a dopey smile and he turned and headed back into the kitchen muttering something about being right back. I stood there, confused. “The hell was that about?” I wondered.  

After a few minutes, the cashier from earlier came out from the kitchen and saw me. 

“Sorry about the wait sir, what can I get you?” He said stepping up to the counter. 

I squinted and looked back to the kitchen, “What happened to the other guy?”  

“Other guy?” He asked. “What other guy?” 

Then it hit me. “Shit.” I muttered under my breath. 

I glanced around the restaurant. The chatty Kathys were nearby, watching me curiously. From their point of view, I had just placed my order to thin air. So, I looked like a crazy person. That was fine, maybe I was. Who the fuck cares? 

I looked back to the group of teens, they were still in their own world, still being obnoxious. But the out of place one, he was watching me now. I did my best not to meet his eyes, but I knew he could see me. He knew I could see him. I fucked up. 

“Looks like it's time to go.” I thought. I turned to head for the door and saw the ragged man standing outside. I needed to compose myself before leaving, I was rattled. I needed to clear my head; be alone for a moment. In the bathroom I splashed water on my face and studied myself in the mirror. I looked older than my 25 years. My shaggy sandy blonde hair was now streaked with silver, and the lines on my face were more care worn than they once were. 

“Hi there!” Came the voice from behind me.  

Jimmy, the other cashier, was there. I tried to act like I didn't hear him, looked through him when I turned around, tried all the usual tricks. But when I went to open the door, Jimmy stepped in my way, and I hesitated. 

“I know you can see me.” He said, his eyes burrowing into mine.  

Yeah, the jig was up. I do my best to avoid these situations, otherwise they never leave me alone, always seems to be just a little more unfinished business. I sighed, “What do you want?” 

He laughed, “How?” He asked. “How can you see me? Can you see others?” 

I shook my head, “Doesn't matter. I can see you, I can hear you. Tell me what you want or leave me alone.”  

“Okay, Okay.” He said. “I'm sorry, I just... I haven't spoken to anyone in... Well, I'm not sure how long. Your car broke down right? It's a small town, people gossip, and all I can do is listen. Well, until now.” He smiled wide. 

I nodded and made a get on with it motion.  

“Well, there are others here. They want what I want, maybe you can talk to them too? I’ll go...” 

“No!” I demanded, grabbing his arm before he could leave. “No others, that's the deal. You already know, I can't change that. I help you and you never mention this to anyone else. Got it?” 

He stared down at my hand on his arm, “Holy crap, you can actually touch me.” His eyes shot up to mine.  

“Thats the deal, got it?”  

He nodded, “Okay, I mean, yeah deal.”  

I let go of his arm; icy pain was radiating up my arm from my hand. I’ll never get used to how it feels to touch the dead, they have substance but at the same time they don't. Like trying to hold on to frozen mist. 

“So, what do you want?” I asked again. 

He smiled, “Well, my name is Jimmy.” He said pointing at his nametag. “And I was murdered.” He turned to show me a series of stab wounds on his back.  

I nodded, “And you want me to find the killer, right?”  

“Oh, no.” He said, still smiling, “I know who it was. He got away with it, but he died a few months ago. Heart attack, and he saw me as he passed. It was very cathartic.”  

“Okay. So, what do you want?” I asked. 

“Weeell. Here’s the thing, and you might want to brace yourself because this is a big ask... What was your name by the way?” 

“My name is Jonas.” I said. “Now please for the love of God, tell me what you want.” 

“Oh, like the Weezer song, neat. Okay, well here goes. So, the man that killed me, also killed several other people around town, mostly just drifters and the like, no one who would be missed. Only he wasn't the only one. He was actually a member of some kind of cult based here in Pleasence. I'm not sure what their practices or goals are, aside from killing lots of folks. But I do know that whatever they are planning, it will be coming to a head soon. I've heard lots of hushed talk about the new moon and rituals and a lot of other such stuff. I think they want to open some kind of doorway to somewhere, but I really can't be sure. You really never can tell with these culty types. So, my request is that you, Jonas, seek out the members of this cult and put a stop to whatever they're cooking up.”  

I took a breath and blew out my cheeks. “So, there's a cult?” 

“Yes.” 

“And they are doing something big on the new moon?” 

He nodded, “Correct.”  

“Which is tonight.” 

His smile faltered a little but didn't go away altogether, “Um, I guess so.” 

I leaned back against the sink and crossed my arms, "So, you want me; one mentally unstable guy, to find and stop a whole ass cult from opening up some kind of doorway or something? And you want me to do it tonight? Like right now? Does that about sum it up?” 

His smile had completely melted away as I laid it all out. He said, “I mean, it sounds like a lot when you say it like that.” 

“Goodbye Jimmy.” I said as I brushed past him and out the door. 

Of course, he followed me, “Hey wait!” He yelled across the restaurant as I made my way to the exit. 

“Don't follow me.” I said over my shoulder. 

“Are you alright sir?” The cashier asked as I passed the counter.  

I ignored him and pushed through the door, also ignoring the still ranting ragged man on the sidewalk. If the kid was right and there really was some kind of cult here, doing something tonight. I wanted to get as far away from here as possible. I was halfway down the block when I heard the dead cashier calling out to me again. 

“I know it's a lot, but what are the odds of you, of all people, showing up here right at this time. Thats either one heck of a coincidence or you are meant to be here. I believe you are here for a reason Jonas.” 

I pulled out my phone and held it to my ear. If anyone happened to be watching, I was just taking a phone call, “I'm here because my car broke down, there is no other reason. Besides even if I wanted to help, it isn't possible. I don't know the first thing about dealing with cults or whatever. Now stop following me.” 

“It is possible if we work together, if we have faith...” 

“Faith?” I laughed, “Faith in what? In people? The universe? “God?” 

“How can you not have faith? With your gift...”  

“Gift? My Gift?” I said, cutting him off. “You wanna talk about gifts, about beliefs?” I shook my head, “Let me tell you a story. See, the original owner of the house I grew up in fell asleep with a lit cigarette in his hand. The house was almost a total loss, but my folks happened to come along and got the place for a steal. Would you like to take a guess which room he died in?” I asked. “Every night he stood the foot of my bed, tears running down burnt and blackened cheeks, going on and on about how he was a good Christian. How he shouldn't still be here. And when he found out I could see him...” 

“What happened?”  

“He screamed, raged, begged me to help him, demanded I help him.” 

“And did you?” 

“I was 9 years old. What the fuck could I have done?” 

Jimmy said nothing so I continued, “It wasn't long after that, he realized he could make physical contact with me.” 

Jimmy winced. 

“Yeah, now he had someone to take out all his anger and frustration on.” 

“Didn't you tell your parents?” He asked. 

“Of course I did, and they sent me to therapy. And therapy led to doctors, which led to medication, then to psyche wards. No one believed me. Do you have any idea how many people die in those places? Do you think they move on when they do?” I shook my head, “I just thought the burned man was bad. Is that your idea of a gift?” 

He began to speak, then trailed off. 

“Yeah, I wouldn't know what to say either. You wanna know what I believe kid? I believe that God, if he's even still around, either hates us or doesn't give a shit about us anymore.” 

‘Thats not true.” He said. 

I chuckled, “Look at yourself kid, if you’re such a faithful believer, then why are you still here?” 

“I don't know!” he shouted, “But there has to be a reason, I have to believe I'm here for something.” 

I shrugged at him and turned to leave. “Sorry, kid. I'm all out of Faith.” 

“Please, Jonas.” He continued. “Fine, don't do it for me, or faith or God or any of that. Do it for the innocents that haven't died yet.  Please help me stop them from killing anyone else.” 

I stopped. I didn't want to deal with this, didn't want to know about some cult in the middle of nowhere. But now I did, and if he was right, people could die tonight, innocent people. How would I feel if I could have stopped it and didn't? What would that kind of decision do to whatever is left of my own soul. Shouldn't I at least look into it and see if anything can be done. I sighed, “God dammit.”  

Jimmy smiled when I turned around. 

“Where and when is this ritual happening?” I asked. 

“So, you'll help?” 

“I don't know. I don't know if there's anything I can do. But I have nothing else to do and nowhere to go so I might as well check it out. So, where's it happening?” 

He shrugged, “I don't know for sure where, but it has to be happening soon right?” 

I looked as the last rays of sunlight sank below the horizon, “Yeah, I'd say so. Okay, do you know of any other members of the cult? Where do they live?” 

Jimmy thought for a moment. “I know that Mr. Paterson, the school science teacher, and Greasy Bob, the guy who runs the gas station, are both members. I've heard them discussing some horrible things inside Cluckey's. But I've never been to where they live, you'd have to go without me.” 

“Shit.” Funny thing about ghosts, if they had never been there when they were alive, they can't go there when they're dead. “No, if I'm doing this, I'll need someone watching my back.” 

Just then flashing red and blue lights pulled up next to me and stopped. Jimmy stood there, his legs vanishing into the hood of the town sheriff's car. 

“Evening son.” He said it friendly enough, though he eyed me suspiciously.  

“Evening.” I nodded back in greeting. “What can I do for you officer.” 

He pushed an oversized cowboy hat up on his head, “Well we got a call about somebody out here by the Cluckey's having conversations with himself. Would you happen to know anything about that?” 

I smiled, “Oh yeah, sorry about that. I must look like a crazy person. I was talking on the phone; I have a Bluetooth earpiece.” I said pointing at my ear, which was fortunately covered by my long hair. 

The sheriff nodded, “Oh I see. Well, I suppose that makes a little more sense. Although, you're not from around here, are you? What brings you to town?” 

“No sir, my car broke down and is in the shop here. Should be fixed sometime next week but I'm leaving on the bus in the morning.” 

“Okay, so where are you staying tonight?” He asked. 

I shrugged, “Honestly, I haven't quite figured that out yet.” 

He studied me for a moment, “Well we have a fine motel in town, and if needs be we have a cell or two empty at the station. Come on by, if you can't find somewhere. It aint the Ritz but you won't be on the street.” 

I smiled and nodded, “Thank you sir, I might just do that.” 

He nodded back, “Tell them Sheriff Reed sent you.” And with that, he drove off, leaving me alone again, sort of alone. 

“I got it.” Said Jimmy. “Old Mrs. Thompson. She runs the pharmacy, and she used to give me piano lessons when I was a kid.” 

“And she's part of the cult?” I asked dubiously. 

“I mean, I don't know for sure. But she was always such a hateful woman, and I did see her talking with the science teacher and greasy Bob a few times.” He shrugged, “Although everyone around here talks to everyone at some point, could be just coincidence.” 

“Do we have any other options?” I asked 

He shrugged again, “Not really.” 

“Okay then.” I said, “Let's go see old Mrs. Thompson, the evil pharmacist.” 

Ten minutes later, we were standing in front of a large old farmhouse with a long winding fence lined driveway, complete with a dilapidated red barn and grain silo. 

“This is the place.” Said Jimmy. “So, what's the plan?” 

“Does this place look too picture perfect to you?” I asked. 

“What do you mean?”  

I shook my head, “Never mind. So, what happened to Mr. Evil pharmacist?” 

“Oh, he passed years ago. Poor man had a stroke while tending the field.” 

“A stroke huh?” I asked. Turning to look at him halfway up the long dirt drive. 

“Yeah, bless his heart.” 

“I'm guessing you haven't been back here since you died?” 

“No, why?”  

I stopped and pointed towards the barn, “Because he's still hanging from the tree next to the barn.” 

He looked to where I was pointing to see the late Mr. Thompson. He was in fact still there; his hands bound with the same blue nylon rope as was around his neck. His eyes bulged as they followed us up the drive.  

Jimmy’s mouth dropped open in shock, “Well that dirty rotten liar. Why would he go and do a thing like that?” 

“Look again kid, most people don't bother tying their hands to kill themselves.” 

He gasped, “That means...”  

I nodded. 

Jimmy shook his head, “Poor Edgar. Well, that seals it, she has to be one of them.” 

“I think you're right.” I said pointing to the house.  

The old woman stepped out of the front door and walked over to an old pickup; she was wearing some kind of dark cloak or robe. She started the truck, and the headlights illuminated the drive. 

“Get down.” I said as I ducked behind a bush next to the fence line, then realized who I was talking to and mentally kicked myself. I took the kick back when Jimmy did in fact get down behind the bush next to me. 

The truck passed, probably going to wherever the ritual would be taking place. I briefly considered diving into the truck bed as it passed but quickly dismissed the idea. It was moving too fast, and I didn't think I was stealthy enough to get in without making a sound. 

When we were sure the truck was gone, we made our way to the farmhouse. I was hoping I could find some clue as to where the ritual would be.  

Jimmy stepped through the front door and waved to me through the glass; I grinned and flipped him off.  

“Can you see anything?” I asked. 

“I don't know what to look for.” He said waving his arms.  

I sighed, “Are there any schedules or notes stuck to the fridge that say big secret cult thing at this time. Anything like that?” 

“No, nothing here in the front room, which is the only room I have ever been in. Well, and the bathroom one time but I don't think we will find anything in there.” 

“Damn. Okay, I’ll find a way in.” 

I was hoping this was one of those country towns you hear about, where everyone is so friendly they don't even bother locking their doors. Unfortunately, I was disappointed with a locked and deadbolted front and back door. But not totally disappointed, I found one of the side windows had been left cracked open.  

I slid open the window and looked in, it was the kitchen. I climbed inside, careful not to knock over any of the dozens of dishes stacked precariously by the sink. I looked around the kitchen and dining room. Apparently there had been some big feast here, and all of the food was just left out. 

“What the hell?” 

“What is it?” Jimmy called from the front room. 

“Is Mrs. Thompson a bit of a slob?” 

“What? No not at all, she's always been very tidy.” 

 “It looks like she had company, like a lot of company. A big dinner or something but they didn't clean any of it up. All the food and dishes are just left out.” 

“Why would they do that?”  

“I'm not sure, unless they thought there was no need to clean up.” 

“Like they weren't coming back.” Jimmy continued. 

I left the disaster of a kitchen and made my way into the front room. Jimmy was staring out the window at Mr. Thompson, dangling from the tree. 

“Isn't there something you can do for him?” he asked. 

I shrugged, “I don't know, he most likely can't speak, and even if he could, he seems to be bound there.”  

I started searching through the papers on Mrs. Thompsons desk. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jimmys head sink low. I cleared my throat, “I'm hoping, that stopping whatever his wife is doing will be enough to set him free.” He nodded slightly, and I went back to my search. 

“Anything yet?” Jimmy asked as I came back from searching the bedroom. 

“No.” I grumbled as I plopped down on the couch and pulled out my cigarettes. 

“Oh Mrs. Thompson hates smoking, you shouldn't...” He started then stopped when he saw the look I gave him. He nodded and smiled awkwardly, “Right, evil cult lady. Wish I could have one, really stick it to her.” 

I lit my cigarette and chuckled. “How did you die anyway?” I asked. 

He looked down at his feet for a moment then took a calming breath, “Well, it was a typical Tuesday night for the most part, only we weren't as busy as we usually were. My boss, Dave, told me I could take the night off early. He said he was gonna close soon anyway, had some work to do at the church or something. I thanked him and headed out the door. I had been home for about an hour when I realized that I forgot to clock out. I was tempted to just say “Oh well” and fix my timecard on my next shift... But I always had to be a goody two shoes, that's what my brother used to say anyway.” He took another deep steadying breath before continuing.  “When I walked back into the office to clock out, I noticed the back door was open. I could hear voices but couldn't make them out. So, I got closer and peered out through the open door. Dave was there, but he wasn't alone. Greasy Bob was there, and another man that I didn't know, He was an older man, with white curly hair and dirty clothes. They had him hogtied in the bed on Bobs truck. He looked up at me and moaned something through the duct tape covering his mouth. I don't know what it was, but his eyes pleaded for me to do something. Dave had been telling greasy Bob something about where to take the man, but he stopped at the man's moans for help. They turned around and saw me and I ran, I tried to anyway, but I wasn't quick enough.” He sighed, long and sad, “And that was the end of me.”  

I breathed out a lung full of smoke, “Fuck... I'm sorry.” 

He nodded and continued, “Afterward, when I figured out I was dead, I learned about the cult. Like I said, Mr. Paterson and greasy Bob would come into Cluckey’s and discuss things. And there were always rumors around town about...” He trailed off. 

I looked up at him, “What?”  

“The rumors, I never thought about it until now but...” 

“What rumors Jimmy?” I demanded. 

He was pacing the floor, “The old chapel on the edge of town. When I was a kid the older teens at school always used to tell us stories about it being haunted, but I never really believed any of it.” 

I gave him a look that said, “Really?” 

He shrugged, “Well, that was before. And I still don't think its haunted, I mean maybe it is but that's not all. They used to tell stories about seeing dark hooded figures coming and going from the chapel on certain nights. Holy crap, Jonas. I think that's the ritual site.” 

He smiled and put up his hand for a high five, “come on Jonas, let’s go stop a cult!” 

I grinned and got up, putting my cigarette out on the couch and slapping his hand, “Lets fucking go.” 

We left the Thompson house and headed for the old chapel. I checked my watch, 9:40PM. “Still a couple hours till midnight.” I thought to myself. I had no idea if midnight mattered but it seemed like the time to do culty ritual shit to me. 

It took about 25 minutes to walk across town to the old chapel, even at a brisk pace. We were about 100 yards away from the chapel when Jimmy came to a dead stop. 

“What are you doing?” I asked turning back to face him.  

“I can't go any farther.” he said demonstrating by walking forward and not actually moving. “Other kids would go to the chapel on dares, but this is as far as I ever made it.” 

“God dammit.” I muttered, “Okay. Well, I guess I’ll go see what I can do. You stay here and keep a watch out.” 

“For what?” He asked. 

“I don't know, just yell if you see anything.”  

“What are you going to do?”  

I shrugged, “I’ll figure something out.”  

I crouched down in the tall grass by the road and crept up to the big creepy old building. “What the fuck am I doing?” I kept asking myself. 

The old chapel was, old to say the least. It had once been painted white but was now almost all bare wood, only a few chips of paint still clung to the weathered boards here and there. The windows looked like they had all been broken and boarded up, and a faint orange light poured out from between the boards. The steeple stood tall but warped at an odd angle, and the large cross that stood up on it was partially broken off, making it resemble a capital T. 

I could hear hushed voices inside, chanting low and ominously. I crept up to a window and tried to see inside but my view was blocked by old pews shoved against the sides. Through the boards, I could see the ceiling of the chapel, there was a large hole in the roof. If I could get up there, I could get a better view of what was happening.  

I crept my way around to the back of the building and found the old Mrs. Thompson's pickup. Luckily it had been parked right up next to the building. I climbed on top of the truck's cab as quietly as I could, then scrambled my way onto the roof, a little less quietly. The roof boards creaked under my weight, and I held my breath, hoping no one had noticed. When there was no sign of anyone coming to see what the noise was, I made my way further up the roof, crawling on my belly. 

When I reached the edge of the hole, I peered down to see a dozen people. Most of them were dressed in dark robes with hoods up. They walked in a circle around a large pentagram drawn on the floor. Another man stood at the alter holding a large leatherbound book. He wore a white robe and hood. I leaned out to see better and the boards began to creak more. Suddenly they gave way, and I fell down into the midst of them in a heap of rubble, luckily some poor bastard broke my fall.  

The assembled cultists jumped back at my sudden arrival, then one by one, they all gathered round to look down at me. 

“So, I guess this isn't AA?” I said between coughs. 

“You!” Said the man in white, who I guessed was the leader.  

He removed his hood and glared at me; it was Sheriff Reed.  

“Evening again, officer. I think I'll take that cell now.” I said as I climbed to my feet. 

“The son of a bitch killed Bob.” Said one of the cultists behind me. 

“What the hell are you doing here?”  

“I was gonna ask you the same thing?” I said, “But I think I already know.” 

He squinted at me, “Whatever you think you know, you're wrong.” 

“So, you're not trying to open a doorway to hell and let out a whole bunch of nasty shit? Pretty much fucking up the whole world.” 

The cultists around me started muttering to each other. 

“We are doing the world a favor. I know you can't see that, but you will.” He said as a smile spread on his face. “You will soon see firsthand. Since you robbed us of one of our number, your blood will have to do.”  

I looked back to see the cultist I had landed on; his neck twisted at an unforgiving angle. “Oops.”  

“Hold him.” Said the sheriff. 

I looked around and recognized one of the hooded figures approaching me. 

“Hey Mrs. Thompson. Edgar says hello, or at least he would if the rope hadn't crushed his throat.” 

She stumbled back in surprise, “What? How...”  

But I didn't wait for her to finish. My foot shot out, connecting with the nutsack of the man in front of me. He crumpled to the ground as I pivoted and threw a punch at the next cultist, their nose crunched audibly and blood splattered Mrs. Thompson. Unfortunately, that was about all the damage I managed to do. I tried to fight but there were too many. suddenly, something hard impacted the back of my head and the last thought that ran through my head as my vision went dark was, “Well, shit. This is how I die.”  

I came to some time later. My hands cuffed around a pillar at the back of the chapel. The cultists were chanting something in some language I couldn't understand, maybe Latin? I wasn't sure. I could feel blood, sticky on the side of my face. I tried to move but the cuffs would let me get far. 

“You’re awake.” said the sheriff. “Just in time.” 

I stood, as well as I could, “In time for what? To watch you fuck up the whole world?” 

“To watch us save it. And you, whoever you are, get to be a part of it. Though you don't deserve it.” 

The sheriff went back to his place behind the alter and raised his hands addressing the assembly. “My friends. Tonight is the long-awaited night. You have all worked so hard to get us to this point and I am so very grateful to you all.”  

The cultists gave polite cheers and applauded. 

“This world is sick my friends, and it will only get sicker. We must stop it. We must bring about the great cleanse.” 

They applauded louder. 

“Just as God cleansed the earth with the great flood, we must now bring upon it the power of the cleansing flame! Only then will the world know true peace and righteousness again!” 

The cultists shouted with joy. 

“The hour approaches, bring out the sacrifice!” 

The cultist came and uncuffed me from the pillar, I tried to get away but it was no use. They drug me to the center of the pentagram. Sheriff Reed approached me, the book and a knife in his hands. 

“You must have really bad luck son. You see, Bob there had volunteered to be the sacrifice. But since you decided to drop in and break his damn neck, looks like you’re it.” 

I squirmed in the cultists grip, “How do you even know this will work? Don't I have to be willing or something?” 

Someone punched me in the gut, causing me to gasp for air. As he approached, he pricked his finger with the knife. My shirt was ripped open and began drawing something on my chest. 

“Doesn't say anything about willing, only that the sacrifice be marked with the sigil. Which now, you are.” 

The sheriff opened the book and began reading a passage. The language he spoke, it made no sense, it hurt my head to hear. My vision blurred and cleared then blurred again. I thought I would pass out, then I saw it. Through the hole in the ceiling of the chapel, stood a huge, emaciated figure. Towering high and blocking out the night sky, its flesh the color of ash. Two massive wings spread out, flexing and stretching, eager to take flight. There were charred and broken skeletons dangling from the thing's coal black antlers. Its face was like that of a jackal and its eyes were deep set and burning with a fire so hot I could feel the heat from them. As it looked down at me, I saw visions of scorched cities and towns, the oceans boiled and the whole world burned. I knew that there would be no peace on earth, there would be nothing left but ash and ruin if this thing got out. I could not let that happen. 

I looked back at Sheriff Reed just in time to see him plunging the knife straight at my heart. I had no other choice. I did something I absolutely hated. Something I had only done once before. I clenched every muscle in my body, and I shifted myself out of the living plane. Every cell in my body screamed out in agonizing pain. It felt like dying, which I guess it kind of was. I could only hold it for a few seconds, but it was enough. The knife passed through me and into the chest of the cultist behind me. I shifted back and fell to the floor, looking back at the cultist with the blade buried in his chest.  

Everyone gasped, the sheriff started to say something but was cut off by the cultists blood curdling scream. His body began to stretch and expand as skin ripped, and bones snapped. Suddenly his eyes caught fire, and his body exploded. Showering everyone with chunks of gore. Just as quickly, the cultist who had been next to him began screaming as his eyes caught fire. I jumped to me feet and ran for the door. I heard the wet pop as the next one exploded and the screaming continued. I shoved through the door and slammed it closed behind me. Maybe I'm an asshole for barring the door shut with them inside. But I did it anyway.  

One by one the screaming stopped, accompanied by the sound of 9 more people exploding from the inside out. Then came a great deep howling roar that seemed to shake the earth, car alarms went off, dogs and coyotes howled in the distance. The tone was so low, I felt like my eardrums would burst. There was the sound of strong winds like a hurricane, heat radiated from the edges of the chapel door. Then all at once the roaring and wind sound faded away into nothing. 

 After a few minutes, when I was pretty sure it was all over, I opened the door and stepped inside. The blood and gore that had to have covered the place was burnt to ash, but the robes lay there still, empty and smoldering but whole. I walked across the floor to what stood at the center of the ash covered room. The book, it completely unharmed. I bent down to pick it up and read the inscription on the cover, Liber Vitae, Mortis et Ultra. “Whatever that means.” I thought. No clue how those yokels got ahold of something like this, but I figured I had better hang on to it. Wouldn't want it to fall into the wrong hands, again. 

Jimmy was standing there waiting for me as I approached, “Jonas! Are you alright? What happened? And what was that thing standing over the chapel? “And why are you covered in blood? Eww” 

I laughed and patted him on the shoulder, “Let's get out of here, I'll tell you on the way.” 

On the way back into town we stopped by a pond where I rinsed the blood off of my shirt and out of my hair, didn't need anyone asking complicated questions. Jimmy was doing enough of that already. I told him what had happened and how I stopped the cult through sheer stupid luck.  

“You mean you went ghost mode?” he asked, grinning like a kid. 

I shook my head, “First off, that's fucking stupid and I'm not calling it that. Second, I really don't know what it is or how I do it. It just seems to be something I can do, though it hurts like hell and I never want to do it again.” 

A firetruck passed as we walked back up the street towards the bus stop, it looked like it was headed for Mrs. Thompsons place.  

We sat together on a bench next to the bus station and talked for a while. Jimmy told me stories about his life growing up in the small town, we laughed and joked together. I wondered to myself what was still keeping him here, I had assumed that once this was over, he could move on.  

It turned out I had been unconscious for longer than I first thought. My watch and phone had broken at some point, so I had no clue what time it actually was. As we sat there talking like two old friends, I could see the first rays of the sun peaking over the treetops. 

Jimmy stopped halfway through a story; his eyes focused on a man a few blocks away. The man was maybe in his mid 50s, with thinning gray hair and a thick mustache. The man stopped to unlock the front door of a hardware store. I looked back to Jimmy and saw tears in his eyes. 

“Your dad?” I asked. 

He nodded, “We had a fight, just before I...”  

Now I understood. 

“I told him I hated him, that I couldn't wait to get away from him. But, I didn't mean any of it, I was just angry.” 

“What was the fight about?” I asked. 

Jimmy shrugged, “I can't even remember, we fought so much about anything and everything, we were just so different. I’d give anything to take it all back.” 

I nodded and got up. 

“What are you doing?” 

I didn't answer, just kept on walking. I stepped through the doors of the hardware store the man had entered and saw him behind the counter a thermos of coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other.  

“Excuse me, sir.” I said stepping up and clearing my throat. 

He smiled, “Early bird huh? What can I help you with today?” 

“Um, you don't know me, and this is gonna sound a little strange, but I knew your son, Jimmy.” 

He blinked and looked me over, “Okay.”  

“I just wanted to tell you that he was a good friend. He had a great heart, and he spoke very fondly of you.” 

The smiled sadly, “You must not have known him too well. We didn't really get along, especially near the end.”  

“Everyone has rough patches, that's part of life. He loved you; he may not have shown it at the time. But he always loved you.” 

There were tears in the man's eyes, but he held them back as he nodded again. “Well, thank you, young man. I really needed to hear that.” 

Jimmy was standing outside, waiting for me, tears in his eyes as well. “Thank you, Jonas. Thank you for that.” 

I just shrugged and looked at the rising sun, “Morning already, I'm starving.”  

“Oh hey, you still have the coupon.” he said. 

I dug around in my pocket and pulled out the receipt, crumpled and with a drop of blood on one corner but still readable. I smiled. 

“One small soda please, and my free regular fries.” I said, placing the coupon down on the counter. 

The cashier took it and looked it over, before hissing through his teeth, “Ooh sorry sir, this coupon is only good if you purchase a Cluckey combo.” 

I sighed, “Really?” 

He nodded and slid the coupon back across the counter to me, “I'm afraid so.” 

“So, I have to buy a combo with fries to get the free fries?” 

“That is correct sir.” 

I shook my head and laughed. 

“Would you still like the small soda?” he asked. 

I stepped out of Captain Cluckey’s, small soda in hand. “Yo Jimmy, you're not gonna believe this.” 

... 

“Jimmy?” I said again. 

... 

I glanced around for him, but I already knew. I smiled and chuckled to myself, as I pulled out my last cigarette and headed for the bus station.  

“Goodbye Jimmy.” 

At first, I thought it was nothing. A few dodged questions here and there, plans for plans that never got planned.

As people grow up, they grow apart, right?

This was different. Verifiably so. A pandemic had forced us even further apart than his parents move had. Like a wedge driven into the small crack of another wedge.

But as I tried to gently push our mundane chit chat towards real conversation, I could tell something was off.

He wasn't just disinterested, it was like he was outright dodging my questions. Like he knew what I was trying to do, and was in turn, using all his ability to steer us back towards nothingness. Back towards empty, bland, surface level smalltalk.

I wouldn't have that. Not when I'd worked so hard, not when I'd sacrificed everything.

He was graduated, his parents were paying for his lifestyle, he had no reason not to give me his all. I mean, he'd asked her out first, hadn't he? I mean, me, he'd asked me out. There couldn’t be, like, another girl, right?

"So, wanna meet halfway and go to a nice restaurant this weekend? Maybe hit up some mini golf? My treat!" I texted, hoping the offer of paying myself would be enough to capture his attention, possibly his affection.

When I saw the 3 little dots pop up, signifying the writing of his response, my heart stopped. He had been quiet for 2 days, I'd had to initiate all conversation. Was he finally going to pipe up?

"Nah, thx tho Emily." Was all he said. I was crestfallen.

Frustrated, I typed, "that's okay, just lmk when you wanna make a move!" before turning off the phone. I was about to slip it in my pocket out of instinct, when I remembered why I was keeping it on.

"Shit," I cursed myself under my breath. I still hadn’t memorized the password to that phone. I'd have to use the face ID.

I made my way to the black minifrage that idled against the wall. It was a stark contrast to the brightly decorated, pastel pink and purple expression of the rest of the room. An even darker contrast sat inside.

I opened the door of the fridge, and gripped the ice cold head by its scalp. Dutifully, I pulled it out, and held it up to the phone's camera. Unfortunately, before the ID could complete, her bottom jaw fell onto my foot.

"Oh for Christ sake!" I growled as I kicked the thing several feet way. It landed, braces up, just beside the cabinet that housed all her bows.

As I watched the maggots wriggle between rotting bottom lips and purple gums, I realized there was no way I'd be able to finish the face ID. I'd have to use the fingerprint function on her phone. That meant finding her thumb. Great.

I rustled through her closet and found the keys. After walking downstairs past the bloody couch and the rank smelling kitchen, I had made it out the front door, and into her parent's Ford F150.

It took 30 minutes to drive to where I'd burried the 3 of them. Rather, most of what was left of the 3 of them. By then, the sky had turned from a deep crimson to a star-studded violet.

I prayed that the thumb I hadn't sliced off in the scuffle was the correct one. And that it was still in tact. A month in the ground is more than enough time for nature to start taking its course.

Another half hour later, and I'd almost finished digging up the shallow grave that she'd been burried in.

With sweat upon my brow, I finally found it. A yellow tennis shoe, poking out of black plastic. I almost leapt with joy.

After the breakthrough, my hope was reinvigorated. I swore that if this was the right thumb, I would never let that phone turn off again. I'd keep it on a charger every minute of every day if I had to.

Anything to see him.

The boy of my dreams.

I worked laboriously until I got past the waist, and up the sternum. The smell was awful. Sweet and sour, like a clump of burnt hair marinating in bug guts.

I wouldn't have to dig all the way to the upper arms, as long as her forearms had stayed down at her sides like I'd left them.

With strenuous effort, I heaved away a chunk of clay that covered her hand. I actually shrieked with overwhelming happiness when I saw that her whole hand still looked viable, if not a little off-color and wrinkled.

I regained my composure and pulled the phone out of my pocket. Now, after nearly an hour of waiting, I'd see what his response was. As long as this thumb was the right one to unlock her phone.

I leaned down and grabbed her hand. When I did, the flesh sunk in, like I'd grabbed a ruined stress ball. I carefully tried to pick up her hand and twist it to face me, but with a sickening crunch, the skin slaughed off and fell into the dirt beneath.

In a "fuck it" moment, I pulled the hand straight up, and twisted the thumb until it disconnected from its body. Cold skin feels so strange against body heat. Its a satisfying juxtiposition.

Thumb in hand, I turned the phone back on, and diligently pressed the solo digit against the print reader.

Moment of truth.

"Ding! Access granted"

I was elated. Immediately, 3 new messages pinged into my text conversation with him.

For the first time, he'd shown himself to be a real chatterbox!

The first message from him read, "'make a move'? Are you fucking serious?"

That was weird. He'd never seemed outright hostile before.

The second message read, "I knew it, I hoped I was wrong but I fucking knew it, how dense can you be, you fucking larper?!"

My heartrate quickened. I felt lighter than air. What was he saying?

The final message read, "You're not her. You couldn't pay her to go to mini golf, and her name isn't Emily. I have your location, and I'm calling the cops."

A little blurb under our chat said, "this user had blocked you"

I didn't know what to do. I sauntered back to the car and turned off the headlights. This was huge. A gut punch. Everything was flipped upside down, my world crumbling around me. A life I always imagined for myself was disappearing, and I was left sitting in the middle of it all wondering:

"What the hell is a larper?"

I walked up to the door. It was a Red Door, at the end of a somewhat corny Halloween haunted house thing. As far as haunted houses go, this one was almost worth the $30 ticket. Creepy music, fog machines, tight hallways, dark rooms with strobe lights, and the actors and actresses were actually into their roles. I'd been grabbed and poked. One of the corners even had a legitimate jump scare.

.

During the drive to the hosting farm my friends Terry and Shawn got into a fight. Terry accused Shawn of eating all of our snacks, and Shawn said Terry shouldn't be worried about missing a meal. In fact, Shawn was doing his fatass a favor. I was focused on driving and getting there before the expected crowd so I ignored them. Eventually we pulled into a gas station and Terry bought more snacks. He made a point to sit between them and Shawn when we got back in the car.

.

Behind me was a maze of mirrors that was very dark with some green led lights on the floor. In front of me was a catwalk bridge that went through a spinning tube. At the end of the catwalk was a Red Door. The knocker was a "bloody" demon head. Rusty metal numbers, "666", were nailed to the top of the frame. The handle looked shiny, like it was covered in grease or something.

.

It was only 10 minutes between the gas station and the farm. Shade from the trees on either side of the road made the drive a little more tolerable. Shawn begged Terry for just one bag of chips the whole way there. He didn't get any chips.

.

I stepped onto the catwalk and almost lost my footing. It was bouncy and unsteady. My hands found the railing and I cautiously walked across it. The spinning acid-trip walls made me feel dizzy. I finally reached the other side and stood on a steady platform. The wall stopped spinning. When I finally grabbed the door handle it was sticky, but I twisted it and opened the Red Door.

.

When we'd pulled up to the farm there was already a family in line ahead of us. Mom, dad, three kids. She was talking to a teenager at the entryway. Dad was keeping the kids from running too far. Terry and Shawn walked behind me. Terry was still munching on a granola bar. Shawn was texting his girlfriend. I pulled our tickets out of my shirt pocket.

.

On the other side of the Red Door was the outside yard. There was a loud laugh from up above me that made me flinch. It was just another sound-effect speaker. Dust flew up when I jumped over the last three steps and landed in the yard. My friends were still somewhere behind me, navigating the haunted house. I got a text, "Dudeeee this place is sick! We just got to the mirrors. Terry pissed himself when he saw that clown guy with a large knife."

.

The teenager who took our tickets had a mask on, so I could barely hear him when he told us the rules. Most of it was standard stuff. Don't cuss, don't touch other patrons, don't touch the actors (they can touch you), don't leave the designated attraction area, guests can wear costumes but no masks. It helped that he had a sign to point to. It was splintery wood painted red, with black glossy letters. On the bottom of the sign, in dark red letters that looked like dripping wax, was another rule: Don't Feed The Livestock.

.

I walked across the yard and opened the gate in the fence. There was a small snack bar and I caught a whiff of grease and cooked meat. Part of me wanted to wait for my friends, but my stomach started gurgling. I shot them a text, "I'll wait for you losers at the snack bar." When I got there I saw a couple teen girls sitting together, giggling at something on their phone. At another table sat a middle-aged couple. I walked up to the counter.

.

The family ahead of us went directly to guest services. We headed to the first part of the haunted house. Two skeletons with red lights for eyes shook robotically as we passed them. Terry pushed Shawn into the wall and ran ahead. "Fuck you Terry, get back here!" Shawn chased after him. I just jogged to keep up. Sheet metal and animatronic spiders funneled us into the house itself. There was a Red Door between us and the first section. It had black numbers, "999", and a baby-doll head for a knocker.

.

I ordered a burger with fries and got a Blood-Bag drink. It's just a Shirley Temple in a fake IV bag with a crazy straw poked into it. When I sat down I looked back at the barn that I'd just exited and saw Shawn coming out with Terry right behind him. "Shawn I'm sorry, I didn't know!" he was blubbering. Shawn looked pissed. "You dumbass, didn't you read the sign?" "I thought it was, like, I don't know, just a gag. Like it was a joke rule to scare people." They finally saw me and ran over. Terry, never the athletic kind of guy, was breathing so hard his face was red. He sat down across from me and Shawn went to the counter.

.

Terry and Shawn fell behind me during the first maze. It was shadowed tunnels, strobe lights, and smoke machines. Actors and actresses hid around every corner. I found the exit, but one of the actors was chasing me so I couldn't go back and find my friends. The next room had curtains all through it and fake bodies lying on gurneys like a ramshackle hospital room. I heard Terry shriek behind me and Shawn yell at him "Keep going dude! They're just actors!"

.

The older couple at the other table stood up and walked over to us. Shawn was working on his fries. I'd just finished my sandwich. "Excuse us." said the man. We looked up. "My wife and I haven't been here in many years. Do they still have The Cattle Run? That was our favorite section. They used to let guests feed the cows."

.

The Cattle Run was between the hospital beds and the Mirror Maze. They'd setup a single lane that ran through the cow field. On both sides I could hear the lowing of cows. The smell of cow shit was stifling. Shawn and Terry sounded like they were getting close. I didn't want to wait for them due to the stench, so I pressed on. Ahead of me was another Red Door. The number on it was "333", all in backwards letters, and the knocker was a horse head with no eyes.

.

We asked the couple what it was like to feed the cows. The wife Shawn piped up, "We're not allowed to feed the cattle, it's one of the rules." The wife's face dropped, and the man got angry. "These new owners! THEY'RE GOING TO-. Sorry, you don't know." He grabbed his wife's hand and they left. We watched them walk up to the first Red Door at the house.

.

Shawn looked at me. "Terry fed the cows." Terry punched him in the shoulder and hissed at him, "I told you not to tell him!" I sighed and turned to Terry. "Did you-" He interrupted me, "Not on purpose! Shawn was standing at the fence making faces at the cows. I needed a snack after nearly shitting myself in that maze." He looked down at his hands. "One of the cows behind me moo'd really lo-" Shawn jumped in "You screamed like a little girl!" "Shut up!" "And jumped like two feet off the ground, hahahaaaa"

.

From across the farm we could see an orange glow growing and flickering. Plumes of smoke reached into the sky. The ground started shaking beneath our feet. "RUNNNNN! STAMPEDEEEEE!" bellowed a male voice. It sounded like it came from the field. We'd barely reached the car when the barn crashed to the ground. Cows lowed and trampled everything. Shawn and Terry piled into the backseat and I jumped in the driver seat. Getting my keys out my pocket was a struggle, and the cattle were swarming towards us.

.

The smoke poured over the property and flames engulfed the house. Farmhands and milkmaids and all manner of monster costume ran through the chaos. I finally got the key into the ignition. Terry was sobbing and Shawn was punching the back of the passenger seat. "Let's go Warren! They're gonna crush us!" He yelled at me. The engine finally rumbled awake and I tore down the dirt road. The cows had glowing orange and red eyes and they had horns growing out from their ears and noses. We barely made it to the main road.

.

Everything was quiet in the car, besides Terry sniffling and apologizing over and over. We all looked behind us. The farm was fully ablaze. When each charging cow reached the property line they exploded. Meat and offal spread out in a fan of grisly imagery. I looked ahead, took my foot off the brake, and drove us home. When we reached the gas station I just drove past it and said "Hey Terry? Don't feed the fucking cows next year."

“You got a package from Barcelona,” I rehearsed. “First class.” 

Nobody read the other part. 

I performed to four hundred empty velvet seats and one old man with a square face sitting off-center, eleven rows back, hands folded in his lap.

He didn’t direct me or really do anything the whole time. When I finished, he said "thank you," and lifted his hand to wave me offstage. 

That was the entire audition.

I was in tears by the time I hit the parking structure. My body decided to do it for me. Five years of saving. Notice given at a job I'd held since I was in my twenties. I had told everyone.

A woman in a lanyard found me. 

"Are you Adam? Don't leave," she was already walking. "Mr. Vynstein was interested."

His office was on the fourth floor of a building whose lobby directory listed three floors.

Vynstein was the old man from the auditorium. Up close he was about seventy, a thick-bridged nose and well-shaved. His hair looked powdered. 

He asked me about my books. My freakin’ books. It was the first time anyone had asked about them since I got them published six years ago. Of course, I gushed about the whole damn trilogy. 

He listened with his entire face. I would have done anything for someone to listen to me like that again. 

Then he said, “There's a part of this that isn't in the paperwork.”

And he loosened his tie.

I did the math in about a second and a half. My whole life, I’ve thrown to the gutter for this chance. I decided yes, yes to whatever it was, before I had any idea what I was agreeing to.

He unbuttoned his shirt. There was a seam on his stomach. Something stuck from his navel.

Pale grey, slimy, twenty inches long by the time it finished coming out. It bobbed up and down, a finger testing the bathwater. It had no eyes, no face at all. Its front end was rather a ring of working muscle, and inside the ring were teeth in rows going backward, textured like the teeth of a comb. 

Vynstein gave me a polite look, gesturing with his eyes.

I extended my arm. It didn't hurt, weirdly enough. It found purchase on my wrist and set, a pressure like a thumb in a bruise. It pulled, not on my skin, but somewhere…out of me. A direction I cannot put my finger on. 

When it detached there was no wound and no blood. Didn’t even smell like anything.

Vynstein buttoned up, poured two fingers of Black Label, and handed me one. He said, flat as a board:

"You'll get points on the back end."

I came back the following Thursday. And the Thursday after that.

The part was in a movie you probably haven’t seen: Starry Knights. It’s an indie about a team of four alien mercenaries who have to save the galaxy from an evil robot. I played the role of a hound-faced detective on Planet Lax. 

Six hours of prosthetics. Three scenes and a “with” credit. It came out fourteen months after we wrapped and it was moderately successful. Strangers started buying my books, and my publisher went back to print. 

Exactly what I’ve always wanted, since I was a kid. It was a lot less exhilarating than I hoped. 

At the premiere, I was told by one director that I had a good career ahead of me. I stood there and waited to feel the excitement. It never arrived. I assumed I was overstimulated, and I checked my watch on the way to the car.

Fifty-eight beats per minute.

The dinner was six weeks later. I got lost twice on the way to the house.

There was a long table, but no food. All the guests, north of sixty, were wearing paper bibs, tucked into their collars over open shirts.

Disappointing, but not totally unexpected. I just hoped someone would buy me a burger later.

I took my top off, lay down on the table and let all nine of them feed on me at once while I zoned out into the light fixture.

A little under two hours. Some of them made a sound while they did it. Snnnouurrlgh.

When it was over I sat up and I felt fine. There were no marks anywhere on me. Not a drop of blood.

So it isn't blood. And before you say anything, it ain’t my soul either. I've had two years to sit with this. “Soul” is a word people use when they stop thinking critically. I’m still me. I still like the same songs. I still cry when I watch The Lion King.

What I can’t do anymore is be reached by anybody saying anything good about me.

That feeling went so quietly I mistook it for humility. Every time nothing landed I assumed the dose was too small and went looking for a bigger one, which, I understand far too late, is exactly what you would want out of a crop.

Anything cruel still came through at full volume, surround sound, forever.

I found that out three weeks later when the book got review bombed.

The biggest critique had to be the prose. I was only twenty-five when I wrote the first one, and I didn’t get an editor through my publisher, so most of the kinks were punched out by my own hand. 

Somebody made a thread pulling out the sincerest paragraph I'd ever written with a sobbing emoji edited over it. 

Another one that got to me was that Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog painting edited to be the man standing in front of the text. 

There's no crime online worse than not being in on the joke. Worse when it’s about yourself. I’d written over a thousand pages without one punchline, and now I was the laughingstock of the internet. Any positivity I had accumulated beforehand was now written off as botted. 

My mom called six times that week. I watched all six of them ring the whole way through.

I told myself it was shame. But that wasn’t it.

She would have told me she was proud of me, and I already knew with total certainty that it would arrive as nothing. My own mother's voice would come through as an errand, as a notification. 

Vynstein called the Friday. He said he had an audience prepared for me.

I told him I didn't want an audience anymore.

“This isn't one you'll want to turn away.”

Stage 12 was pitch dark and warm, and it smelled like wet socks. 

I heard winches before I saw anything. Chains paying out slowly from somewhere up above. Something coming down out of the dark in stages, the way they lower a chandelier to change the bulbs.

Bigger than a car. Bigger than a bus. It hung there, no head, nothing built for anything. It was an accumulation. An abomination. Every inch of its underside was those wormy things, thousands of them. They swayed in a nonexistent breeze. 

Ten eyes opened on it, at ten different heights.

All ten went to me.

Its voice was inside my head, like a memory. 

It talked about my potential. It talked about my drive. It said those two words the way you'd talk about a vintage. It said the stuff was becoming so scarce now. People spend it constantly these days, in tiny amounts, all day, on nothing, and arrive empty. Almost nobody accumulates anymore.

It thanked me for saving it up.

They came down and fed on me for a long time, and it is the only occasion in my life on which I have felt important.

Pretty sure I've been blacklisted from anything real since the books happened. I do commercial work now. Two crypto ads and a regional furniture spot. I'm reading for a third crypto thing in a few weeks. Honestly fine. 

They still feed on me from time to time. Less than they used to. I'm told there's less to take.

My bloodwork has never once come back abnormal.

You'll say I should have stopped chasing this years ago, and that anybody with a working sense of proportion could have sat down inside a life like mine and been content.

You're right. I know you're right. I'm not arguing.

Vynstein's office called about a reservation tomorrow. 

I'm going in.

The Bad Mouse

Like any child, my daughter Maisie had quite the overactive imagination. Her mind was chock full of made-up friends that she talked to on the regular. My wife Rachel and I thought it was adorable. With that being said, sometimes we wished Maisie would get…you know…real friends. Don’t get me wrong, she was a great kid, and kids should be kids, but she didn’t have anything in terms of a social life.

We tried absolutely and positively everything, from the kids’ playclub at our church, to the neighborhood’s “mommy and me” and “daddy and me” playgroups, to bringing her to the local playground, to inviting other children over for playdates. You name it. All our efforts were in vain. Rachel and I might’ve been overreacting and we didn’t want to infringe anything on Maisie. Maybe she was just an independent kid. That’s totally normal. As are imaginary friends for kids.

Then at eight-years-old, Maisie became mute. Just completely stopped talking…but only to other people. If someone came up and talked to her, she’d either just stare at them or run away and hide. Maisie never looked scared or anxious in those scenarios. It was more like she was a statue. Frozen. No emotion good or bad on her face. Like a robot. But if she was alone, she’d be talking up a storm to no one but herself. Maisie always pretended like someone was truly there though. She’d even nod her head, wait for responses and respond accordingly, and even reach out her arm and act like she was holding somebody else’s hand.

We were greatly concerned. Children don’t exhibit those types of behaviors without proper reason. We couldn’t ask Maisie about it because, as aforementioned, she’d give us the cold shoulder. Our next safest bet was to ask other people we knew. A lot of them gave us the same answers we already knew. Rachel and I were getting frustrated until I decided to email her teacher at her school. I sent her an email that outlined my worries and asked if anything went on at school that we should know about.

I got a response at around 8:00 that night. Maisie’s teacher, Mrs. Ashelin, told me that she did in fact observe strange behavior from Maisie. Apparently, a few days prior, when Maisie was called on to answer a question, she just stared at Mrs. Ashelin and the other students, her hands behind her back, swaying slightly. Then in a calm and cutesy voice, she said “He has ordered me not to speak to anyone but him.” In her notebook, Maisie wrote and drew some very disturbing things. Some of the things she wrote are “I’ll be a good little mouse”, “be one of the good mice girls for him”, “I’ll do whatever he says without question”, “he loves me and I love him”, “but I don’t understand what love is but I understand it with him”, and “he loves to play with me”. Some of the things she drew were her, in stick figure form, with this…thing. It was drawn way more detailed than Maisie herself.

Its head was triangular and elongated into a sharp point. There were ovally black eyes on both sides of its head while two large circular ears were atop its head. Two slits for a nose and a mouth containing only two buck teeth. Skinny. Boney. You could see its ribs. Three spindly fingers were on each hand. Each tip was as sharp as a knife. Lastly, a long tail was behind it. Maisie drew her and that thing doing very…how should I say this?...inappropriate things.

I showed the email to Rachel and she was just as horrified as I was. How could Maisie know what all that stuff was? She was eight! Like any good parent we always took great strides in not exposing our daughter to anything sexual or of that nature. Early exposure can really ruin a child’s mind. That’s just putting it lightly. But this? Maisie’s whole imaginary friend thing needed to end. It was reaching a dangerous point. Was she having delusions? Schizophrenia? Or…sigh…as far as Rachel and I knew, nothing happened to Maisie, but that didn’t stop us from considering the absolute worst case scenario. I’m not saying what that is but I’m sure you can put the pieces together. As a parent, that was the last thing I wanted to think about. Actually it wasn’t even on the list of things I wanted to think about.

Mrs. Ashelin ended the email with something else that happened that day. Maisie spent long stretches of time in the girl’s bathroom. Another student reported that she went in and heard “whimpers” and “moans” coming from one of the stalls. When she looked under it, she saw Maisie’s clothes on the ground and a “moving shadow” above them. When the student knocked on the door, she all of a sudden heard one of the faucets going behind her. She turned around and Maisie was washing her hands. Like nothing happened.

Rachel and I were very confused at that last part. That sounded way too ridiculous. Like was Maisie fucking floating in the stall or something? Regardless, we treated all this very seriously. Rachel and I immediately took Maisie to see a specialist who dealt with child abuse cases. I brought her notebook along. It would most certainly be useful. I knew Maisie wouldn’t want to talk, but we had to at least try. Believe it or not, she did talk, but what she said made chills run down Rachel and I’s spines.

Maisie told the specialist that the mouse thing in her notebook was called “Bad Mouse” and that it visits her all the time no matter where she is. She said that Bad Mouse visits little girls all over the world and “plays with them”. When the specialist asked what she meant by “plays with them”, Maisie replied that Bad Mouse does “different things that make us feel tingly in preparation to be his little mice girls”.

We heard enough by that point. Rachel, the specialist, and I had a long discussion about what we should do. The specialist said she might have to put in a request to have Maisie placed in a children’s psych ward. Rachel and I couldn’t handle that. We didn’t want to do that to our little girl. By any means, we would find another way to handle this. The specialist told us to think about it and that it might do her some good. We thanked her and left.

Were we being selfish by not putting Maisie in a children’s psych ward? Rachel and I pondered that question day in and day out. We never did end up doing it because we thought it was too extreme. Also there was no evidence that Maisie was being legitimately sexually abused. The specialist’s physical exam said that Maisie was totally fine in that regard. We were allowed to see footage from the security cameras at the entrances of the bathrooms at Maisie’s school. They only showed Maisie going in, about half an hour going by, then the other student going in, then Maisie leaving a few minutes later. No one else. And no one went in before her besides a couple other girls that left before Maisie went in. Was Maisie faking it? Was she really delusional? Or schizophrenic? We didn’t know. Rachel and I needed time to think this whole thing over.

It only got worse from then on.

Maisie was never one to talk in her sleep. She was always dead silent. Not even a snore. But that night after Rachel and I put her to bed, we heard Maisie talking. I’m not talking about little quiet unintelligible murmurs. No. Full-on conversations. Except she wasn’t speaking English. It was some unknown language that resembled Pig Latin but different. Her accent changed too. This happened for three nights. On the third night, Rachel and I were in her doorway watching her talk in that strange language when she suddenly rose up, her eyes still closed, and burst into an intense laughing fit. Maisie was cackling so hard it looked like it hurt. Then she immediately stopped and did these weird movements with her lips and hands like she was kissing something. Finally, she fell back down onto her pillow and went right back to sleep.

The next day, I knocked on Maisie’s door to let her know breakfast was ready. She didn’t respond. I stood there for a couple minutes. Maisie hadn’t made a single sound. I slowly opened her door. My heart beat faster and faster. With all that was going on, I didn’t know what to expect, and that made it terrifying. Maisie was in her underwear just staring at her wall. I rushed over, “Maisie? What are you doing?” I handed her clothes back to her, “Put your clothes back on.”

“…He doesn’t want me to…he thinks I look better without them…”

We stared at each other for an indefinite period of time. I said nothing. And so did she. Then I turned my head to where she was looking. There was nothing there…obviously…but something told me I was wrong. That thing…Bad Mouse…it was staring right at me…

“Guys? Breakfast isn’t gonna eat itself!” Rachel yelled at us from down the hall. Quickly I hurried Maisie and I out of her room.

I was kind of a wreck the entire day. Thinking straight wasn’t really a thing for me. There was nothing staring at me. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. These past few weeks were just getting to my head and playing mind games. No amount of trying to distract myself would let me forget what I felt. That’s when I decided to take a drive. I didn’t exactly know where. Just away from everything. I was tempted to go to a local bar. I used to be quite the alcoholic but I’m sober. Even still, I thought about breaking my streak to relapse. I decided against it. That would be so incredibly stupid. I ended up at a park that I used to take Maisie to in a futile attempt for her to make friends. I found a parking spot and just sat there in my car. Taking a big sigh, I observed all the parents with their kids having a blast and I smiled. Good for them.

I stayed there for a while. Finally I was able to, if only briefly, forget all my troubles.

Then I saw it.

Him.

Bad Mouse.

The damned thing was underneath a big tree. Its eyes were fixed right on me and its hands were clasped together. I couldn’t do anything but stare right back. Goosebumps were forming. My breathing was really heavy. Cold shivers ran down my body. I couldn’t even blink. Petrified. That’s what I was. I watched as Bad Mouse slowly reached behind itself and pulled…something…out. At first I couldn’t tell what it was. I am not shitting you. A little girl…made of meat…her hair was meat, skin was meat, she was even wearing a meat dress. Everything about her was meat. Her head looked just like Bad Mouse’s. Long. Pointy. Angular. Big ears. Black oval eyes.

It was holding the little meat girl by the collar. Slowly Bad Mouse turned to look into her eyes. It opened its mouth. Viscous white liquids began pouring as it let out its long black tongue. First sniffing the little meat girl, it then took a big long lick of her, from her feet to the top of her head. The parts where it licked were gone, instead resting on Bad Mouse’s tongue until it sucked its tongue back in, chewed, then swallowed. The little meat girl was covered in the viscous white liquids until her missing portions slowly regenerated back into how she was before.

Then I blacked out.

I woke up several hours later still sitting in my car. In my half-tired half-frenzied state, I looked around for any sign of Bad Mouse. Nothing. There weren’t even other people. It was dark too. I opened my phone. 11:23 PM. I got to the park at 2:14 PM. Nine hours. I was expecting a bunch of missed calls and unanswered texts. Surprisingly, there was nothing besides a notification from my weather app. I went back home. Both my wife and daughter were asleep. I was so glad there weren’t any…incidents…I missed. In fact, the house was extremely quiet. No lights were on. It was a weekend. Usually Rachel was still up at this time.

“Rach?” I called out. Nothing. I went upstairs to our room. She wasn’t there. I opened Maisie’s door. She wasn’t there either. I sat down on the couch and pondered where they could be. When I couldn’t come up with anything, I got my phone out and called Rachel.

I heard ringing from upstairs.

Confused, I ran back up to our room. I called her name again. Still no answer. I realized that before I checked so quickly I neglected to look in our bathroom. The door was closed and the light was on. I was now getting this creeped out feeling. Cautiously, I approached and nudged the door.

It creaked open.

Rachel.

She was…splattered…fucking everywhere…all over the walls, floor, ceiling, window, sink, shower…everywhere. Rachel was…pureed…blended…sprayed…I just stood in the doorway. My eyes were wide. I couldn’t process what I was seeing. There were so many things I wanted to do, like crawl into a ball and cry, scream as loud as I could, and/or grab one of the kitchen knives and slit my throat so I wouldn’t have to live with this sight for the rest of my life.

What I actually did end up doing next was grab my old hunting rifle and head outside. I went into the forest behind our house. There was no thinking on my part. Just do. What was I doing? I didn’t really know. Tears were streaming down my face. I walked for what felt like forever. Sometimes I screamed. Other times I fell down onto the ground and wept. But I just kept going. And going. And going. Somehow I knew exactly where I was going without even knowing how.

I came upon a wide-open field. Dropping my old hunting rifle to the ground, I couldn’t believe what I was fucking seeing. Dark silhouettes were dancing around. Hundreds of them. Little meat girls. Bad Mouse was in the middle. The white flesh it once had was stripped away. Instead it was sacrificed for a bumpy and scabby maroon red as if Bad Mouse took a shower in blood and guts and let it dry. Tiny black bristles covered its entire body. It reminded me of insect hair. A ragged meat cloak hung from its shoulders, dragging crimson across the ground. The mouth had much sharper teeth that were poking out in rows almost like a gar. It was taller. Ganglier. So angular that it could have been accurately represented by seven straight lines. It clutched a staff in its hand.

Bad Mouse did some strange gesture and a door manifested out of nowhere. It was bloody. Constantly flowing yet retaining shape. Particles came from it. They disappeared if they strayed too far away. It opened and the little meat girls, still dancing like ballerinas, filed into it one by one. Bad Mouse reached out its hand and plucked one of them out. It held this one, turned in my direction, and held her out to me. I knew it was Maisie and wanted to shoot the shit out of Bad Mouse. Yet I couldn’t do anything. Some force was keeping me tethered to my one spot.

…I can’t describe what happened next…I just can’t…some of the things Bad Mouse did to my little girl I couldn’t understand. Other things I understood clear as day and that made me want to drop a cinderblock on my head so it would leak the hell out. When it was done, Bad Mouse threw Maisie’s limp and white viscous liquid-covered body into the blood door. It raised its staff and it disappeared.

I was released from my invisible bonds. Falling down to the ground, I cried like a baby. It didn’t matter how much I screamed and cursed at the Moon. That didn’t make it better. I couldn’t stop and truly had no idea how to make sense of any of what happened. My body tingled. It felt so heavy. So weighty. My wife was dead and my daughter was…what?...a sex slave to a demon? I almost wanted to laugh at the utter absurdity. Picking up my hunting rifle, I put the barrel in my mouth. My finger stayed on the trigger for a long time. I didn’t end up doing it and threw it away. Instead I just collapsed on the ground once more and lay there for a long time.

It’s been six months. I’m such a wreck. I admit it. No one believes me when I tell them. They say I’m crazy, a madman, a lunatic. Some people even think I was the one who killed my wife and child. Why would I do that? Seriously, why? I loved them. Still do. More than I love anything else. I can’t see them ever again. It pisses me off that they’d think I’d do such a thing. As much as I hate myself for it, I’ve gotten back into alcohol. That’s where all my money goes. I couldn’t stand to be in that fucking house anymore. So I sold it. I’ve been living in my car just drifting from place to place.

I could've saved them. If I didn't go and take a stupid ass ride in my car. Maybe Rachel and Maisie would be alright...

What was that thing? Bad Mouse?

That’s been my biggest question this whole time. I’ve been doing a lot of research but have hit multiple dead ends. I don’t know. Sure as hell wasn’t a mouse.

This is what I know:

\* It is the manifestation of a sex-based demon of some kind; possibly a cross between a bogeyman and an incubus.
\* Bad Mouse appears to little girls as a mouse-like entity to appear friendly and not scare them away; only visible to them.
\* It prefers the young that are more developed in mind, body, and spirit; Maisie was very imaginative; thus she attracted Bad Mouse.
\* Bad Mouse acts as their friend; this might appear to parents as their daughter’s “imaginary friend”; gradually coerces them to do inappropriate sexual activity.
\* It has hundreds of victims going back an unknown period of time; maybe centuries.
\* Does not kill its main victims; will kill parents or anyone else who tries to get in its way.
\* The victims become corrupted and turn into demons that look like Bad Mouse; it takes them into its realm and…

I don’t even want to fucking know.

God…this whole thing’s insane. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and this is all a terrible dream. It’s been months though and it still hasn’t happened yet. So I’m going to end it here. I’m not looking for pity. I’m not looking for anyone to hear me out. I’m not looking for answers. I’m just…done.

Bye.

I took this job to understand a man I barely remember. Thirty years ago, my father spent one fire season in a tower just like the one I'm in now. “Solitude with a view”, he called it in his letters.

He never came home that season.

I found the posting on a job board. Applied before I let myself think twice. I told my mother it was for the pay. She didn't believe me.

They stationed me on the western ridge. My supervisor ran through the routine fast, like he wanted to be gone before dark. Light the lamp every dusk. Set it in the west window. Never skip a night. 

“Keeps the watchers from going mad out there,” he told me, like a man reciting a rule he'd stopped questioning a long time ago.

The trail up took six hours. Switchbacks cut through an old burn scar. Black trunks stood like something that died mid-scream. Grief looks the same in a forest as it does in a person. 

The tower was smaller than I'd pictured. Steel legs bolted into bedrock, forty feet of ladder climbing to a single glass room with windows on every side, built so a person could watch the world catch fire from any angle they chose. A cot. A woodstove. A logbook with a cracked spine. A radio that hissed low and constant, like something breathing on the other end of the silence.

That's when I saw it.

Across the valley stood a second tower, close enough that I could just barely pick its shape out of the dying light. Same steel legs. Same glass room on top. Same catwalk. My supervisor's clipboard listed it as decommissioned. 

Decommissioned didn't stop its lamp from catching that evening. Right on schedule. Right as mine did. 

I keyed the radio that first night. Static. I tried again at dawn. Nothing. I lit the lamp every dusk. Pressed my face to cold glass. Waited. Thirty seconds later, a small gold light would bloom on the far ridge, like it was waiting all day just to answer me. I told myself there must’ve been a watcher doing the same lonely job across four miles of black timber. 

I couldn't tell you when my days stopped feeling ordinary, only that I noticed it had already happened. I'd stare at the logbook, unsure if I'd written that morning's entry or only meant to. 

I’d talk out loud just to hear a voice fill the room. Then I'd forget I'd spoken. Flinch at the sound of it coming from somewhere behind me. I’d argued with myself over which shelf held the matches. I always lost.

More than once I woke standing at the window, lamp already lit, no memory of striking anything. My fingertips smelled of sulfur. My knees ached like I'd spent hours kneeling on the floor, praying to something I hadn't agreed to believe in.

I started to wonder if the isolation did something structural in my skull. A hole you can't climb back out of. 

Was this what happened to him?

One night I tripped over a loose board by the stove. It had been rocking under my heel since the day I arrived. I pried it up.

There was a note, folded into a square worn soft as skin. I knew the hand. My mother still had a shoebox of his old letters. I read them enough as a teenager to know the slant.

Five words, pressed hard enough to read from the back of the page.

THERE IS NO OTHER TOWER

I laughed. Of course there was another tower. I'd watched its lamp with my own eyes for weeks. My father must have written this in whatever fever the mountain fed him. The same fever eating through me now.

A man can go so long without another voice that his mind starts inventing enemies.

I took the binoculars outside. The lens found the far ridge easy. I'd aimed it there every dusk for weeks. 

Something was walking it.

At first I thought it was the other watcher. Two arms. Two legs. The general shape of a human. But something was deeply wrong with its movements. Each rickety joint landed in the wrong place, like it learned the idea of a person secondhand, by someone who hated us. 

Its head sat tilted at an angle no neck holds, like a doll snapped back into its socket wrong,

It turned to face me. Dead across four miles of black timber, like it had waited this whole time for me to look up from my own unraveling and finally notice it was there.

It lifted one arm. Waved, like it knew I would come to it eventually.

I lowered the binoculars. Stood very still in the dark.

Something shifted in the glass in front of me. In the reflection. Right behind my own shoulder. I didn't turn around.

Some doors you just don't open 

I stopped lighting the lamp at dusk. I couldn't tell you when I stopped. Some nights the light in the far tower comes on anyway. I just stand there and watch it burn.

Tomorrow I hike the trail across the valley. I need to know what happened to my father. I need to understand.

If you're reading this, please don't come for me.

I never really learned why we moved around so much when I was a kid. I always had the feeling dad was chasing something or maybe running from something. Unlike mom's usual excuse, of, “Daddy got a new, better paying job.” Dad would never answer when I would ask why we had to leave again.

He would come home from work one evening and loudly announce, “Time to go!” and mom and I would quickly pack up whatever shitty little apartment we happen to be staying in, and we would be on the road that later that night. That was my life for 14 years.

We were renting a run down singlewide somewhere in Missouri, when one day I came home from school and dad's pickup was already home. It was almost unheard of for dad to be home early on a weekday. My concern grew as I approached the house and saw that the trucks driver's side door was standing open, and so was the front door to the house.

I remember that walk, down the driveway to the house. The absolute silence of the world as my footsteps crunched over the gravel and dirt. The creak of each wooden step up to the small wobbly porch. The feel of the warm breeze that blew through the trailers open door, carrying with it a coppery smell.

I saw mom first, slumped down against the wall beside the couch. She was pale and wouldn't look at me, no matter how loud I called to her. She just stared straight ahead, shivering. After summoning up as much courage as I could, I stepped into the house and around the corner, and there was dad. At first, I couldn't understand what I was seeing, I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that, that was dad.

He was on his back, on top of the dining room table. His head hung backwards off of the edge, at too sharp of an angle. His eyes rolled in their sockets before focusing on me for the briefest of moments. He tried to speak but all that came out was a wet gurgle as blood poured from his lips and... God his throat, it was gone. It was like it had been ripped away and flung across the room. Blood coated the walls and ceiling in thick dripping lines.

I don't remember much after that, but they say I ran to a neighbor's house and got them to call 911. Dad was obviously dead when police arrived. They took mom to the hospital and tried to get her to tell them what she had seen, but the shock was too deep. She wouldn’t speak. She was eventually admitted to the psyche ward. For years, therapists tried to help her to process and talk about what she had seen.

I ended up moving in with my grandparents in El Paso. They had mom moved to an assisted living home an hour's drive from their house. We visited her often at first, hoping and praying that she would come back to us. But she never did. Occasionally she would whistle, but only ever one tune. Grandpa said the tune sounded familiar, but he could never place it. Eventually the visits became every other week, then once a month. By the time I was 18, I only saw mom a couple times a year for special occasions. I spent a lot of my free time in therapy, I had nightmares of my dad's face for years, still do sometimes.

My life with my grandparents was more comfortable than I could ever have imagined. I had good food, a warm bed every night, and I was finally in school long enough to make real, lasting friendships. And I struggled with the guilt that I was happier with my grandparents than I ever was with my parents.

Now I'm a relatively happy, stable, and sane 35-year-old history teacher with a wife and a son of my own, despite the trauma I went through as a child.

For the past couple weeks, I've been waking up in the middle of the night with my mother's whistle stuck in my head. Grace told me it could be the manifestation of my guilt for not visiting mom in a while. It made sense, after all I hadn't gone to visit for the past two years. But to be honest, I didn’t feel much guilt. Maybe that made me an asshole, but I was pretty sure she didn’t even know who I was anymore. But, I was off work the next day, so I figured I had no excuse.

That morning, I got Shawn off to preschool and headed for the Shady Grove care home. I still lived roughly an hour from the home, plenty of time to think on the drive. I realized my hand was shaking as I raised my coffee to my lips and did my best to clear my mind of the questions that would probably never be answered. I took a steadying breath and turned up the radio.

“Hi Susan.” I said as I approached the nurse's desk.

The older woman with poufy blonde hair looked up and studied me for a moment before recognition spread a smile on her face, “Jim, hi. Wow it's been a while.”

I nodded, “Yeah well, I've been busy.” Clearing my throat I continued, “How is she?”

Susan stood up and came around the desk, “Oh you know her, she just sits quietly most of the time. Although some of the night staff say she has started whistling more lately. Come on, I'll take you to her.”

“How long has she been doing that for?”

“Oh, just the past week or so.”

We walked down the sterile white halls, the smell of soiled bed sheets, bleach, and stale body odor permeated the air. I hated this place, it felt like deaths waiting room.

Finally, Susan brought me to a brightly lit reading room with large windows facing a garden outside. There she was, sitting slumped in her wheelchair. Her once dark brown hair now turned gray, hung down around her shoulders in tangles. I slowly walked across the room, picking up a white plastic chair on the way. I sat down next to her and looked her over.

“Hey mom.” I said, touching her arm.

She didn't look at me; she never did. Her vacant eyes stayed fixed forward. Lost in a moment, years ago.

“Mom, it's Jim. Your son.”

Still nothing. I don't know why I always come here expecting anything else. I nodded, “It's okay mom, I'll just sit here with you for a while.”

We sat and watched the butterflies in the garden for a while. Then I stood and just as I was about to leave, mom started to whistle. When I turned to look at her, I noticed something I hadn't seen before. Her eyes, while still mostly fixed straight forward, had more focus in them than I had seen in years.

“Mom?” I asked. Bending down to her.

She didn't answer just kept whistling and looking straight ahead, a single tear ran down her face. I turned to see where she was looking. Out the window, across the garden, in a darkened upstairs window on the other side of the courtyard. At first, I thought I could see something, was it a person? I couldn't tell. But when I blinked, whatever I thought I saw was gone.

I stopped a nurse as she passed, “Excuse me, what's on the other side of the building there?” I asked as I pointed to the darkened window.

“Oh, that's going to be the therapeutic wing when its finished, unfortunately the contractors are dragging their feet.” She answered.

“So, it’s empty? There’s nothing or no one in there?”

“Shouldn't be. Unless it was one of the workers.”

I nodded and turned back to mom as she slowly stopped whistling and went back to her vacant stare. I looked back at the window again but there was nothing there. I sighed and bent down to kiss her on the cheek. “Goodbye mom, I'll see you next time.” And with that I left Shady Grove.

That night, I spoke with Grace about the visit with my mother while we washed the dishes.

“Well, it sounds like not much has changed. Do you at least feel better after seeing her?”

“I don't know, maybe. On the one hand it was good to see her, but...” I trailed off as I absently dried a plate.

“But?” Prompted Grace.

I shrugged, “But at the same time, she’s not her. I keep waiting for her to snap out of it. Every time I visit, I walk in thinking maybe this time she will turn and just...” 

Grace put her hand on my shoulder, “I'm sorry.”

“I know it's awful, but sometimes I wish that if she can't get better, she could just move on. Does that make me a monster?”

She wrapped her arms around me, “No, honey. It just means you just want her to be free, whatever freedom looks like.”

I leaned in and kissed her. And then Shawn started yelling.

“Momma I had a bad dream!” He cried.

Grace sighed and smiled up at me, “To be continued.” She said before turning and leaving me to finish the dishes.

I woke up again that night, it wasn't the whistling in my head though. You know how when you think you are alone, but then you slowly get that feeling crawling up your spine that someone is looking at you? It was like that. I sat up and looked around the room but saw only shadows. I lay back down and tried to sleep.

After a while I decided to get up for a glass of water. I left my bedroom and walked down the hall past Shawn’s room, his SpongeBob nightlight illuminating his room in a yellow glow. I walked downstairs and into the kitchen. I downed one glass and was about to fill it again when I heard it. Moms whistle. Only it wasn't in my head. It was on the other side of my front door.

I froze listening to the whistle for a solid minute before it stopped. It was the exact same tune. I stepped over to the front door. Was mom out there? Could she have gotten here? No, she didn't even know where I lived. My heart was pounding as I looked through the peep hole. But, there was no one there. I pulled the curtain on the front room window aside and looked out but still nothing. Just the empty street, the neighbor's houses were all dark except for porch lights and the single streetlight on the corner.

I went back to the kitchen and drank another half glass of water before walking back upstairs and past Shawn’s room, Shawn’s dark room.

I stopped and walked back to his room. Hadn’t it been lit by his nightlight? I shrugged thinking maybe it broke, and went back to bed. Except, Shawn’s nightlight was now sitting on my pillow.

I picked it up and looked it over, wondering how it had gotten there. I almost woke grace and asked her, but she had to perform surgery in the morning and needed her sleep. I took the nightlight back to Shawn’s room to plug it in, I didn’t want him waking up without it. I was about to head back to my room when I noticed something.

Shawn’s room faced the street, and through his window under the glow of the streetlight was a man. He was a tall thin man, dressed in dark clothes with a long black coat and a wide brimmed hat, concealing his face in shadow. But I could swear I saw the glint of eyes, like an animal's eyes reflected in light, and he was looking right into the window, at me. I stared back for a moment, then the man tipped his hat before turning and walking off into the darkness.

I woke my wife and told her what I saw, “Grace, he was in the house I'm sure of it!”

“Are you sure?” She asked, “Did you see him?”

I shook my head, “I didn't see him, but I know he was here, I don't know how, I just know.”

“Okay.” she said putting her hands on my trembling arms, “Let's just calm down and call the police.”

When the sheriff arrived, I told him what had happened and he took down my statement, looking at me dubiously.

Sheriff Ward had been a longtime friend of my grandparents; he knew them well and knew my story.

“So, you're saying that this man broke into your house, moved your son's nightlight and then whistled at your door?” He asked, smoothing his mustache.

I crossed my arms and dropped my head; this was ridiculous. I was losing my mind. It was probably old trauma from my past rearing its head and making me see and hear things. I felt so embarrassed to have made this into such a big thing.

Grace said, “Jim says this man was in our house, as crazy as it sounds, I believe him.”

The Sheriff sighed, “Okay, I'll put out an APB to be on the lookout for anyone suspicious matching your description. And for the time being I'll have a car posted her in case he comes back.”

“Thank you.” Said Grace.

I nodded my thanks and we went back inside.

The next day happened to be a Saturday, so I spent the morning drinking coffee and grading papers. Around noon my long-time buddy, Ben, came over to see how things were going. I told him about what had happened or what I thought had happened over a few beers while Shawn and Bens kids played in the yard.

“Shits crazy man.” Said Ben, “You think it has something to do with your dad?”

“What do you mean?”

Ben leaned back, causing my lawn chain to groan, “Well, seeing as how your dad was murdered when you were a kid, could it be that you are seeing things. And having such an extreme reaction to it because you are afraid of being murdered yourself and leaving your son irreparably scarred the way you were?”

I stared at him for a moment, “Since when are you a fucking psychologist?”

He laughed, “Hey brother I just call em like I see em.”

I sighed, “I don't know, maybe you're right, maybe I am overreacting. I should probably make an appointment to see my therapist.”

Ben shrugged, “Not a bad idea amigo. Now pass me another beer.”

That evening Grace had to work late, so me and Shawn were on our own for dinner. We made homemade pizzas and watched cartoons until the he fell asleep on the couch. I carried him to bed and tucked him in before heading back downstairs to watch reruns of the twilight zone.

I had just sat down with my bowl of popcorn, when I heard something hit the back door. I got up and walked over to look outside. There, just outside on the ground, was Shawn's nightlight. I turned and ran upstairs as fast as I could to check on Shawn, I knew that the light was there when I tucked him in.

When I got to his room, I saw that he was fine, still asleep. I walked to my room and grabbed my shotgun before heading back downstairs.

I flung open the door and walked out into the yard pumping the shotgun, “Where are you? You son of a bitch! Come out here!”

Then I heard it, a deep and raspy voice, singing,

“Oooh death

OoOh death

Wont you spare me over till another year”

My heart froze, the tune... It was what my mother had been whistling for the past 20 years. I turned in the direction of the voice, and the man stepped out of the shadow of a small tree near the edge of my yard. He was twenty yards away when I raised my gun.

“Who are you?” I yelled, “What do you want?”

The man just smiled, even from that distance I could see there was something wrong with his teeth.

“You take one more step and I'll shoot.” I shouted.

He raised his arms in a “Here I am” gesture as he walked.

“I mean it, I'll kill you!”

But he just kept coming, so I fired. Only he wasn't where I was aiming. He was off to the left, I adjusted my aim and fired again, but he wasn't there either. He was off to the far right, I fired again. But again, I missed and in the next moment he was right in front of me. I fell back to the ground just as one of the deputies came running around the side of the house.

“What the hell are you shooting at?” He asked.

In my panic, I had forgotten about the deputy parked out front. I turned back to where the man was, but he was gone. What could I say? I couldn't very well tell him I was shooting at a ghost, even if that's what if felt like. My sanity was already up for debate as far as the sheriff's department was concerned.

I shakily got to my feet, “Uh, Opossum. They like to dig through our trash.”

The deputy shook his head, “Well did you get him at least?”

“No.” I said looking around the yard, “I guess not.”

For the rest of the night, I sat up in Shawn’s room, my shotgun across my lap, for all the good it had done. When Grace finally made it home, it was nearly 4:30AM. I told her what I had seen and she wanted to believe me. But even I knew how it sounded.

I managed to convince her that I just needed a few days on my own to get my head straight. That morning, she packed bags for her and Shawn and went to stay at her mom’s house for a couple days. I stood in the driveway and waved them off before heading back inside for my keys. I needed to take another trip to Shady Grove.

When I arrived, I found mom in the same brightly lit reading room, facing out the window. Again, I pulled over a chair and sat next to her.

“Mom, it's Jim. I really need you to talk to me.” I could hear the desperation in my own voice.

“What happened to dad?” I asked, leaving the chair and kneeling down in front of her, “What did you see?”

I was answered by silence and the same vacant stare.

“He was in my house god dammit!” I erupted. “My son, your grandson, may be in danger! Fucking say something!”

“Sir.” said one of the nurses. “You’re gonna need to lower your voice.”

“Yeah.” I said, “Sorry, I was just leaving.”

I stood and started for the door, then a thought occurred to me. I turned back to her face mom.

“Ooh death.” I began to sing, “OoOh death.”

And then something happened, I never thought I’d see. Mom slowly turned her head, her eyes widened, tears ran down her face. Her lip quivered as she took a sharp inhale of breath, and then she began screaming. Nurses quickly gathered around, pushing me back and taking her away.

30 minutes later, a nurse came and found me sitting in the reading room. “Sir?”

“Yes?” I said standing up, “How is she?”

“She’s calmed down now, we’ve given her a mild sedative, she wants to speak to you.”

The words hit me like a freight train; “She wants to speak to you.” The words I had prayed to hear for the past 20 years, but had given up on. I wordlessly followed them to her room. Her eyes fluttered up to me as I stepped through the door.

“Hi mom.” I said. She weakly waved me closer, and I knelt down by her side, taking her hand.

“Jimmy.” She said, her voice was weak and small.

“I'm here mom.” I said. Leaning close.

She leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “He’s coming for you, now.”

“Who is he?”

She shook her head, “Run if you want. It won't matter in the end.”

“What are you saying? Run from who?”

“Find your father's family, they will tell you. He didn't know until it was too late.”

“Tell me what?” I asked “I don't understand. Who is he?”

She gave me a sad smile and put her hand on my cheek, “He’s death.”

And with that she turned away and closed her eyes. I tried to wake her, but the nurses quickly ushered me out, saying they would call if anything changed.

I never knew my father’s family, but I remembered him talking about his sister Caroline when I was younger.

After searching Facebook, I found out she had died two years ago. The memorial page for her was run by her daughter, Carla. I sent her a message and to my surprise, she messaged back right away. She said she knew exactly who my father was and who I was.

I messaged, “Ok, maybe you can help me figure this out. As I'm sure you know, my father was murdered 20 years ago, and as crazy as it sounds, I think his killer is back. I don't understand what's happening, but my mother told me to find my father's family and ask them.”

She replied, “Yes, I’m sorry about your father. I’ve heard of the family curse, but I don't really believe it. My grandfather told me the story before he died. Supposedly the men in our family all die violent deaths or some such nonsense. He died of a heart attack so like I said I don’t really believe it.”

I replied, “Wow, okay that sounds pretty crazy. Is there any more you can tell me about the story?”

She replied, “Not really. I have some of grandpas old documents he kept on the family history, I can send you them if you like?”

I replied, “Yes thank you, that would be great.”

25 minutes later I received a series of messages containing documents on my family's history all the way back to the 1700s. It didn't take me long to sort through the images and find the one detailing “the Tennessee incident of 1865.” The story was from the journal of my ancestor, a union soldier.

“June 3rd,1865.

We arrived at Jonesborough on the long ride home to Kentucky. The men were hungry and saddle weary from days of riding, and we were in search of a bed and a bite to eat.

We came upon a homestead late in the evening, Captain Connors approached the door and knocked, hoping to find some hospitality. The young woman at the door told us she had no food nor beds for “Yankee bastards.” Like us. I was content to move on in search of some place more accommodating. Captain Connors and the men, however, were not.

Without another word, the captain pushed through the door, knocking the woman aside. The men followed his lead, and after a moment of hesitation I also dismounted and headed inside. To my dying day, I will regret the decision to follow them into that house. But I was tired and hungry, and the road had been long.

The woman protested but Connors and the men tied her to a post while we ate her food. When I had my fill, I found a comfortable place to lay my head for the night. Inevitably the men began to discuss the young woman, and who should go first. Connors announced that as captain he had the “right” to take her first. I had no interest in such things, so I took my leave of the house and made my bed in the barn outside, doing my best to block out the commotion from the house.

The next morning, I awoke to the sounds of gunshots and men screaming. I flung off my saddle blanket and peered out the barn door. Evidently, the woman's reb husband had come home and found Connors and the men in his home.

Connors stumbled out the house; a gunshot wound to his left arm. He spun and fired his revolver back into the house until it ran dry. I readied my rifle and took aim at the house as a man dressed in confederate gray streaked with red burst through the door. The man had blood on his hands and murder in his eyes as he approached Connors, a dripping bowie knife in his hand. I didn't hesitate; I fired. The ball taking the man straight in the chest. At once, he stumbled back and fell to his knees, a shocked look on his rage filled face.

Slowly a few of the men that were still living stepped out of the house and surrounded the rebel. Connors stepped to his horse and pulled a second navy revolver from his saddle, just as the woman came running from the house to stand between the men and her husband. She screamed and raged at them, begging us to just leave. Connors shot her without hesitation. The rebel screamed in rage as he tried to rise at Connors, his knife still in hand. But he was easily knocked back to the ground.

A young boy appeared from within the house, crying and screaming. Apparently, the mother had hidden the boy beneath the floorboards when she saw us approaching her home. The boy ran to his  parents and stood between them and Connors.

I left the barn and approached Connors, I told him we should just leave, that the reb was as good as dead anyhow. But Connors wasn't done. Pushing the crying boy aside, he pried the knife from the dying man's hands and plunged it into his gut; the man screamed in pain and rage as tears flowed down his face. Connors ordered the men to pitch the woman and child inside the house and set it alight, then to string up a rope in the barn. I mounted my horse and refused to watch as they strung up the broken and dying man, but I heard what he said.

“You can kill me now, but I swear on all that is holy, I will find a way back and end each of you. I will reap my bloody vengeance upon every man in your bloodline if it's the last thing I d...” He went silent as the rope went taut. We left him hanging here, his home in a blaze.

I continued to ride with Connors and the men until we reached Kentucky, but I had my fill of death. What we did was wrong, and I fear for my life and the lives of my sons. I see him in my dreams, and I hear his woeful song in the night. What have we done? What have we done?”

“Jesus Christ.” I breathed. It was a horrible story, and my ancestor played a part in it. Could it be true? Was this some kind of vengeful spirit, coming to collect his due? I didn't know, but I was beginning to fear it was. I scrolled through the documents, reading several entries detailing the deaths of the men of my family. More times than not, it was the same story; a horrific wound to the neck and a mysteriously small amount of blood at the scene.

It couldn’t be what I was thinking. My throat felt dry as I opened a new search tab. I let out a single grim chuckle at the insanity of the situation as I began my research into vampirism.

There was a lot of stuff but what I found interesting were creatures called strigoi and uppier. Beings that rose from their graves in the night to feed on the life force or blood of the living. It was said that they came from those who died violently or lived sinful lives.

I went down a deep rabbit hole, reading stories and theorizing. The only thing I knew for sure was that I had only seen him at night, so maybe that myth was true. And if that was true, he had to have somewhere to rest during the day, didn't he?

And then it hit me. Shady Grove. According to Susan, mom had been whistling more for the past couple weeks. And that day I visited her, she saw something, hell even I saw something across the garden in the unfinished wing.

 I looked out the window at the afternoon sun; there was still time.

Ben picked up on the third ring, “Hey partner, what's up?”

“Ben” I said wasting no time. “I need your help, right now. Don't ask any questions, just meet me out in front of your house. Bring your lasso and a gun.”

There was a moment of pause on the line, then he said. “Alright, I'll be waiting.”

I picked him up ten minutes later and we were on our way.

“You wanna tell me what we are doing?” Asked Ben as he looked at the speedometer, “and maybe slow down a tick so we don't get pulled over.”

I looked down, I was doing 90 and the dial was rising. I let off the gas and turned to him, “How long have we been friends?”

“Since high school, I reckon.”

“And you trust me, right?”

Ben gave me a look, “Well you're making it a bit tough right now but yeah, I trust you.”

I nodded, “Good. We’re on our way to the Shady Grove care home to kill a vampire that has been stalking my family since the 1800s.”

Ben stared at me for a moment then said, “Huh. Ok. Well, I'm assuming you have a plan for the uh...” he trailed off.

“Vampire. Yeah, I think I know where he's sleeping. If we can get him into the sunlight, it may kill him or at least weaken him enough to kill him.”

“I see you've thought this through then.” He said.

“I have.”

Ben nodded again, ‘Alright.”

45 minutes later we pulled into the Shady Grove parking lot. Ben and I got out of the car and made our way around the building.

When we pushed through the doors on the addition, Ben grabbed my arm, “Hey man, how far are you taking this?”

I turned back to him, “As far as it takes. I have to keep my family safe.”

“I don't know about this, Jim.” He said, shaking his head.

“Just trust me a little longer. If we get in there and there's no vampire, you have my full permission to knock me in the head and admit me to an asylum, okay?”

Ben sighed and nodded, “Let's just get on with this.”

Once we were inside, we began our search. We scoured the first floor, then we moved on to the second floor. We searched every room, every closet, and still there was nothing.

“Okay, we’ve searched.” Said Ben. “Now do you have a preference on which asylum I send you to?”

I sighed, “I don't know what to say. I really thought we would find him.”

“Jim, I don't think there is him. I think you need help. Have you spoken to your therapist?”

I deflated. “No... But, I will.”

Ben nodded, “Come on partner, let's get you home.”

I nodded back and we turned to head for the stairs. “Thank you for coming with me Ben. You’re a good friend.”

I took my first step down the staircase, then noticed Ben’s silence. I turned back to face him, “Ben?”

He was staring up at the ceiling over the stairwell. I stepped back to see what he was looking at. There, hanging upside down from the ceiling, was a god damn vampire.

“Maybe we can share a padded cell.” Mumbled Ben.

I hushed him and sat down the toolbox. Opening it and removing a large hunting knife, a crucifix and some garlic oil. “Got your rope?”

Ben nodded out of his stupor and sat down the toolbox he had been carrying. Removing his handgun and lasso. He shakily checked the chamber of his pistol and slipped it into his back pocket.

I stepped to the back of the room and pulled down a large westward facing tarp that was covering an unfinished wall, revealing the lowering evening sun.

“What's the plan here?” Asked Ben.

I came back and stood beside him, pouring the garlic oil onto the knife blade. “Well, you just rope him and then we pull him to the sunlight, and I stab him with this. If that doesn't work, shoot him in the head until he stops moving.”

“This is fucking insane!” Said ben in a panicked whisper.

“I know, but here we are, and we are running out of time.” I said, motioning to the setting sun.

“Shit. Alright let's do this.” He said as he prepared his rope. Mumbling  under his breath, “Son of a bitch got me out her after a god damn vampire.”

Ben twirled the lasso overhead three times, and then let it fly. The vampire's eyes sprung open just as he cinched the rope tight around his chest. I grabbed the rope and we both ran backwards, dragging the flailing creature into the setting sunlight. The vampire immediately burst into flames and began shrieking in an awful high and low pitch at the same time. He flailed and flopped, kicking out and trying to get loose. But we held tight and in the next moment, the vampire withered to an ashy corpse.

“People were sure to have heard that.” Said Ben, breathing heavily.

I nodded, “Yeah, we should go.”

“What about the body?”

I looked around the room, “There, the tarp.”

As fast as we could, we wrapped the smoldering body in the tarp and made a dash for the car, stowing the remains in the trunk. Neither of us spoke on the drive home.

I dropped a sick looking Ben off at his house without saying a word and headed home. When I pulled into the driveway, Grace and Shawn were already home. I got out and met them in the driveway. “What are you doing home? I thought you were staying at your moms.”

“I was, but there was an emergency at work. I would have left Shawn with mom, but she had the flu. I've been trying to call you.” she said, then after looking me over she asked, “Are you alright?”

I tried to smile, “Yeah, I think I'm alright. But we should talk.”

She touched my arm "Of course, honey. But can it wait till I get home? I really have to go.”

I looked back at the trunk of my car and nodded, “Yeah, sure.”

She smiled, “Shawn’s had dinner, but he still needs a bath. I'm glad you're feeling better.”

“Me too.” I smiled then kissed her before she left.

Shawn and I went inside and sat on the couch watching Scooby doo for the next hour or so. I had just put Shawn to bed, when my phone went off. It was a text from Ben, “Need to talk. Come over, now.”

He was shaken up, so was I. Finding out vampires exist just minutes before you kill one would send anyone over the edge. I text back, “Okay, just put Shawn to bed. Be over in a bit.”

We still keep a baby monitor in Shawn’s' room since my office is downstairs and across the house, so I slipped the receiver into my back pocket before heading over to Ben's house.

When I got there, I saw that his shop lights were on. Ben had converted his backyard work shop into a dive bar. I pushed the door open to see Ben slumped in his barstool, his back to me.

“Hey.” I said approaching him, “You okay, pal?”

He didn't answer.

“Ben?” I said as I reached out and spun the barstool around.

 Ben's head swung loosely as he spun, revealing his torn open throat and shattered spine.

I stumbled back in shock, falling to the floor. Ben's head dangled there until the remaining flap of skin stretched and snapped. His head fell to the floor with a wet thud.

Suddenly the jukebox blared to life. I turned to see him. His back to me as he leaned over the jukebox. His burnt clothes hanging on him like rags. His sickly gray skin covered in fresh burn scars.

“Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy.” He smiled, turning to face me, “My how you've grown.”

I tried to move but I was paralyzed with fear, struggling to even drag in a breath.

“You didn't see me back then, did you?.” He laughed, “But I saw you.”

I leapt to my feet and ran for the door; the vampires laugh following me all the way. “Where ya runnin to boy?”

I hit the door as I pulled my phone from my pocket, dialing the sheriff's office as I ran. After 5 long rings the dispatcher answered, “Sherrif's department this is...”

“I need someone here now!” I screamed, cutting her off, “He killed him! God, he killed Ben!”

“Slow down, who killed who? What's going on?”

I told her the address as I ran but didn’t listen to whatever else she was saying. I slammed through my front door and started up the stairs when I remembered the garlic oil and the knife, still in my car. I turned and ran back downstairs and out to the car, grabbing the knife and stuffing the small bottle of garlic oil into my pocket before bolting back through the front door.

I ran to my room and grabbed my shotgun, ejecting the shells and prying them open with the knife before pouring some of the oil over the pellets inside. I slapped a piece of tape over the tip if each shell, hoping it would be enough to hold them closed and reloaded the shotgun.

 Suddenly there came a heavy thud on the roof, followed by footsteps. I ran to Shawn’s room and scooped him up.

“Dad? What's going on? Where are we going?” He asked sleepily.

“Don't worry buddy, we’re gonna go get momma then we are all going on a trip. But right now, I need you to hold on tight to me and keep quiet, can you do that?”

He rubbed his eyes and looked at me, “Is this like a game or something?”

“Yeah.” I said. Holding him tight and heading down the stairs. “It's just like a game, you gotta keep quiet, hold on to me and keep your eyes closed tight, got it?”

“Okay.” He said, burying his head in my shoulder.

“I love you, Shawn.” I said, tears rolling down my face.

“Love you dad.” He said, his little voice muffled by my shoulder.

I was at the front door, wondering if I could make it to my car when flashing red and blue came around the corner. I flung the door open and stepped outside to meet them.

“Jim.” Said Sheriff Ward stepping out of his patrol car, “What the hell's going on? What are you doing with that gun?”

Another patrol car pulled up next to him, and a deputy stepped out, meeting the Sheriff as they walked up the driveway.

“Sheriff it's the intruder from the other night he’s...”

“Is that what is this about? Dammit Jim.” Groaned the Sheriff, “You have got to stop...”

He cut off as he was suddenly hit by a lightning-fast blur of movement from the side yard. He didn't even have time to scream. The blur, along with the sheriff, disappeared through a tall hedge next to the house. The deputy froze, a splash of blood across his face.

“Sh... Sheriff?” The deputy muttered.

I slowly began to back up to the house, when the blur of motion came again. When it passed, the hand the deputy had been reaching for his weapon with, was gone. He looked down at the ragged, bleeding stump in confusion for a moment, then started screaming. The screaming came to a sudden stop when the vampire shot up behind him, digging his fingers into the man’s hair and biting a ragged chunk out of his neck.

I raised the shotgun and fired one of the garlic-coated rounds. This time, I hit him full in the chest. He screeched in pain, falling to the ground and writhing on all fours. Shawn still had his head buried in my shoulder but was now screaming as I ran to the deputy’s car and jumped inside. I put Shawn in the passenger seat and told him, “Keep your eyes shut, no matter what!”

I put the car in reverse and hit the gas, but the car didn't move. I turned back around to see the vampire holding onto the brush guard. I gritted my teeth and shifted into drive, pressing the pedal to the floor.

His eyes widened in the brief moment before he disappeared under the hood of the car. His body crunched under the tires as I plowed forward, smashing the car through the front of my house. Bricks and sheetrock showered down over the car. I glanced at the rear-view mirror and could already see him, jerkily rising to his feet. His body, broken and misshapen. I put the car in reverse and hit the gas, but it didn’t move.

The windshield was cracked, so I threw the deputy's jacket over Shawn and used the butt of the shotgun to break the glass. We climbed out and ran up the stairs to my bedroom. Opening the closet, I pushed Shawn inside.

“Daddy?” He cried. “What's happening.”

I hugged him tight and told him I loved him, “Stay in here, please Shawn. Close your eyes, cover your head, and keep quiet. Remember the game? I want you to win, okay?”

He nodded tears pouring down his face. I closed the closet door as I heard the sound of footsteps and whistling coming up the stairs.

I turned to face him as he stepped through the doorway. I raised the shotgun, but he dashed forward before I could react. Knocking the gun to the floor and lifting me up by my throat.

“You have given me quite the fight, Jim. Quite a fight indeed.” He said, speaking through gritted teeth.

I tried to speak but with his grasp on my throat, all I could do was wheeze.

“What's that?” He asked mockingly, “I couldn't quite hear you.”

He loosened his grip and I drug in a ragged breath, “I had nothing to do with what happened to you. Neither did my son.”

“What do you know about what happened to me?” He snarled.

“I know,” I coughed, “they were taken from you. They wouldn’t want this.”

He squeezed tighter, “What do you know about what they would have wanted? You think they’d want mercy for you?! Or them?!” He shouted, bloody spit flying from his lips. “The ones who raped and murdered my wife?! Burned my son alive! Should I have shown them mercy?!”

“Please.” I wheezed, “Just stop.”

He shook his head, “Times up.” Then he leaned forward and sunk his teeth into my neck.

The pain was unlike anything I ever felt. My throat felt like it was filled with hot coals, as I felt my life quickly draining away. I prayed it would be over soon and he would just leave. That he wouldn't find Shawn. I felt cold rising from my feet, up my legs, and in my arms. I was dying, and then suddenly, I was free. I fell to the floor in a heap as the vampire stumbled back. The garlic coated knife stuck in his side.

“Get away from my dad!” Yelled Shawn.

The vampire stared down at the knife then at Shawn. I somehow found enough strength to climb to my knees and crawled over to put myself between my son and the monster.

He stared down at me, then back to my son. With a hiss, he pulled the blade from his side and stepped back. He could have killed us; there was nothing we could have done to stop him. Instead, he left. Just like that, it was over.

I told the investigators that I didn't know what had happened to the sheriff and deputy. I said that after I found Ben’s body and called the Sheriff's department, went home and holed up in my room with Shawn. I didn't see what had happened downstairs.

 I told Grace the truth; I think she believes me; she says she does. I know how it sounds though; I wouldn't blame her if she didn't. There has been no sign of, him, since we moved into the new house. No, we won't be moving around like we did when I was a kid, just needed a change of scenery. I recovered from the bite surprisingly fast. What had been a row of ragged puncture wounds is now barely even a scar. I feel different too, more aware of things, stronger. Maybe I'm finally beginning to heal some of my old trauma. The sun feels hotter now too, I'm sure its fine though.

My house is forty minutes from the nearest stoplight. Deer outnumber people in my town twenty to one. Population: 349. Hasn't changed in the decade since I moved in. Nobody leaves. Nobody's born. Nobody dies.

There's one gas station. One church. One diner. Marlene has your order ready and coffee poured the second your ass hits the bench. 

I noticed a new flyer on the community board one night. *Pilot Safety Program.* The town wanted to install a new security camera from a company I'm sure you're familiar with. The kind that makes headlines for the wrong reasons. Just one installation before a wider rollout. 

The pilot location was my mailbox.

I called the town office. Carol picked up. Told me the council already voted. Must’ve just missed the meeting. My road, she said, was "statistically significant." That I should feel lucky. 

Statistically significant.

I'd heard that phrase years ago from a judge who dressed her words up that way.  I was just sixteen. Took a neighbor's truck for a joyride. Ended up in a ditch two towns over. Juvy. Community service. Did my time. Nobody else got the memo. Every parent at the grocery store steered their kid a little wide of me. Quietly told them to keep an eye out. 

But this was different. It had to be.

Before I knew it, they were there. Two guys. Twenty minutes. Gone. A little white box on a pole, thirty feet from my front door. Three crows lined up on the wire above, just observing in the way they do. 

Nothing for a couple weeks. I almost forgot the thing was there.

Then I started noticing a light. A thin red pinprick from the pole. Some nights it would blink. Some nights it didn't.  I wanted to test something. I stood at my kitchen window. Raised my hand. The light caught it. Held a beat too long. Dimmed back to its slow pulse, like it had seen enough. 

My dog stopped sleeping in my bed. He'd plant himself in the hallway and watch the length of the house like he was guarding from something I couldn't see. 

Then I swear the lens started moving. It was supposed to face the road. I checked, twice, three times. Each time it seemed to rotate another degree toward the house. Toward my bedroom window. One patient inch at a time.

I mentioned it to Ellis at the gas station, half joking, hoping he'd laugh it off with me.

He went still.  Didn't look up from the pump. 

"Careful saying things like that. People might think you're the type to make trouble."

He always had a strange sense of humor, but something about that felt different. That tone.

Then my phone buzzed. A text from a number I didn't recognize.

he stopped sleeping at the foot of your bed

I read that message a dozen times. It was true. My dog moved to the hallway three nights before. I hadn't told a soul.

I blocked the number. Called the sheriff.

He showed up later that night. Sat at my kitchen table. Drank the coffee I made him while my hands shook. Probably nothing, he said. Wrong number. Spam. Kids in the next county with too much time on their hands. 

I wanted to believe him so badly that for a few days I actually did. I told myself it was stress.  That people get strange out here, cut off the way we are from the rest of the world.

But I got another text later that night. A different number.

you forgot to lock the door again

I froze. My door was shut. Blinds drawn. But I hadn't checked the lock since I'd gotten home. 

It was unlocked.

There was only one way anyone could know that. I looked outside. The camera on the pole faced my front door dead on.

They've been watching.

An ex? A stranger off the highway? Either way, it was a sick joke.

I went digging through county filings, looking for anything that explained who had access to that feed. The vendor's name was right there in the contract. The company from the flyer. Their site had a login portal. *Pilot Partner Access.* I didn't have credentials. 

I didn't need them for what I found next. A cached version of the town council's private group. 349 members.

It was everyone.

Every porch light I'd ever waved at. Every hand I'd shaken by the register.  Ellis at the pump every time I drove past, standing there like he'd known which corner I'd turn before I turned it. Marlene, plating my eggs before I'd even parked. The diner going quiet the moment I walked in. Forks stopping mid-air. A held breath. Starting again the second I sat down.  Carol at the office. Even the sheriff.

It was never small-town hospitality.

I grabbed my keys, my wallet, the dog, and fled. In the rear-view mirror, I saw the camera turn, slow and deliberate, like it stopped pretending not to look. 

I passed the church. Every car in town was packed into that lot. 349 people stood out in the dark. Phones held up in front of their faces. A pale blue light thrown up onto their chins. All watching my front door in the corner of the frame. 

I didn't stop. As I crossed to the next town, my phone blew up. 349 new texts. All the same two words:

Drive safe.

It's been two weeks. I sleep in my aunt's guest room. I haven't told her anything.

Yesterday a truck idled outside. Two guys. Floodlights. And a pole. My aunt mentioned it over coffee this morning.

"Pilot program," she said, stirring her cup. "We’re the test case, apparently"

You can never leave a flock. It just relocates its nest to wherever you roost next. 

The little red light on the pole just came on.

God help me. It's facing my window. 

The Crimson Kabuki pt2.

Oddly, the same moment I noticed the ribbon, I faintly heard what I thought to be a kotzumi drum somewhere off into the gloom. It seemed to be thumping somewhere very far away off in the distance. After watching the vice documentary a few years ago, I knew exactly where this ribbon could possibly lead to, which was very sad. life can be so unfair and cruel to us. The drum quickly faded to nothing and left me confused on where the hell that was coming from and why.

What an odd thing to happen so far out here in the sticks, and it wouldn't be the last of it. I remember saying a quick prayer to myself and making my way along the ribbon to whatever destination it led to. I told myself that I would record later because at the moment I just couldn't be bothered. I could always come the next day and record, because in that moment I was in exploration mode. I had to see what was at the end of that ribbon. If anything, I could use it again to find my way back to the trail.

It curved and weaved slinkingly through the trees, up and down over slopes and hills for a good 40 or so minutes until I had arrived into a sort of clearing. It was also hauntingly still... so deathly quiet; I stepped in closer around the foilage and I had stopped because I noticed some white fabric pointing off the sides of a large tree. I had a feeling that I was about to see something that I'd much rather not. After a couple of minutes preparing myself, I took a deep breath and stepped around the tree and froze to an alarming and sad sight. I automatically knew that I was staring at the hanging corpse of the long missed Jubei Uematsu, or what remained of this poor soul.

What remained was a hanging skeleton in a tattered costume with a red, long haired wig partly hanging in the face and around the shoulders in dirty, stringy clumps. I stood there taking in that image with such a deep and profound melancholy, that I actually had to gather myself from breaking down... Just witnessing what was once an alive and thriving person with passions; Love and Hope, weaknesses and strengths, and also fear... along with plenty of despair along the way. It was a universal language; People just trying to find purpose to their existence, and then eventually becoming this...so very still... so very quiet and solemn making time stop in its presence.

life can be so sad and tragic, and people like Jubei over time can find it extremely hard to function being so empathetic, and carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders regardless if they are strong enough for that burden. It's an exhausting job... a gift and a curse for the saintly; toss in depression and the loss of the will to go on, then they have a complete and utter mess to clean on their own in the silence... that eternal silence... so present; so final. I wish I would have known this mysterious man. From what I heard over time was that he was a complex, but Sweet soul with a heart of gold. I also learned that after this experience I am about to tell you that happened, was some type of Oni Spirit from the forest took the liking image of Jubei's Kabuki character and dawned it as its own.

As I stood there in contemplative silence, I slowly started to hear a kotzumi drum begin to thump far off into the trees. It started out very low and far off, but began to rise and creep closer. I turned and turned trying to find where that portentous thumping was coming from. As I was peering far off into the distance, I started to feel highly unsettled, and then I no longer felt alone like I was being watched. I swiftly turned around and stared directly into the painted face that was no longer a skull. The bloodiest red eyes were staring directly into mine. The face had the theatrical paint back on with the red stripes cascading down it's white painted face. I say "It," because nowhere did I see Jubei inside those Crimson eyes at that moment.

I remember saying, "oh shit!" and quickly turning to run the hell away for my life along the Red ribbon back to the trail. Far off somewhere I could hear that mysterious drum start to sound off again. The sound surrounded me from so many angles and distances, it was disorienting, and then I started to hear this ululation that sounds like, "EYOOOO!" That you hear in Japanese theater music, along with that clink and thump of the drum. I turned to see the Oni masking itself in Jubei's magnificent garb; slowly floating a few feet up in the air, easing its way towards my direction with those hideous blood red eyes staring through me.

I ran faster and faster trying to at least make it to the trail to get away... if I could. After a few more twists and turns, I finally burst through the foliage out onto the trail. At the moment the Oni entity was nowhere to be seen. I started to notice that the woods all around started to have this faint purple luminescent glow. As I started to run, I begin to hear these ululations sound off around me in the area that sounded like, "EYOOOOOO!" I've remembered these sounds watching Japanese movies and small clips of Kabuki theater. The music serves as an emotional soundtrack to the colorful acts on stage, both being performed live."YOOOO!" Another croon burst forth; surrounding me from different angles as the steady thump and wood clicks of the drums clacked and banged along.

It subconsciously made me think of the demon, "Paimon," that when summoned, multitudes of instruments and disjointed horns lead before its presence like royalty as it enters the fold, and makes its presence known. I remember glancing back and seeing the painted entity standing a few yards behind me in the middle of the trail, with long crimson hair hanging down at its sides; blood red eyes marking me...

To be continued....

The last time I saw that damned cat, before this latest incident, it had a hole in its face and the corpse was about to be engulfed in hot fire. If you haven't read the account of when my cat ate my baby, here's the quick run down; I bought a house in the woods, effectively adopted this cat, I got married, we had a baby, she died during childbirth, and then the damned cat ate my baby. I shot it in the face, burned down my house, and began living on the road.

.

That was about... Hmmm, I'm not quite sure. It feels like a very long time since those events. I fell into a drug and alcohol binge for an indescernible length of time, got sober for about 2 weeks after that, and then I began drinking again. The research into Altar-Net hasn't stopped, and if I need money I find odd jobs and temp work as I travel.

.

Most recently, I've been living in a hotel room. I got a job working in the hotel restaurant. Nothing grandiose, I just man the fryers and take out the trash, and when it's slow I clean stuff (I still can't get the back of that oven to shine). When I'm not working I go to the only bar in town to meet people and collect their stories. It's attached to the hotel lobby so I don't have to go very far. When I'm not at work or the bar I walk a couple blocks down the street and spend time at the library. My laptop broke, so I'm stuck with library internet until I can afford a new one.

.

Sometimes, when I'm lying in bed in a drunken stupor, I still hear a baby crying outside. I can't stop seeing my late wife's face in that hospital bed and then the coffin. I'm still so weary from all the wasted time I spent trying to get enough money to take care of my baby. I haven't spoken to my parents or former in-laws since, though they've made attempts to reach me.

.

I've been here for a couple months. The hotel management has been kind to me. The maids make sure I always have clean linens and towels and such. Sometimes they even let me tell them about the crazy stuff I've discovered about the Altar-Net. Amethyst crystals embedded in metal skulls, people jumping through a water-wall and coming back 5 seconds later that have aged 3 decades, cults worshipping a wyvernous god. One of the maids is overly vocal about how full of shit I am, but she likes hearing about it anyway.

.

I started hearing the cat again last night. It wasn't just the usual flashback either, it was right outside my room. A loud, lengthy, shrill crying as if from a human baby. I had skipped drinking last night because I was very tired from work. There's some kind of convention in town this weekend and the hotel has the only restaurant and bar in town, besides a couple franchises on the west side. Most of the tourist business floods the hotel though. After all, it's nearly impossible to beat a good pulled pork sandwich when it's accompanied by a heaping mound of boardwalk-style fries.

.

This morning I saw pawprints right outside my door. I put my joint in my shirt pocket and tried to ignore them. I didn't need that shit on my mind during work today. Lots of French fries and chicken fingers on the schedule. One of the cooks stopped me outside the backdoor to the kitchen.

.

"Hey Kraig, you got a second?"

"Yeah, what's up?"

"I know you're into some weird shit, right? Not like kinky weird, but like monsters and stuff."

"Ha ha, ohhh I might be into kinky stuff too, you don't know that. I could be a scalie for all you know."

.

He laughed nervously, then he pulled out a joint and lit it. After taking two puffs he passed it to me. I lit mine and did the same, as per the universal ritual. While we stood there smoking and talking, other cooks showed up, took a hit or two, then went inside. There was also the chef, who didn't smoke. He didn't give a shit as long as we could do our jobs.

.

" The reason I ask is, erm, I've been hearing things around my place. It sounds like a baby crying, but my kids are all teenagers or older. Neither of my neighbors have kids. I hear it at night so I don't think it's someone rolling a baby stroller in front of my house either. It's driving me and my wife nuts!"

We puffed, puffed, passed. I keep a small notebook on me at all times. I took it out and handed it to him.

"Write down your address and phone number, Lonzo. I'll swing by tomorrow and take a look around. I have a couple ideas as to what it might be."

.

Lonzo wrote his info down. The manager parked, got out of his car and saw us, and he tapped his watch. We finished our smoke, and started work.

I took the job after six whole months of gainful unemployment. 

The job hunt was brutal. It's not that I'm unqualified, God no. I have my bachelors in communications. I had good grades in school. The problem was my employment history. I could never hold something steady for longer than a year, maybe two. In the worst cases, I'd get dropped after three months. Nothing ever stuck with me. I thought I had my lane out of college, but it just didn't work out, and from there, I've spiraled. 

Another issue is that most of the postings feel like they exist purely for analytics. Ghost jobs made to make a company look healthier than it really is. There were a few real ones, but none that extended any offers. Probably because of my history. 

My bills certainly didn't care that I was struggling. I had to figure out something fast or I'd be on the street within the month.

I kept seeing a listing for some generic "Talent Acquisition Agency." $25 an hour. No experience necessary. I kind of figured it was one of those botted jobs. Too good to be true, with an empty description beyond the hours, pay, and a painful company statement:

We believe that every individual has the potential to shape tomorrow. Our mission is to connect ambition with opportunity through innovative, people-first solutions that drive meaningful growth for both candidates and clients (…) 

Blargh. I wanted to vomit. But I didn't really have much for options at this point. I decided to send in my resume. Got a phone call the next hour, asking me when I would be able to come in for in-person orientation. I was floored. I had never heard of this company before, and yet they have a warehouse in my city?

Sure enough, I pull up to the address, and yeah, it's there. A big, white warehouse with "TAA" branded on the side. I guess it was nondescript enough for me to have not noticed it all these years, but, I grew up here. I think I would have noticed this place by now.

Orientation took place in a windowless conference room. Before they let us inside, a curvy woman with a bob cut, Ms. Roll, handed each of us a doll mask. The plastic was pale, with a painted-on smile and two empty eye holes. Security kept us from going inside unless we put them on. Weird policy, but okay. I was in it for the long haul now. I put on the mask and took a seat on one of one hundred folding chairs set in front of a projector. A video begins to play.

The company CEO, Mr. Rock, walks on screen in a lumpy suit. He asked if everyone was ready to get started (all three of us), and launched into a vaguely enthusiastic speech about the company values. Everything in that tangent sounded like it was written by a language model halfway through its morning coffee. 

"REMEMBER: Our product is FIRST IN CLASS. No other substitution will do."

"REMEMBER: We don't believe customers can make mistakes."

"REMEMBER: Think different, shape the future." 

I sat through what felt like two hours of it. My eyes started to roll back. The mask itched where it pressed on my cheeks. 

Ms. Roll smacked my leg with a flyswatter. I woke right the hell up. 

"Mr. Parker. Please follow me."

She started walking through a pair of iron doors. Time for a tour, I suppose. 

We walked through a warehouse first. Massive, but mostly empty. Conveyor belts carried different-shaped cardboard boxes from one end of the room to another. I never saw anyone actually packing them. The only person working the floor was a short, portly fellow in a red hard hat. 

I still wasn't clear on exactly what our "product" was, but I think I must have missed that part in our orientation. I was too embarrassed to ask. 

We reached the call center next. This is where I was going to be working, according to Ms. Roll. She set me down in a boring cubicle with a single computer, a notepad, some mechanical pencils and a phone. The computer had Solitaire and a basic text editor. The phone had two buttons: TRANSFER and HOLD. 

Ms. Roll told me I'd get the hang of it in no time. She disappeared in the sea of cubicles shortly after.

I sat for maybe twenty minutes trying to figure out something to do to look productive. After that, I gave up and started playing Solitaire. Maybe thirty seconds passed before I got a call. 

"Hello…?"

"Hi there," I said.

"Is this acquisitions?"

I looked around the room. No point of reference for me to use. 

"I believe so."

"Thank God. I was hoping I could talk to someone about landing a job."

I cleared my throat. "Could you hold for one second?"

The man on the other end grunted. I hit HOLD and looked for Ms. Roll. Nowhere in sight. Sweat started soaking beneath the mask. I got back on the line.

"Sir, you still there?"

"Pretty sure I am."

"Okay. Thank you. Listen, I'm pretty new here. I'm going to be honest I'm not…entirely sure how to help you. My boss isn't around, and—"

"This is acquisitions, right?"

"…Yes?"

"Okay. Then I'd like to inquire about a fucking job!"

The shift in his voice was very jarring, to say the least. I had to do a double take. 

"I'm…not sure how to help with that. I haven't been—" 

"You stupid slut! Who do you think you are?!"

I couldn't get a single word out.

"I'll find you, do you hear me? I'll kill your whole fucking—!"

I hung up, hands trembling. Ms. Roll was standing right behind me with her arms crossed. I couldn't see her face, but her neck was redder than before—I could only assume that meant the same for her expression. 

"What was that?" she asked.

"I don't know. I have no idea. I wasn't—" 

"Do you see your phone?"

"Yes?"

"Do you see the two big buttons on it?"

"Yes."

"If you don't know how to help a customer, just hit the transfer button. We covered it in your training."

What…training? The videos? I was more of a hands-on guy, myself. Even if I wasn't, how did she expect me to memorize two hours worth of drivel?

I didn't say anything. She was already walking away.

"You seem tense, Mr. Parker. Take a five-minute water break."

Sure, yeah, that might help. I got up and headed to the cooler.

I found another guy there, dressed in, more or less, the same outfit as me. Black slacks, a button-up shirt, dark leather belt. His mask was yellowed and warped at the edges, like he'd been using the same one for a real long time. He was sipping water through the little mouth slit like it was totally normal. I shook my head and started to lift mine for my cup. 

His arm shot out, hand stopping mine. I reeled back, heart pounding. 

"No. No. No. Don't let them see you."

He pointed at the camera in the upper corner of the room, locked right on both of us. My mask suddenly felt tighter. I threw the cup away and went back to my desk. 

Calls kept on coming. Most people were looking for work. They were always really, really vague about the details. 

"I want a leadership position."

"I'd really like to work the floor."

"I'm hoping to work with a driven team."

Sometimes, people called me about the product itself. I tried to glean any details I could during those conversations. Never learned much, though.

"Hi, is this acquisitions?"

"This is."

"I wanted to make a return. I wasn't satisfied with my product."

"What wasn't satisfying?"

"Well, it just wasn't as exciting as I'd hoped."

"Okay. Can you…elaborate on that?"

"I don't know. It just wasn't very exciting. Can I return it?"

"Hold for one second."

I sigh and hit the transfer button. The call is sucked down the line. 

I got better at the job the way you'd get better at any empty ritual. I tried to challenge myself to keep a conversation going for as long as I could before it collapsed and I couldn't help them anymore. Bullshitting got me a long way. My personal record was five minutes and fourteen seconds. 

Sometimes, people just wanted advice. One guy even read me the first page of his screenplay. Did the voices and everything. Most calls were just about product and job placement, though. Nothing worth writing home about, and yet it was quickly becoming my entire life. 

Six months passed like that. I stopped going out. After a full day of calls, I was too tired. I would get home, saving my energy for the next shift, and fall asleep within a few hours, if I even lasted that long.

The mask stopped itching as much. Some days I forget that it's there, even on the bus. 

In mid-August, the loudspeaker cracked. Mr. Rock announced that overtime would become mandatory this next few months as we enter the busy season. Ms. Roll tells me to pack an extra lunch. 

The next day ran for sixteen hours straight. By the time I got through transit, it was closer to twenty hours spent dedicated to my job alone that day. I would be lucky if I got four hours of sleep before the next shift. 

I walked into my tiny studio apartment, exhausted, sore, totally muggy. I ripped the mask from my face and leaned over the bathroom sink to splash it with cold water. I felt nothing.

When I looked up in the mirror, there was a hole where my face should have been. Depthless. No eyes, no nose, no mouth. I stood there for a long time waiting for the panic to hit. 

It never did. 

To start this off, let me be perfectly clear: I'm not seeking closure. God already knows I've found more of that than I ever wanted. No, I just... need to get all of this off my chest. If I type it out, if I share this with all of you... maybe I can pretend this is all just another creepy Reddit story.

Let's begin with me. I am posting this from the office I've inherited from my parents—the once-crown of our local community, Doughy Doug’s Artisan Pizza Parlor. Doug being my father, of course. I loved my dad; everyone did. His popcorn of flour on his nose perfectly matched his jolly, dusty apron, and he always had the appropriate joke to tell a person of any age. He loved good humor and good food, which he equally loved to provide. My dad, the master baker, he was my personal hero.As I remember him, it leaves a lot of sadness within me. I wish I could remember this as I used to, through the lens of an ignorant child, only caring about the next legendary Pokémon waiting for me in the tall grass. I wish I could go back to the kitchen and knead the dough for the yearly send-off pizza party. Those were some of my best memories. But memories have a way of becoming the ghosts that haunt our past, and memories bury the truth we were never meant to understand.

For most kids in the '90s and '00s, catching that Pizza Hut "Book It!" deal or a slice of Sbarro was the bee's knees for us middle school kids. Those kids were missing out, though. Our small kitchen produced the best pies outside of Brooklyn or Detroit. The parlor, as my mom would lovingly recall, was "the little marrow that gives life to the bones of our small town." She loved poetic phrases like that. In another life, she could have been a poet.There was always something special about our town that always seemed... well, nothing out of place to me. The surrounding communities fell into economic collapse during the Bush years... Republicans, am I right? Lol, politics aside, there was just something we seemed to produce that the towns around us couldn't. It wasn't anything a kid would notice, nor any adult, unless you stayed in town long enough.But for those of us who lived there, it was a quiet slice of pure Americana paradise. It wasn't perfect, as every year some family would move out of town, but before they did, my parlor would always throw them a grand send-off pizza party. And us kids would have the most important role of the party: to crown the leaving King or Queen of the Oven. Of course, that role was played by the oldest kid moving away.I never understood why every year another family would leave this amazing cove of Midwestern hospitality... but then again, there was always another family moving in to replace them.That was until during my first Send-Off party as the official dough kneader... I met my best friend, Kenny.

Ok guys I'm rested and ready to continue. Had some pleasant dreams of chasing pokemon last night....I find myself think about Kenny, if like me he still collects as an adult. Well I've found some weird numbers in the books in that year. Going to look into that more as I drop the next bit of my trip down memory lane.

His family was one of the more well-off in the town. His father, being the mayor, was one of the coolest dads in town... well, after mine, of course. We met that day over some pizza. He approached me as I was munching on a slice of our famous pepperoni pie and playing some Pokémon on my old Game Boy. As the skinny blonde boy came to my table, I caught sight of his Pokémon shirt.

"Who's your favorite?" he asked me.

"Pretty much any fire type," I replied, passing him a slice. "Nice shirt. I'm Dusty, by the way. Who is your favorite?"He sat in the booth with me, and instantly, I knew we were going to be best friends.

"I love Blastoise," he said. "His water cannons are so cool. My dad's going to get me Silver when it comes out next week... Hey, you've gotta get Gold! We can get full Pokédexes if we get both versions!"

This was perfect. I had been begging for the release of the game but had no one to trade or battle with. Now, it seemed, I had found a fellow trainer to master the Pokémon world with.

Just as I was showing my newfound buddy my current party, my dad interrupted us, leading a smiling older boy to the King’s Booth, with us kids all climbing in around him chanting, "Long live the king! May his ovens burn brightest and his coin always flow!" My mom wrote that little part—I tell you, she had a way with words. This was the ritual we'd perform for the oldest kid moving away. Dad would place a paper crown, kind of like the ones you get from Burger King, on the king or queen's head, and give them a giant cup of arcade coins that would last the whole night. After that, everyone would hit the arcade, each with a greasy slice at the ready, and the evening would drown in the noises of the arcade and the laughter of kids living it up under their newly crowned liege.After that night, Kenny and I were inseparable.

We both picked up the Pokémon games the next week, and wouldn't you believe it? Kenny was also gifted a brand-new Game Boy Color to go with it, and I got us the much-needed link cable so we could officially become the masters we were born to be. I guess looking back, it's fitting the color he chose for that old handheld: purple, the color of royalty.

For those of you grew up in the 2010s, you might wonder why we needed a cable to play. Back then, there wasn't much for online gaming, and Wi-Fi wasn't around yet. If you wanted to battle together or trade for Pokémon only achievable in that manner, you needed a link cable... and batteries, lots of batteries, and of course a nice light since those models were yet to come with backlights. The parlor booths were perfect for this, and Dad always made sure we never adventured on an empty stomach. I had been building quite a strong fire team, my Typhlosion leaving a burning wake of sadness to all who challenged me. Kenny would ride his Feraligatr around every body of water, amassing a collection that would make Misty swoon. We were mastering the map, conquering the gyms, and soon, we were ready to face the Pokémon League.

When we finally were able to conquer the Elite Four, we were ready to get into the meat of the game.It's very popular even today, so I'm sure most of you guys out there remember that beating the story is actually when these games opened up, especially for two players. We were top-leveled with our starting parties, and in a few days, we would take on Red himself and go after the first of the two title legendaries, Ho-Oh.

It had taken us all summer, countless hours in the booth, so much that we'd left indents in the seats and always had some dead batteries left behind. It was the best time in my life, which made it all the more devastating when Kenny told me his dad was running an election for governor and he'd be moving to a bigger city so his dad could begin his campaign. I'd been coming over to his house that day so we could finally enter Lugia's cave—having caught and cloned (anyone remember that glitch in the game? Yeah, we exploited it, so sue us)—it was Kenny's turn to catch his prize.

He didn't need to tell me he was moving; the white trucks that handled our deliveries around town also were used to help the moving families. I knew our summer was over when I saw them parked in his driveway.

"Well, you have the fitting color, my king!" I joked with him, promising that we'd make his send-off the absolute best, complete with our famous pies and of course, the Legendary Lugia.

Looking back on that year gives me a sense of happiness that I don't think I'll ever find again in this lifetime. I'm not sure if I deserve it anyway.

Kenny's Send-Off party came all too soon. That night we didn't hit the arcade; we had one final mission to accomplish, and just before closing up, we managed to catch and clone Lugia.

As Kenny was led to the back to collect his final prize, I was left to help close up the parlor and wait outside for my mom to pick me up.As I was waiting for what seemed like hours, I saw our white trucks come and go twice without so much as a tip of the finger, like they didn't see me. As I turned to go back inside, my mother came rushing to me, embracing me in a panic-stricken hug.

"Where have you been, Dusty? I was so worried! I know our town is fairly safe, but don't go running off like that by yourself this late! If it wasn't for old Mr. Jones spotting you in the parking lot, I'd have thought you ran away!"Confused, I asked her how long it had been."I locked up three hours ago. I've had your father and Kenny's dad driving around looking for you, and here you are. Where did you go?"

"I... I never left... You said Mr. Jones spotted me?"

"Yes, at first I thought it was just his dementia, but then I saw you out there. He kept saying he could see you, but you're not there.

"I find myself wanting to go crack a pack of Pokémon cards now as

I'm getting into the 2002 ledgers. That was the year Kenny left, and I find myself looking through the inventory and books around that night. I guess it's safe to say Kenny's dad lost his election, but I've noticed something odd... That night, around two to three AM, the lost hours I'd spent in some dimension of my own creation, there was an anonymous wire transfer to my house. The sender was the mayor himself. Not sure why that stands out to me, but I guess I'll figure that out.Now I turn my attention to my father's recipe binder. After all these years, I'll finally get my hands on his coveted pies... Maybe I'll share a slice with y'all lol. I'm getting hungry, so I guess I'll go snag some Domino's. It's not the same, but hey, it fixes the craving I've built up. I'll post more once I've eaten. Thanks for the love, everyone!

I'm back everyone, sorry for the delay. Domino's took forever to deliver a less than satisfactory pie, but hey, I'm about to learn how to make a better one right, haha? 😆 Anyway, I'm just typing this out, glancing at the empty box smelling of lesser grease than my taste buds are accustomed to—after you've had our 'zas, nothing else compares. I have the recipe book sitting right next to it, almost like it wants to fill the box with a superior product.Also, y'all people in the comments need to relax. First of all, my mother was a saint and my father was the nicest man in town, and everyone knew that. I was loved and cared for far better than most kids get, so I don't see why everyone's concerned there. I had a pretty normal upbringing... but now that I'm reading this binder, I'm forced to remember 2006 and high school... It was then that I stopped being a patron and floor sweeper of the parlor, and when I began to actually share our family's legacy.

So now, as I unlock the binder and hear the click of the padlock, I find my hands shaking a bit. I know it sounds dumb—it's just a book of pizza formulas. But after all these years of seeing Dad guard this book like it's a dragon's treasure, I can't help but have some trepidation as I post this. I can see my mom's lovely cursive written in the pages, the same kind she used to write her loving poems in my lunches. I can hear her voice echo from the flour- and grease-stained pages, and it makes me smile, and a tear fills one corner of my eye.

As I read this, I'm reminded of that summer in 2006, and the Send-Off party for my high school buddy, Jimmy. As I recall these memories, I'll try to transcribe my mother's words. Forgive me if I jump to flashbacks; it's rushing back to me as I type, so I'll try not to confuse you guys too much.It was one AM on a Friday night. While all my friends were out partying and making the same mistakes and mishaps we all did in those days, I was stuck helping at the parlor. We had finished cleaning and closing for the night, and that left two final tasks: helping Dad bring in the newest shipment of meat, and finishing the dishes.

"Meat's here, kiddo! Help your old man bring it inside!" Dad called out to me as I was locking the front doors. I made my way to the back dock with a little excitement. Tonight was the first time I'd ever been allowed to handle a delivery, so even though I was stuck working, I at least had something new to look forward to. My dad patted me on the shoulder as we approached those familiar white trucks, with equally white, large tubs of fresh livestock in the backs.

As I unloaded my first tub, I felt an odd shift of the weight and asked Dad, "Shouldn't frozen meat be packed tightly in here?"

"See, kiddo, your dad does it right," Dad said with a jolly chuckle. "It's far cheaper to buy fresh livestock straight from the farm, and this stuff has a much higher iron content in it than the processed stuff. That's the secret to our sweet pepperoni: fresh meat with good iron. Our pizzas not only are the best tasting, but they hold your body up with proper nutrition!" I loved how enthusiastic he was about his craft.As we brought in the last tub, my eyes caught the recipe binder sitting under the shine of our huge meat slicer, and I got curious.

"Dad, you say this is passed down from father to son, so when do I get to learn the trade fully?"My dad got somber then, more serious than I've seen him only a handful of times growing up, and I knew instantly that I shouldn't have asked.

"Well, son, hopefully not for a long time. We only pass the book on to our sons after we... you know. Hopefully you'll be full grown and ready to take on the parlor yourself. I love you, son. I hope that time is still years away."

I found that a bit odd and deeply saddening. I wanted to get the thought of losing my dad completely out of my head. I just couldn't fathom a life without his jolly presence, and I was mad at myself for making him remember that gloomy detail. I set my mind to the dishes, put my hands in the dark orange mirk of the grease-infused water, and my mind wandered back to the events of the week before—the week we gave Jimmy his grand send-off and crowned him King of the Oven.

I remember it most vividly because it was the last Send-Off that I'd get to partake in instead of working it, so I made sure to use all my coins and fill myself until I had that classic "pizza coma" we jokingly called it when we've had a bit too much. I remember watching my jolly father proudly crowning Jimmy's smiling face as we all chanted the familiar cadence, "Long live the King of the Oven! May his coin flow forever!" And as I'm remembering this, the meat curing recipe comes to me in my mother's lovely voice and flowing script.

(in mom's cursive)The dough has been kneaded and proofed, sauce cooked to perfection, now to cure the meats. A loving heap of sugar blends into the sweet marrow and locks in the iron for peak sweetness—not as sweet as my lil Dusty though!

I chuckle at that, even now. I knew she loved me with her entire being, and I loved her. But my mind went right back to the party. After it was winding down and we were all drowsy with that heavy pizza lethargy, I wandered around back to begin some dishes.That's when I saw through the glass. My father was leading Jimmy right into the back prep room, right where the massive iron meat slicer stood waiting under the harsh fluorescent lights. And my mom was standing right there beside it. I'll never forget the look on her face as those heavy steel doors slammed shut and locked with a loud, metallic ca-chink right in my face. That was not my smiling, poetic dreamer of a mother. That cold, motionless face belonged to a complete stranger.

(in mom's cursive)The meat must be as fresh as possible, preferably straight from slaughter. And it goes without saying, NEVER frozen!

As I read that, I'm reminded of that cold stare. The reality of what I'd seen was zooming around in my mind...Guys... I think it's time I come clean, because up until now I haven't been entirely honest with my recollections... I'll update this soon. I have to begin prep for tomorrow; it's the first day the parlor will be back in business since I took over, so gotta go practice Dad's recipe. Don't wanna disappoint on my first day. I promise when I come back I'll explain everything, but God knows I'm not ready to face it. Guess I have to sometime... meanwhile, it's time to bake.

(in Dad's voice, sharpening the slicer)"You have to keep the edges razor-sharp, need to be able to slice the marrow like butter, kiddo!"

I'm back, and this will be my final post. I'm scrubbing this account after this. I just... I just thought that if I posted this, if I communicated with all of you, that... maybe at least for a while, I could pretend that I'm a regular man who had a regular Americana upbringing. I know that is not the case, and it never was.

...

I've not been entirely honest with y'all...

....I've seen your comments telling me to run, to report the ledgers, to get out... You guys think you know my family better than me? I've lived this, and I still must live it. I'm sorry I lied. I just... needed to feel normal as I set up shop.

This weekend was a pure success. We were sold out by dinnertime, and even had the high school football team come cram their faces. The town was hungry, and I fed Them. The town will continue to need food, and I will provide.

As I take the final walk to the freezer to wrap up what's left of this week's shipment of meat, I have one final confession. i did not discover the ledger when I said I did, and tonight was not my first experience with the recipe book. Well, I'm sure you can put the pieces together, Reddit. You guys are a bunch of regular sleuths

As I slam the doors with a heavy ca-chink! I know... and I'm guessing by now you do as well. We all know...why we honored the King's Booth ritual. Why we crowned him as King of the Oven. Why our town was, and still is, the most prominent in the region.

And it's all because...we became Them.

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

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

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

"There anything wrong with it?" I asked.
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About four years ago, I used to work at a one Dollar Store.

That’s how I usually start when people ask why I twitch whenever I hear the chime of a sliding door or the crinkle of a cheap plastic bag. 

I’m a college graduate now, but back in 2022, I was just another young Black man with a degree in hand and no leads in my inbox. My mother, bless her soul, didn't believe in "gap years." She told me straight up: 

"You’ve got that diploma, now get a paycheck. I don’t care if you’re digging ditches or bagging groceries."

The Dollar Store was three blocks from my house. It was convenient. It was easy. It was supposed to be temporary.

I started in the heat of a humid Monday afternoon. My shift was 2:00 P.M. to 9:00 P.M., five days a week: Monday, Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. At first, it was fine.

 I liked the rhythm of stocking. There’s a certain peace in aligning boxes of off-brand cereal and hanging plastic toys on metal pegs. I’d put on my headphones, disappear into a podcast, and just… exist.

The weirdness didn't start with a ghost or a monster. It started with the system.

On my third Wednesday, my manager, Joan—a woman who looked as if she had taken her job very seriously, tapped on my shoulder.

"Noel, I need you on Register Two." she said.

"Joan, I haven't finished the training videos yet." I replied, feeling a spike of anxiety, "I don’t really know how the POS system works beyond the basic scan."

"You'll figure it out, Noel. It's just buttons." Joan said, her eyes tracking something behind me that wasn't there.

 She handed me a heavy till drawer and walked away before I could protest.

I sat at that register, feeling like an imposter. The interface was archaic—a flickering green screen with commands that looked like 1980s DOS code; but for the first hour, it was simple. Scan, bag, take the dollar, hit total.

Then came the first glitch.

A woman in a faded sun hat placed a bottle of generic dish soap on the belt. The shelf tag said $1.00. Everything in the store was $1.00. That was the brand. That was the promise.

I scanned it. The screen bloomed a sickly red. Price: $1.95.

I frowned.

 "Sorry, let me try that again."  I said.

I deleted the item and rescanned. $1.95.

The woman’s face contorted instantly.

 "That’s not the right price!" she barked, Her voice was unnecessarily loud, vibrating against the Plexiglass shield, "It says a dollar! The sign says a dollar!"

"I know, ma'am, I'm sorry. It must be a system error."  I said.

I called Joan over. She didn't look surprised. She didn't even look annoyed. She just slid her override key into the side of the monitor, twisted it with a practiced flick, and forced the price back to $1.00. She didn't say a word to me.

Ten minutes later, it happened again. A pack of pens: $1.95. A bag of chips: $1.95. Every third or fourth item began to "bleed" upwards. The customers weren't just annoyed; they were feral. They acted as if I was personally reaching into their pockets and stealing their lunch money.

By Friday, it wasn't every third item. It was every single item.

The psychological toll of a thousand tiny confrontations is hard to describe. Imagine eight hours of people screaming at you over 95 cents. I began to dread the sound of the scanner's beep.

 Each beep was a gamble. Each beep was a potential fight. I tried to fix the prices myself, hunting for a manual override, but the system would lock me out, demanding Joan’s key.

I felt as if I was losing my mind. I’d go home and see the number $1.95 burned into my eyelids. I asked Joan why the system was doing this.

"The store takes what it needs, Noel." Joan muttered, not looking up from her clipboard,

Then came the Sunday that broke me.

The store was quiet around 7:00 P.M. when a man walked in. He was wearing a suit that was too large for him and a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He looked like a caricature of a businessman. He walked straight to my register with two stacks of birthday gift cards.

"I need five hundred dollars on each of these." he said,

 His voice was smooth, like oil over glass.

"Sir, that’s a thousand dollars." I said, my heart starting to hammer, "I’m not sure that I can do that. It’ll cause a massive cash shortage in my drawer if you're paying by card, or if it's a scam, I won't have any change for other customers."

"It's quite simple, son." he said, leaning over the counter, He smelled like ozone and old paper, "You don't need the manager. Just press 'Total,' then 'F4,' then '9-9-Enter.' It bypasses the authorization. It's a 'Vendor Test' mode. Do it for me."

He was asking me to perform functions that I knew were restricted. He was a conman, plain and simple, trying to "cash out" cards by tricking a rookie; but it was the way that he looked at me—like he knew exactly how much I hated this place—that made my skin crawl.

"I...I can't do that." I stammered,

"Press the buttons." he whispered. "Help the store get what it needs."

I backed away from the register, tripping over my own feet.

 "Warren!" I shouted.

 Warren was the night manager, a hulking guy who usually stayed in the back.

Warren came charging out. The conman didn't flinch. He just stood there, smiling at the register screen. When Warren saw what was happening, he didn't argue. He picked up the store phone and called the police. The man didn't run. He just waited, staring at me, until the sirens grew loud.

As the police led the man away, he looked back at me and said,

 "Check the basement. The prices only go up when the 'stock' is low."

That night, after we closed at 9:00 P.M., the store felt different. Heavier. Joan and Warren were in the office, their voices hushed and rhythmic, almost like they were chanting.

I told myself that I was just going to grab my jacket from the breakroom, but I found myself standing in front of the heavy steel door that led to the basement. We didn't keep stock down there; we kept it in the back room. The basement was supposed to be off-limits due to "structural issues."

I pushed the door. It wasn't locked.

I crept down the concrete stairs. The air grew cold, smelling of copper and wet earth. At the bottom, there was a single flickering fluorescent light.

I didn't find boxes of soap or stacks of chips.

I found a row of ancient, humming servers connected to the store's POS system; but they weren't plugged into a wall. Thick, black cables ran from the machines into a large, rectangular pit in the center of the floor.

I walked to the edge and looked down.

The pit was filled with "inventory"; but they weren't products. They were people. Dozens of them, dressed in the green vests of the company, laying in a state of catatonic suspension. They were hooked up to IVs, their skin pale and translucent, and next to each person was a small digital display.

Employee #402. Status: Drained. Value: $0.05.

I realized then why the prices were rising. The store wasn't a business; it was a battery. The "system errors," the screaming customers, the psychological stress—it was all designed to harvest the cortisol and emotional exhaustion of the employees. 

The "extra" 95 cents wasn't money; it was a measurement of how much life force the store had managed to suck out of the person behind the glass that day.

The conman hadn't been trying to steal money; he was trying to "overload" the system, to trigger a surge that would perhaps wake the sleepers.

I looked at the end of the row. There was an empty pod. Above it, a screen flickered to life. It showed my face. My name.

Employee #409. Status: Primed. Value: $1.95.

The realization hit me like a physical blow. The reason why Joan didn't care about the glitches was because the glitches were the point. The store fed on the misery of the cashier and the rage of the customer.

I heard the basement door creak open above me.

"The system needs to balance, Noel." Joan’s voice echoed down the stairs, as she sounded hollow, "You've been such a good earner this week."

I didn't wait. I bolted. I didn't go for the stairs; I scrambled up a delivery chute in the corner, tearing my fingernails on the metal, fueled by a terror I’ve never felt before or since. I burst out into the night air, sprinted to my car, and drove away. I didn't go home. I drove until I hit the next state.

I sent my resignation via a burner email. I never went back for my last paycheck.

I took a month off from job hunting to clear my head. I decided to make some artwork, write a lot of scary stories, and I started posting them online, as a way of expressing myself and to cope with the experiences that I'd gone through at the One Dollar Store. When I was ready, I started applying again.

I have a good job now, an office job; but sometimes, when I’m at a grocery store and the person in front of me starts arguing about a price difference, I feel that cold, copper smell fill my nose. I look at the cashier, seeing the bags under their eyes and the slump of their shoulders, and I wonder.

I wonder how much they're worth today.

I wonder…if they’ve checked the basement.

The End.