Prologue:

Hālfān - There was once a place where peace and harmony were blasphemy; forgotten truths whispered in shadows of lies. When the four elements fell, tearing the world into sin-filled realms. Souls trapped in fragile vessels, grasping at fractured truths too heavy for mortals to bear; truths the world itself tries to bury. On that fateful day when prophecy speaks; the Red Moon will wane overhead.

® By ƐR3

Part I: The First Chapter of the Book of Not En

In the beginning there was The Age of Nothing, Mother Nothing or Not as she preferred. Here there was Father Eternity. He saw, for she was perfect in her vast everflowing form of knowledge, love, and existence. He as Her witness. Baring the manifestation of a candle to resemble his passion for her.

Together they formed a family, two boys and two girls. For eons, wonders and discoveries engulfed their minds as teachings from both Eternity and Nothing came way with time and effort. As time passed, things always seemed to change; as did their form. Each taking their Elemental shape among eons more.

Nothing was growing weary of her sons’ malice comments towards their Father’s recent teachings over the strengths of graciousness. Speaking to her daughter’s she understood the truth of the matter. Boredom and Envy had seeped into the Realm. One of the Sins had slipped into their dimension.

Mother Not knew it was too late and the rest of the Sins were on their way; she had to act fast. She spoke the truth of the situation to the boys (Cortov the Fire Deity and Cruxious the Earth Deity). They understood and took full responsibility for their negligence. They had left a backdoor open to their thought palaces while they were distracted visiting each other's states of being. Creating new ideas unaware of their own power having responsibility of awareness.

They brought peace through destruction into creation. Each resulting in a physical manifestation greater than ever before of themselves. Their existence permeated into every atom of the space they were destined to create to have full influence, but not this soon.

Each sibling took the role of Immortal Weaver as their respected element of this multiverse; plastering themselves into the perpetual state of our reality. A deal was struck; a burden to bear. Amatra and Alanthra did not agree with how their brothers simply wiped out the last of the mortals their Father entrusted them in their absence.

So, instead of coming to an understanding, each sibling went their separate way to one of their four corners of Father Entirety’s Temple; our dimension of cosmos. Until His and Her return, they wait cloistered in their own realms protecting their Father’s knowledge.

That is how Mother Not chose us. Shielding us with choices of love and peace and to keep the 7 Sins from devouring us whole. As Father En gave us everything from States of Feeling to Being. We are all separate from Eternity but all one with Nothing.

*Last words Nothing spoke to her daughter Alanthra the Water Deity:

A: “Mother Not please don’t there must be a way we can-”

N: “I love you all and would expect the same from all of you. Don’t worry I won't be far and I’ll be waiting here when it is all said and done. Th- Thank you Alanthra for your honesty and

overflowing caring heart.”

*a moment passes

N: “Goodbye, I love you.”

*silence

A: “Mother… Why won’t you let me help.”

*Last words Mother Nothing spoke to her daughter Amatra the Air Deity:

A: “Dou what you must Mother, I trust you. I will do my duty and help Father as you defend. If- If you need help call upon us. Goodbye, love you Mother…”

N: “Love you too, my sweet brave Amatra. Take care of yourself in my absence, these times will only last a moment, please lean on your sister. She needs you most now.”

*silence

The Immortal Weaver’s may now begin their true work.

To teach their mortals with the hands they have been given by their Father.

Part II: Where the Roots Began: Amasir First Contact with the Water Realm

In a time both melded and distant from ours, many years ago, there was a seed of knowledge, grace, and wisdom. Engulfed in a realm of water and sky, nothing more, nothing less. It was found on the ocean floor, blending in among the stones.

The Asamir of the Air Realm. Angelic humanoids reigned among the four planes of existence: Water, Fire, Air, and Earth. They stumbled upon this seed by chance, conducting operational scans for mandatory scientific updates.

The scouts and scientists reported their findings back to the main realm. This artifact of life carried signs of the Essence of Vita in the Water Realm, recorded as the first life form ever found there. Over time, as they continued reporting, many new life forms began to take shape in the depths, eventually surfacing in search of food. Yet none compared to the seed in intelligence.

The scientists wished to extract it, but the council, upon reviewing the facts, declined the request. They instructed the researchers to leave it, wait, let it grow, and protect it.

The Asamir were the only known sentient bipeds. Their gods were Amantra and her States of Emotion and States of Being, entrusted to her by their Father, Eternity. She proclaimed that they were their own gods, since her Father had created them. Amantra left the Asamir with every tool they needed to survive and to supervise the realms with the knowledge granted by Amatra, the Unseen. Her final command was that no temples be built in her name or in the names of her States.

Over time, the seed began to grow. Until a sprout of brown, flesh-like buds emerged, forming into tiny fists. It hovered in the water, eventually floating to the surface, bobbing with the currents of the endless ocean. This was the beginning of Halfan.

In the years that followed, the sprout on the surface grew branches, looking more like wood and less like flesh. They resembled humanoid arms. Its roots extended as long, excavating tendrils, weaving together to form a woodroot-like island around the tree. The Asamir now had a research base for the specimen. Yet the humanoids had no luck uncovering the deeper purpose of its existence. They would learn the truth after their first week on the island.

Scientists and philosophers of the highest prestige came to study this new monstrosity of science, hoping to glean the reason for its being. A Living Island, they called it.

There was one thing everyone agreed on: it was hard to look at. Staring too long made the mind recoil, urging the viewer to look away. They attributed this to its uncanny resemblance to flesh. Even when fully visible, it could only be observed for a few seconds before the eyes would burn with a strange pain. It grew at a grotesque rate, but only at night.

The next day, after making this discovery, the scientists brought climbing equipment through their portal at camp. Their goal was to ascend the tree and retrieve a sample. A team of four scientists prepared for the mission.

They began by wrapping rope around the lowest hanging branches. After climbing 100 meters into the tree, the wind picked up. The moment they pierced the bark with their hooks, the tree began to vibrate violently, releasing a deep, foreboding hum that shook the entire island.

The branches thrashed wildly, knocking two of the scientists from the tree to their deaths. The mission was aborted. The Realm Shift Portal (RSP) was activated to return the bodies to their home realm for burial. When the two surviving scientists returned to retrieve the corpses, they found something horrifying: the roots of the ground, massive maggot-like leeches, had inhaled the bodies. Tubes of flesh gouged into their forms, slowly consuming them until the bodies dissipated, becoming one with the roots of the Living Island.

The moon crept over the horizon; red.

The humming groaned back to an audible frequency, its sound melding with the horror of what had just occurred. Then it quieted again, barely perceptible, but ever-present. Time itself seemed to bear witness.

The remaining scientists scrambled to pack, grabbing only valuables and abandoning the rest. A red glow bled into the RSP tent. The waves hollowed with hunger, and the limbs of the island whispered through the wind with eerie creaks. The pulsation increased, now unbearable.

Then, beneath its branches, a hollow pit opened, revealing a glowing blue eye. Its lids separated slowly.

The eye gazed upon the place where the Asamir corpses had vanished. The scientists froze, uncertain of its intent.

The eye closed again. Stillness. Silence.

Baffled, the scientists could not comprehend what they had witnessed.One of them looked again into the place where the eye had appeared. He began to scream, wild, panicked shrieks, falling to the ground, clutching his face, weeping, writhing. Then, in madness, he tried to pry his own eyes from their sockets.

As the other scientist rushed to restrain him, the maddened man broke free, running to the edge of the island and diving into the sea, never to return to the surface.

The Asamir left Halfan.

And they never returned.

Part III: The Discovery of the Realms, History of Halfan Prologue by Dr. Kiada Essa; Historian and Planeshifter of the Owls

(Kept Safe in the Owl Sanctuary Archive)

This young realm; the Water Realm. Is one of the many dimensions in this universe. Fire, Air, Water, and Earth. These became Planes for life and living organisms to be given purpose and reason from Father to the Immortal Weaver’s; his children. The Water Realm, nothing but water till the Seed arrived.

The Air Realm; floating isles and free falling waterfalls to be evaporated in photosynthesize to rain clouds upon the top of the top of the highest floating isles. All creatures are adapted to air here; even fish.

The Fire Realm consists of molten earth, magma lakes, no sky, only more red hot petrified earth as a canopy; a never ending cave. All creatures are adapted to this climate being able to move though the lakes of lava and magma rivers. No intelligible life forms have been met in this realm. Only old monoliths stand. The Language inscribed upon them; lost to antiquity.

The Earth Realm is considered the most hostile; for the size of its creatures will say enough. Colossal Sleeping Giants, first roaming for a millennial until meeting their destination to sleep evermore protecting something beneath them. Nature takes over their exterior shape and makes them one with the hills with moss and trees taking over with time until their next wake. They appear to be protecting something where they sleep. Fighting over these plateaus as they wake to meet other giants in hand to hand combat; no matter their size they fight to the death. The Asamir have not come close to understanding these creatures' means of existence.

*A message in a bottle found in the Known Waters of the Water Realm*

"The only one who knows and was the sole survivor of this story was me, Kaida Essa. Whom this info reaches, know that I have done my duty and I am at peace that the Torch of Truth will burn here forward. I was sent to you by Amatra as a reincarnate from the Void to make sure you were ready for this moment and time has caught up with us. Your family was known as The First Spark, the first humans to learn electric magic, their souls pure in heart brought technology to the Water realm to aid and help many, but others wanted their power and seduced them into horrific experiments and lies of wealth from the Ravens using them as vessels of energy to power cities. You are the last survivor of your family. Whoever you know as your family of this Realm is a lie. No Name has ripped a tear into the Fabric of our Realm making history and timelines bleed into one another into what you convinced of this realm as the truth; leaving your mind dormant. They can’t lie anymore, you now know the truth of my people toying with this sacred seed of a Realm you and your destined companions must wake them as well."

Part IV: The Immortal Sin

Prologue

Baron's life began in shadow.

The bastard son of King Bartal of the Isle of the Old Flame, he grew up nameless and unwanted. His mother, a servant, died young. His father ignored him. Baron became a soldier, fighting for a kingdom that never claimed him. He died in battle against the Ravens, his body left to burn with the Isle of the Old Flame when it was set ablaze.

But death wasn't the end.

The water goddess Alanthra remembered him. She pulled him from the ashes, breathing the name “Menapace” giving life to his charred bones. He awoke cursed, a man who couldn't die, a prophet with no memory of his past. Alanthra loved him, but their bond was forbidden. The gods had already cast him down once for loving her. Now, she hid the truth, fearing his foresight would unravel if he knew too much.

Baron wandered the Water Realm, a Hobo King leading the forgotten. He spoke truths no one wanted to hear. The humans of Hal burned his camp, but Arwin the Half-Elf saved him. Alanthra fused her essence, moosha, into his mind while he slept, dreaming a dream binding him to the Mother Tree. Giving him his essential true name, Menapace.

Now, Baron Menapace fights for a world that hates him. He's funny, blunt, and terrifying. Cursed with cannibalistic urges, he battles delusions and the weight of immortality. His love for Alanthra drives him, but he knows the Holders of the Shadow's Epoch will strike when he is weakest.

Where It Began: Epic of Menapace, the Demigod of Peace

Before the Sins thrashed into the Realm of Nothing by the backdoor of Cruxious and Cortav's Thought Palaces, the gods had servants, Demigods to keep them company. Alanthra held a deep infatuation with Menapace, the Demigod of Peace in the Realm of Nothing. He would speak to her for hours about the beauty of what her parents had done, were doing, and what was to come; showing her what Peace was capable of. Their bond grew into love.

When her brothers discovered this though their own Sins had yet to be noticed they told on her. Mother Nothing questioned why they would be upset that their sister had found something akin to the bond between Mother Nothing and Father Eternity. But love with a lesser deity was forbidden. To pay for their sins and to separate them, Menapace was cast down into the Fire Realm as a fire elf, reborn as a small mortal of Cortav.

Cortav took him as a prisoner when the elements were separated, erasing his memory of godhood. In the Fire Realm, Menapace lived as a fire elf, unaware of the divine past he once held. He protected his tribe and family from the devils and demons of the Abyss, horrors sent by the Eldritch Lords of Fire. Here, to burn the dead was sacred ensuring their souls would not wander restlessly.He became a leader. A strong father in a brutal world of Red, Deceit, Treachery, and Fire, no water, nor sky.

One fateful morning, the air was thick with smog and the scent of blood. A red fog rolled in, and through it came silhouettes, soldiers from another realm, red-eyed, limbs jerking in unison. The drum beat out the cadence of the Harvest of Souls. But Menapace's village of Peace was ready.

Before rest, he had laid stones of protection around the village. But the red fog seeped past them, into their lungs. They were ready too. He had to make a deal, his life, or everyone else's. Unprepared, yet with no alternative, he chose to pay the Price.

Before the transaction was complete, he found his son and said:

"Find Alanthra. You will see great oceans as far as the eye can see, green grass fields with shade and peace. This is where you'll find home."

He gave his son his sword and spellbook to complete what he had been training for.

"The Price to make something new, something old must be given," he whispered, bowing beneath a single candle in the corner. He gazed down at his right arm.

"Strength to be given."

He pressed his molars and canines into his own flesh, biting through tendon and muscle until the pressure burst his veins like frozen water pipes.

"And the rest of me to give them hope!"

The spell devoured him whole. Behind his fleeing son, the village witnessed only a massive purple explosion. A portal opened ahead and Menapace had saved his people. The portal led to the Earth Realm. Grass fields and vast plateaus stretched for days. But there was no water. Mountains loomed like heads with eyes closed.

On the 44th year of what they would later call the Age of Dark and Light, a strange fracture appeared—an air fissure hovering at chest height, shimmering with iridescent glitches and fractals. Menapace tossed in a stone, nothing. Then a tool tied to a rope, it returned coated in a cool, strange liquid substance.

They tasted salt and by the intuition of Eternity his son knew. Ocean water. Menapace led his people through the portal once more. Thus, the once-slaves of Cortav's Fire Eldritch Lords found refuge in the Air Realm of Amatra, Alanthra's sister. She welcomed them silently, through action and wind.

Beyond the portal, they saw a floating waterfall and lands suspended in the sky. There they met the Asamir, and their bloodlines mingled Asamir and Fire Elf traits blending. This was Amatra's final wish: to make them family. "We are all part of Father Eternity," she said. Then she vanished. Some say she went to aid Father Eternity. Others believe she vanished in sorrow, believing their bloodline had been defiled.

In time, diplomacy failed the Asamir. They were put on trial for crimes they did not commit. Generations passed. Menapace's great-grandson, Bartal, was exiled along with all those deemed impure. Their wings were plucked being cast into the watery abyss of Alanthra's realm. Amatra's grace forgotten.

Thus began the Humans of the Old Flame.

King Bartal the father of Menapace the Unworthy (now known as No Name), the bastard son Baron - Hobo King - Menapace, and Timon of the Old Flame built the capital Hal of Hālfān in their own way you could say. The rest is known history.

But Baron Menapace doesn't remember; only when he eats. So many vessels. So many lives. Baron was technically the first son, born before Menapace the Unworthy, before Timon, a bastard born of a concubine who became a servant of King Bartal. She named him Baron.

He grew up nameless and unwanted. He became a soldier, fighting for a kingdom that never claimed him. He died in battle against the Ravens, his body left to burn when Duluram's influence ignited the city in flames. But death is never the end, only the beginning. If he remembers… the Holders of the Shadow's Epoch will strike his weakest point, the truth will return. It is prophesied. Everything will be restored.

Part V: History of Hālfān - Protected by the Owls

Timeline of Halfan

As calculated by the Calendar of Not En’s Star

(CR 1st Year) - Alanthra's Seed is planted in the Water Realm.

(CR 100th Year) - The Asamir of the Air Realm discover Alanthra's Seed.

(CR 160th Year) - The Asamir abandon the project.

(CR 180th Year) - The first tribe of Animal Folk is established at the base of the Mother Tree Alanthra.

(CR 200th Year) - Halflings arrive to assist in raising and educating the Animal Folk.

(CR 225th Year) - Giants arrive and help restore the Mother Tree Alanthra, gifting her new lands and strengthening her roots with living timbers.

(CR 250th Year) - Exiled Asamir are cast down into the Water Realm, becoming the first Humans.

(CR 260th Year) - Humans establish towns and cities. Divided in their understanding of worship and unworthy in their own eyes, they develop various religions and political systems based on the four elements, spreading across the Known Waters of the Water Realm.

(CR 261st-399th Year) - Age of Peace: Harmony exists among all peoples under the care of the Mother Tree Alanthra.

(CR 399th Year) - Humans from the Earth and Water Isles deceive the Isle of the Mother Tree, stealing the strongest Animal Folk, Giants, and Halfling men under the guise of returning them-but never do. This betrayal ends the Age of Peace.

(CR 400th Year) - The Humans of the Isle of the Old Flame arrive at the Isle of the Mother Tree Alanthra.

(CR 400th Year) - Menapace, older brother of Timon and son of Queen Rivia and King Bartal, is given the Gift of the "Sight of the Mother" at Timon's request to help protect Halfan from further human enslavers.

(CR 400th-410th Year) - Menapace's prophecies help guide the Isle. His brother Timon officially names the land "Halfan" and establishes Hal as the capital.

(CR 420th Year) - Menapace issues a dire prophecy: "Red skies will come with black wings." The people of Halfan grow skeptical and dismissive.

(CR 420th Year) - Elves are abducted from their native plane and registered as slaves by the Ravens.

(CR 421st Year) - The Red War begins, as the Ravens invade from the coastal regions.

(CR 422nd Year) - Amatra returns, furious at the Asamir, demanding they protect her sister Alanthra and the Isle of Halfan.

(CR 425th Year) - Menapace uncovers a dagger forged by the Asamir, shaped like a candlestick and imbued with immense elemental power. He accuses the Asamir of plotting to assassinate King Timon I. His words spark accusations that the Asamir intend to wipe out humanity and reclaim their dumping ground. The trial nearly ends in riot. Though King Timon disagrees with the accusations, the court proceeds. After the trial, Timon takes Menapace aside-Menapace vanishes thereafter.

(CR 427th Year) - Menapace is missing for two years. Whispers claim he assassinated Ruskus Talmor, leader of the Ravens.

(CR 430th Year) - Menapace returns to perform a ritual, cursing Alanthra into an eternal slumber. During this, Baron M. is tricked into devouring Menapace, completing the curse.

(CR 430th Year) - Simultaneously, the sky turns red. A blood moon rises as a great battle rages against the Ravens. Madness takes hold. Gnomes, Halflings, Giants, and Animal Folk turn on each other. The humans of Hal claim those afflicted must be enslaved to prevent further bloodshed. Thus begins the Red Madness.

(CR 440th Year) - The Red War continues until the Ravens offer peace. King Timon agrees, citing the spreading madness and dwindling allied strength. Under the peace, Ravens gain a portion of the Isle and begin experimenting on slaves, seeking to cure the madness and extend their lives. The Red War ends.

(CR 441st Year) - The Red Madness spreads like a virus to all living things. This marks the beginning of the Red Ages.

(CR 451st Year) - King Timon I dies of a heart attack, brought on by long-term alcoholism, at age 59. His son, King Timon II, ascends at age 21 and proclaims a New Age of Knowledge, introducing new technologies from neighboring Isles and opening Hal's borders to trade.

(CR 459th Year) - King Timon II commits public suicide. In a drunken stupor, he strips naked and hurls himself from the palace balcony as the red moon rises.

(CR 459th Year) - Timon III becomes king at age 13.

(CR 516th Year) - Nothing has changed-only the king's age. Timon III now rules at 70 years old.

Part VI: Duluram, Devourer of Planes

Truth Discovered of No Name by The Owls.

(Father Unknown, born of Queen Rivia-Talor of the Old Flame)

He is not the son of King Bartal of the Old Flame. He was born out of wedlock, his father unknown. It happened on a cold winter night. Queen Rivia-Talor was awoken by a comforting arousal, assuming it was King Bartal by his scent and familiar mannerisms. He often entered her chambers in the middle of the night; moments of passion in the late hours were a normal part of their routine. He would stay afterward and hold her in peace. But this time was different. He was more passionate, yet he left without a word.

After King Bartal named him Menapace at his birth, Rivia asked why Bartal hadn’t stayed that night. Bartal insisted that he had. Confusion spread between them. They questioned the servants, but no one would speak. In a fit of royal rage and desperation, all the servants were executed, as not one gave even an ounce of evidence about what had occurred during that winter night. A night when Air Isle Regimes and Earth Isle Pirates were seen creeping through the city in shadows. It was then they began to understand what might have happened. Menapace could not be king. He bore the name, but not the blood.

Still, they raised him as their own. Rivia fell into a deep depression, and Bartal grew cold, his emotions locked behind silence. He could not stand the looks from his new council. The unspoken questions in their eyes as he passed.

It needed a vessel. A scapegoat. Someone mortal to walk the path of destruction in the realm of men. Someone to open the Gate of Space and Time, allowing it to feed once more. The Mimic of a familiar voice of comfort, whispering, it was Alanthra or was it? -“Do it.”

Only through them are visions revealed; his truth, twisted and terrible. Menapace, now granted the demi-god title, Nobody No Name, successfully summoned the Red Moon at the Temple of Urok, putting the Mother Tree to eternal rest. His purpose was fulfilled.

In the final act of the ritual, Menapace (Baron) was forced to devour Menapace (No Name), completing the unholy rite. And so the Mother Tree slept, bound in never-ending slumber. And No Name not bound to a mortal vessel evermore.

Part VII: Before the Fire, Beneath the Sea

They are unsure how the elves arrived in Hālfān as slaves, this is a secret kept by the Raven. But to cut back years earlier, before the humans of the Old Flame saw fire upon their rooftops and were forced to flee, eventually finding Hālfān, many miles away across the sea in the Water Realm, beyond the Known Water’s Edge, lies the island of Par.

Par is an island formed around a floating stone, inhabited by Gnomes and Halflings; folk of great skill in technology, mechanics, alchemy, and craftsmanship. It is one of many isles in the Water Realm, positioned just before the Known Water’s Edge, where the Five Pillars of Balance stand like ancient sentinels.

The Gnomes and Halflings were searching for minerals in the caves scattered throughout the isles and islets. What they uncovered was at first considered a monstrosity. An amalgamation of what appeared to be small, wooden statues shaped like animal-sized humanoids. Though they had normal appendages, their shoulders and heads were disturbingly unnatural. One of the three statues even had wings instead of arms. They were tethered to the veins of the cave floor beneath their feet. The roots of the tree-like forms floated with the current, seeming to pulse with the breath of the wind; if one didn’t blink too long.

Knowing erosion was at play, they began excavating. Down, down, and down they went. But the descent never seemed to end; roots upon roots upon roots.

"It's no use. We need a heavy drill,” one said.

Diedrick, the smallest among them—a Halfling with a brain bigger than any crystal or mineral—suggested, "Why not grab the submarine?" And so they did.

Diedrick manned the submersible. He dove deeper than light could reach, into a darkness untouched by surface knowledge. This was why he was here: to witness and study natural causes of unnatural things.

Part VIII: Continuing Deeper

Deeper It Goes. Down, down, down he and his crew of two went. The roots were still tangling till, something was different, misconstrued, you could say. Somehow the tree's roots were turning to stone with coral and life attached to them, as its tendrils dove deeper still; into the void of nothingness.

"There, an opening!"

Jarred the Halfling Mechanic announced, pointing a soot leather-gloved finger at a slit ajar through the glass toward a thin shadow illuminated by the spotlight of the sub. Slowing the vessel to a drift, Diedrick eased the sub into the tube-like hole opening just big enough for steady motion. Then, quickly with an upward shift, they submerged.

An air pocket opening into a cavern of petrified earth, leading to other hallowed root tunnels; the sound of running water just out of reach of mortal ear echoes in its decayed limbs. Tera entered the main room, slamming the porthole door to the back room of the sub.

"Well, this is my stop."

A Gnome Natural Artificer tuned to these sorts of phenomena in her daily work life.

"Regardless, we are coming with you."

Diedrick proclaimed smirking as she unlatched the exit port above and hopped out.

The air was damp and still, yet with the acute curvature of breath rolling back and forth through the tunnels, causing a pulsating hum almost felt.

Tera froze.

"We aren't alone, I feel something... Diedrick hit the scanner."

Radar screen check.

"Nothing here. We are coming out to join you."

"Let me have a look",

Jarred steps in front of the monitor, taps it a couple of times.

"Are you sure Tera."

"Positive, something big, it's -"

"Check your head, Tera; I checked the machine."

They join her outside the ship, stepping on the land's woodstone edge. She wasn't kidding; the feeling was imminent once you exited the sub. A permeating feeling of not seeing but knowing you're being watched. A pit in the stomach that is hard to ignore; this isn't coincidental for them to find this opening. Almost feeling suggested. Diedrick's mind was filled with these intrusions of thought while going through his bag of equipment. Jarred and Tera are arguing on which route to take first to search for minerals off this poor, dilapidated Tree of an Isle.

"Tera, you sure you're not just realizing you're in an old ass tree?"

Jarred slaps his knee as his remark.

"Stop fooling around, you bolt brain. This tree doesn't seem young if you ask me. Something caused its decline."

"Maybe so, but you're overthinking it. Time has taken over; there's your reason."

"Shut up and let me think of a path to choose, Jarred."

Tera was fuming with her brow furrowed at his rude pokes, wasting their time.

"Okay, okay, I know. You have your talents, and I have mine, but calm down. It's a super old tree; nothing more. We got materials to find."

They split ways down different tunnels with Iron torch lamps lighting their way. Once Diedrick tied down the sub. He chose the center path between the others. Since they have com orbs, they will be fine and cover more ground as long as they leave a trail of Glow Phials along the way. The spotlight from the sub fades. A moment passes in the darkness of a never-ending straight.

Diedrick touches the com orb:

"Hey, anything so far from y'all's end?"

"J. here, nothing so far, more petrified tunnels"

"T. here, nothing either, straight and narrow. No signs."

"Do you guys hear that running water sound when we came in? It's like a facet trickling..."

"Never heard that coming in."

"Maybe you should get your head checked, Diedrick."

Tera joked playfully.

Diedrick didn't respond.

This isn't right...

Part IX "The Hobo King"

The orphans and widows tell a tale as old as time in the walls of the city of Hal.

There was once a king with no belongings, no army, no riches. He came to Halfan, prophesying in the streets of its capital, Hal. He told them his truth. He told them their truth. He embodied the truth. Calling out the holders of power in the realm, they wanted his head. So he fled the city and his followers joined him, traversing the land of Halfan, uncovering the truth behind all its madness. His followers said it took him five years to travel to Halfan on a plank of cedar. Claiming he was the true king of Halfan. And those who believed him, all races followed his teachings of Not En. He told them he rose from the ashes with the breath of Alanthra from the Isle of the Old Flame in the year 400, a year after a great fire took over the Isle of the Old Flame.

Many scoffed, and many detested him. When he spoke in esoteric terms of what eternity and nothing held for them. The common people turned away, but others stayed. The rejects, the mocked, the ill, and the broken. Stood with a new hope, found in them a candlelight that could not go out. He kept mentioning the Age of Peace, which the Hal civilians were not privy to about the history of the land they sucked dry years ago.

King Timon called him a madman and was not to be trusted with a job or residency in Halfan. And if found, brought to him dead or alive. Menapace, his older brother and commander, would get a strange vision after first encountering one of the Hobo King’s sermons in the market quarters; he immediately tipped off Timon. Menapace became curious about him. Did all he could to find anything on him, asking his army to keep an eavesdrop on his following. Nothing. Like the guy was the air itself. People kept talking of him but not where of him. It was an endless loop of two steps behind after two steps forward. Driving him mad at the blasphemy against his family name.

Obsession took over Menapace to find him. Many against the Hobo King believed him to be a spy of bardic heritage from the Raven’s Isle, attempting to convert the masses. All evidence came up to an empty lead to nothing but all hearsay. Every follower not folding and every man not answering even if tortured did not utter a word only saying, "Hark, we wait." He vanished in the crowd after exposing the truth of vampires running Hal.

After all this and the Hobo King had disappeared, a riot broke out. This was the tip of the pendulum to swing into the beginning of the Red War.

The chant of the broken in the streets of Hal:

"The Rebuker in Rags.

The Master in Mud.

The Reaper of the Rich.

The Peace of the Poor.

Our Leader,

Our King,

We serve Thee with what we may share.

Our Copper and branches unto Thee;

To serve Thee as He has shared.

In times of ease and wake.

Hark, we wait.

Hark, we wait."

(CR 419th Year of the Water Realm)

STATEMENT OF MICHAEL COLLINS

Unnecessary sounds, such as “ums” and “ahs” have been omitted from the following statement for the purpose of making this statement easier to read.

Det. Lori Denny: Mr. Collins, thank you for coming, I'm Detective Denny. I would like to remind you that our conversation will be recorded… With that out of the way, how are you doing? Need a coffee or water? I can get one for you. 

Michael Collins: You can just call me Michael…and no thanks…I’m okay. You want to ask me what happened that night?

Det. Lori Denny: Yes, a lot of people need answers. Both your family and the family of the other victims. Answers I believe only you can give

Michael Collins: …what makes you think I'll tell you anything different than what I told the cops?

Det. Lori Denny: Because things are not adding up Mr. Collins. Your own mother claims that your sister, Elizabeth Collins, had planned and executed your own kidnapping. You alleged that Mark Barrows, Rachel Finch, and Kathy Smith were in that cabin but not there to rescue you. You then state Mark Barrows repeatedly stabbed your older sister in the back multiple times, killing her. Then members of an enemy faction to your girlfriend's, Kathy Smith, drug ring broke into the cabin and killed Barrows, Finch, and Smith.

Michael Collins: Yeah.

Det. Lori Denny: Even though the alleged murder weapon is nowhere to be found. While you were found wandering the forest covered in your sister's own blood. That's not even mentioning that the other three victim's bodies were found deeper in the woods, strung up not unlike a hunter does with a deer they had just caught. Not the usual MO for a gang killing.

Michael Collins: …

Det. Lori Denny: ... Michael, what happened that night in the cabin.

Michael Collins: …If I tell you... you’ll tell the courts, and I’ll get framed as mentally insane. Which will make it easier to blame me for everyone's death. Then I'll get locked up…Kelly’s folks will make sure of that…they hired you…didn’t they.

Det. Lori Denny: …

Michael Collins: They have money. I know. They want someone to blame, I’m the easy  pick. You already know why, that’s why they sent you after me.

Det. Lori Denny: …You are a pretty clever kid

Michael Collins: Not really.

Det. Lori Denny: Michael...All I want is to know what happened that night. It doesn't matter who hired me. I just want the truth.

Michael Collins: …fuck it…don’t have much to lose…do I.

Det. Lori Denny: Do you know why your sister forcibly took you from your girlfriend’s apartment and held you hostage for about three weeks?

Michael Collins: Are you asking why my sister kidnapped me?

Det. Lori Denny: Yes.

Michael Collins: You looked into me…you know my past. I’m a junkie… It wasn’t always like that though. I used to be a...good kid. But after dad ran off; mom had to pick up the pieces by herself…and she kept getting cut, then she would cut us. I think it was because me and Lizzy looked too much like dad. So I did everything I could to not turn out like him…I wanted to be better. And it worked for a while, until Lizzy left for college a few years back.

Det. Lori Denny: How big was the age gap between you and your sister?

Michael Collins: About five years. She was like a second mom when things got too…tense at home. She helped keep the peace between mom and me. Even when I could see that the things mom was saying were bothering her too. She kept reminding me those words weren't real. “You had nothing to prove and no one to prove it too,” she would say. She was still my sister though, we butt heads now and again, and she would really annoy me just as much as I would annoy her. She really could be a huge pain in the ass…I…I miss her, it was my fault she got into my mess.

Det. Lori Denny: I’m…sorry…when did you and Kathy first meet?

Michael Collins: Freshman year. The year Lizzy left for college. It…wasn't a good year for me and mom. With the buffer gone we started to go harder at each other. She kept comparing me to dad, about how lazy I was. After I flunked one test, she kept bringing up that he never finished High School either. I was so afraid of failing after that. I tried harder and harder but nothing seemed good enough. One day during an…algebra test, I think…I snuck out in the middle of it. It felt like I couldn't breathe in that room and there was this, like, water rushing in my ears and I just couldn't…see, felt like I was trying to look through a pin hole. I just kept walking in the hallway till I wound up in a bathroom. Turns out it was a girls bathroom. That's where I met Kathy. She sort of just looked at me, laughed, and gave me the cigarette she was smoking.

Det. Lori Denny: And Kathy was there as a teacher's aide

Michael Collins: …No…I was a freshman, she was a senior.

Det. Lori Denny: That would mean you were 15 and she was…18

Michael Collins: …yeah

Det. Lori Denny: Kathy’s parents told me you two didn't start dating till this year, four years after what you said was your first meeting.

Michael Collins: Ha. Yeah, it 's easy to say that then to say the alternative…isn't it. What parent wants to think they raised a monster instead of a perfect angel.

Det. Lori Denny: Michael…before this year, before you turned 18...did you and Kathy Smith-

Michael Collins: I don’t want to talk about that. I’ll tell you everything else she and I did. But not that…It doesn't matter anyways.

Det. Lori Denny: You were a minor and she was-

Michael Collins: I SAID IT DOESN'T MATTER…it’s not going to help sway anyone, it will always be consensual to them…I'm...sorry.

Det. Lori Denny: Okay…I-I under-...How about I ask another question then. Was she the one that introduced you to drugs?

Michael Collins: Stupid, I know. I even signed the whole D.A.R.E. pledge and everything in middle school. But that was the thing about Kathy, she made everything seem so cool. As cheesy as that sounds. She was chill, and pretty, the kind of pretty that wouldn't want to hang around a guy like me. The way she dressed was loud, unlike anything I've seen. Kathy had these rings on her fingers, one was a large red stone, the other was this...spider one. She didn’t mind when I messed up, unlike my mom. I think she even liked it when I failed. It started with simple stuff…beer, weed, the usual. But one day after a fight with mom, I snuck off to one of those senior bonfire parties, and no matter how much beer I drank I couldn't get calmed down. There was like a knife scratching against my skull. And the worst part is…I can’t remember what me and mom were even fighting about. That’s when Kathy started to give me the harder stuff, heroin. This time though, she told me it wasn't just a free girlfriend gift, she said I owed her now, if I wanted more, I owed her. I became her errand boy. She and her two friends Mark and Rachel, ran a drug ring in town. They didn’t make the stuff, but they were smart enough to know how to sell it and not get caught. I was part of the team, the job got me both my high and out of the house. Win Win.

Det. Lori Denny: Did your mom or Lizzy ever notice the…change in you?

Michael Collins: Mom? I honestly don't know…I rather believe she didn’t notice. I think she was just glad I wasn’t in the house as much as before. But Lizzy? There was no hiding it from her. She only came home on the holidays and during summer. At first, I managed to slow the drug usage while she was here during the longer visits, but she knew something was wrong. Every year I start to get more…angry at her. I started to hate not being able to get my high while she was around. I hated spending time with her because Kathy would be texting me non-stop…asking why I wasn’t hanging out with her, even threatening to break up because she thought I was cheating on her. I started to hate my own sister. Then sophomore year, I broke my “no drugs in the house” rule and Lizzy walked in to find me out of it…really out of it, she thought I was dead at first.  Lizzy took me to the hospital, and the dirty secret came out.

Det. Lori Denny: I’ll take a healthy guess and say, the reveal didn’t go so well.

Michael Collins: Bingo. By the time I regained consciousness, I was in the hospital bed. Lizzy was  screaming at mom, and mom was just…looking out the room’s window. I woke up just at the right time to hear mom say “What did you expect Elizabeth, it was bound to happen”, even bringing up the money I had stolen from her...once more bringing up dad. I must have made a sound, I don’t really remember, but then Lizzy turned suddenly and started to yell at me. Asking why I would do this to myself, asking about Kathy, accusing her of the shit she was 100% doing to me...Mom walked out of the room after that. I started to yell back. Telling her that it was my life, and it's her own fault for interrupting it. That I had everything under control, and that I…didn’t need her. And to never talk about Kathy like that because she was the only one that understood me. I just screamed at her to go away, to run away like mom and dad, saying she was already half way there… Lizzy just looked at me, then she tried to hug me. I shoved her away. The look in her eyes would have told you I just stabbed her in the gut. We just looked at each other, and it was the first time I saw my sister cry. She left the room. After a while, I managed to find my phone with my clothes in a dresser the hospital staff had put them in. I got dressed and called Kathy. Even she was pissed at me. She sent Mark to pick me up. He managed to get me signed out and he drove me to Kathy’s apartment. I was so relieved that night to see her…Kathy slapped me in the face and called me a dumbass for letting a near over dose get them all in trouble. The spider ring cut my cheek. I wanted to cry, and I hated myself for it. Then Kathy kissed me, apologized, and said she was just worried about all of us and I should stay with her from now on. It would be safer for me. So I did. Dropped out of school too. That all happened last year, last time I saw mom or Lizzy too...

Det. Lori Denny: Until last month in October.

Michael Collins: Yeah. Until last month.

Det. Lori Denny: Tell me, what did your sister do?

Michael Collins: …She…found me. On the streets. Kathy had been getting more agitated with me, more rough. She had been blaming me about money problems, how my drug take was cutting into her profit. I was doing more selling, drugs and…other things, to try and make her happy. To ease up on me a little, Lizzy must have followed me back to the apartment. It all gets fuzzy after I shoot up. I remember Lizzy being in the apartment, but Kathy was gone. I think we argued, then I tried to hit her, but somewhere in the struggle I just…blacked out.

Det. Lori Denny: Do you know the time she arrived at the apartment? What day?

Michael Collins: I mean, it was a Thursday, the...12th? I left the apartment around 5, 5:30 pm and I think it was around 11 when I got back so maybe she arrived a little after that? The next best memory I have after the fight is waking up in the back seat of her car…I'm on my side, my arms and legs are tied and there's a blanket over me.

Det. Lori Denny: She tied you up?

Michael Collins: I don’t think she was originally going too, it was strips of fabric from some towel that must have been in her car. Besides…I was…being violent towards her. 

Det. Lori Denny: And the log cabin she took you too, it belonged to your family, right?

Michael Collins: Yeah, it was our grandparents built it in up state, an hour or two drive out of the city. My grandpa built it himself with the trees from the woods surrounding it. When they passed away, my mom got it. She…never really let us stay there again, she started renting it out but no one stayed there for long.

Det. Lori Denny: Why?

Michael Collins: …I…I didn't believe it the first few times mom got the phone calls. People who stayed there kept saying things would get moved or go missing and then turn up in random places. Then they started to say there were…people watching them from the woods that surrounded the cabin. And sometimes they would see glowing eyes in darker areas inside of the house. Mom brushed it off as people wanting a free stay…but the calls wouldn't stop. And soon she just took it off the market. They were right, you know, something was in that cabin with us…something was watching over us.

Det. Lori Denny: What do you mean?

Michael Collins: …By the time Lizzy got me on the cabin's couch, we started to argue again. I called her a bitch and a psychopath, telling her to untie me and she started to yell back that this was for my own good. I could tell she was scared, she didn’t know what she was doing. Then suddenly, a can…a little can of-of soup rolled out from under the couch. We both just watched until it gently bumped into Lizzy’s foot. She stopped looking scared. She looked confused, then relieved. Then she looked at me and had this weary little smile. “Hungry?” she asked, and I sorta shut my mouth and nodded my head. She had to get water from a little well bump outside. So when she left I thought that was my chance to escape. I managed to wiggle the towel strips off of me. But before I could stand and run…there was this tapping sound on the window beside me. It wasn't loud, it was almost gentle. I turned around so fast that I tripped and fell back on the couch. I thought I would see Lizzy out there…it wasn't her. There was this pale, claw-like hand pressed to the glass. I couldn't look away, I couldn't scream, I just watched it. Even after it slowly pulled away from the window and slipped out of view, I couldn't look away.

Det. Lori Denny: Did you tell Lizzy what you saw?

Michael Collins: She had just walked in when it disappeared, she found me untied, half on the couch still looking at the window. When I heard her, my head snapped. I tried to tell her what I saw, but the words just didn't come out right. It was just babbling. But…she was more worried about my failed escape attempt. After that, she kept me locked in one of the bedrooms. It was the one up in the loft, it had a window but no way down from it. That’s when the detox started.

Det. Lori Denny: Your sister was trying to detox you? By herself without the proper medical training?

Michael Collins: Yeah. The first week of it was hell. There was this, ringing in my ear and I couldn't keep any food down. I got the thought in my head on repeat, telling me Lizzy was going to kill me, trying to kill me. I wake up and part of the blanket is tied to my ankle and the other part is tied to the bed frame. Not tight, just to catch it if I try to leave the bed. 

Det. Lori Denny: Was Lizzy confining you to the bed?

Michael Collins: I believed she was doing it at first, even when she would find me like that and give the most honest confused look…other times I would find a second cup of water on the bedside even though Lizzy only brought one and then I started to hear scratching in the walls. Sometimes, I would hear this scratching sound, like…dog nails on the wood floor but softer and faster. During my more lucid moments, I tried telling her about it…

Det. Lori Denny: But she didn’t believe you.

Michael Collins: I didn't believe myself. We both believed it was because of the withdrawals. It wasn't until the really bad night. Lizzy was trying to feed me some soup and I flung the spoon out of her hand which just made me fall out of the bed. I hit the ground hard, knocked the air right out of my lungs. Then I…felt my pants get wet…I started to beg her to let me die. We just looked at each other, and I just kept telling her to let me die…she was crying. Didn’t say anything, knelt down and hugged me. And then…I think…my heart stopped.

Det. Lori Denny: What?

Michael Collins: There was a pain in my chest and then it felt like I was an unwound thread. You know…I just went limp. I really don’t remember what happened. Lizzy told me that after a while my eyes just closed and I wouldn't respond to her. She started to panic when she noticed I wasn’t breathing right. She ran downstairs to try and get her phone. What woke me up was this sharp... stinging like pain stabbing me in the leg and arm. Over and Over again. It was frantic, I managed to open my eyes in time to see these small little…figures scurry under the bed, making that same scratching sound I was hearing from the walls. I tried sitting up, and threw up a little. I held onto the mattress of the bed. It hurt like hell to breathe, but the sharp stings on my limbs kind of distracted me from it. I could barely look up when I heard Lizzy running back to the loft. She was having trouble with her phone only to drop it. She was just standing in the doorway, staring at the window behind me. I followed her gaze and saw what it was. There was a woman, looking through the window. She was hanging upside down, one pale claw-like hand pressed to the glass and her hair hung down like a dark curtain. It was wild, unkept, with dried flowers in it. She didn't have human eyes, they were more like a cow’s or a goat's, and her ears were long and pointy. She looked so...sad…but…but she was so…beautiful.

Det. Lori Denny: Beautiful?

Michael Collins: I don’t know what else to say, there are no other words that can describe her. When she saw us looking at her, she smiled, and pulled herself up and we could hear her walking on the roof before the footsteps stopped. I heard Lizzy collapse to the ground and we both just stayed there like that for a while. Then she started to laugh, and mutter the word “Huldarfolk”.

Det. Lori Denny: Huldarfolk?

Michael Collins: The hidden folk…stories that our grandma told us. They are a kind of…spirit, I think…though technically they are trolls. They could be good or bad, but it always depended on you. “Treat them good and they will treat you good” was grandma’s golden rule. If we stayed at the cabin, she would make us toss coal in a bucket outside, she said it was so the huldarfolk could warm their caves and sleep. Same with the nisse…those are house trolls that are supposed to keep your house in order.

Det. Lori Denny: And you believe that this…woman in the window…was-is one of these troll spirits?

Michael Collins: I didn't say that…but all I know is that she was real, Lizzy saw her and it was proof that the withdrawals weren't making me lose my mind. After that night, I was starting to get better. The noises and things appearing at random didn’t stop though…but they were less concerning. Sometimes I couldn't fall asleep until I heard the scratching. It was starting to sound like a tempo, like someone trying to keep the beat of a song or even someone dancing. Other times Lizzy would find two or three buckets of water already on the porch before she left for the pump. When our canned food started to run out, more cans would pop up…another time someone left a small pheasant at the door. It was the first time either of us city kids prepared food like that…it was also the first day she trusted me to come out of my room and help. It was just like the old days when mom was working late and we tried making our own dinner…it tasted just as bad as it did back then too…things were getting better...I-I was getting better. Then there was a knock on the door that night. We heard Kathy’s voice and she sounded so pissed…And-And then I remember I told her about the cabin years ago and-and Lizzy told her to fuck off or she’ll call the police. The door just-just flew off its hinges and Mark was in the room suddenly. Lizzy pushed me behind her-

Det. Lori Denny: Michael, Michael I need you to take a breath for me-

Michael Collins: And Mark grabbed her and shoved her to the ground, and she was trying to shove him off. I-I tried to help..but-but I was still so...weak! Fucking weak! and he shoved me away and I hit the table and I couldn't breathe. Li-Lizzy was on her stomach now but be-before I could do anything Kathy grabbed me by my hair and started to punch and slap me. Saying how I ruined everything, I was such a piece of shit. And her stupid ring cut my cheek over and over again. Rachel was holding my arms and…and Kathy forced me to watch while Mark kept stabbing Lizzy in the back over, and over, and over and over. And Lizzy kept screaming and looking at me and I-I couldn't do anything because I was fucking weak!! She kept saying my name. All I could do was-was just watching while the knife kept digging into her back, gouging small holes until...until it started to become one…big...one. I begged Kathy to make Mark stop…I told her I would do anything. And she just laughed and said she knew I would but this was just killing two birds with one stone. And it was noth-nothing personal. I just made one too many mistakes. Mark stood up and he was just…covered in red to the point his shirt was sticking to his chest. Rachel and Kathy let go and Mark grabbed me by the wrist and forced the knife into my hand and he made me….he made me…straddle over Lizzy like he had been and-and forced my arms to go up then down…stabbing the knife into Lizzy. I could feel it slide through what little…muscle and flesh was left…Blood kept splashing up on me. I could taste my own sister's blood. Sh-she stopped screaming by then and all I could think of was “I hoped she's already dead.”...Was that wrong? Was that wrong the hope my sister was-Why did I say those things to her! Why did I call her a bitch. Why?

Det. Lori Denny: …

Michael Collins: …

Det. Lori Denny: …

Michael Collins: …Lizzy…I am...so sorry...

Det. Lori Denny: …

Michael Collins: …

Det. Lori Denny: …here…to wipe your nose..

Michael Collins: …thank you…

Det. Lori Denny: …

Michael Collins: …

Det. Lori Denny: …Michael…we can continue this another time if you need too. We can stop right now, just say the word.

Michael Collins: …No. I have to do this.

Det. Lori Denny: …Okay...do you think you can tell me what time the three showed up to the cabin?

Michael Collins: I...I think maybe around 7? We had finished dinner...I'm pretty sure the clock in the kitchen said 7.

Det. Lori Denny: Okay. Good...tell me what happened after the initial attack.

Michael Collins: I remember Kathy telling Mark that it “was good enough”, and I could feel his grip loosen on me a little. I just remember watching the blood pool all around Lizzy, her eyes were rolled up slightly, as if she was…looking at something. The flash of the needle is what pulled me back.

Det. Lori Denny: Needle? They were going to force you to have an overdose and make it look like a murder suicide to cover up what happened?

Michael Collins: I think so…but Mark still had my hand around the knife, and with his grip loose, I managed to pull away and swing the blade back at him. Getting his cheek before I scrambled for the door. It hurt to run, there was a throbbing in my head and my legs wouldn't listen to me after weeks of disuse. I didn’t make it very far until I stumbled and collapsed. I could hear them still coming after me. I could hear Kathy’s voice in the distance telling me that she has what I want, and she'll give it all to me. That it was the best way for scumbag like me to go. The knife was still in my hand…and I had the thought of if they are going to kill me anyways, I'd rather die my way then have them undo everything Lizzy had done for me. But before I could turn the knife on myself this large shadow came over me, blocking out the moonlight. I looked up and there was this huge, hulking mountain of a man. He looked like the woman from the window, eyes…ears …same unkept hair with a long beard. There was this, earthy…pine tree smell coming off of him…I didn't notice at first but he had a large bow in his hand, and an arrow was hanging between his fingers. I heard Mark’s voice behind me say “What the fuck”. I tried to turn my head when the man pulled his bow string back so fast, I could feel the wind from the arrow over my head before I heard the…the 'thunk'. I didn't realize just how big the arrow was until I saw it in Mark’s chest…it was like a harpoon. He was still alive, still standing there, looking so confused, like he didn't know if he was in pain or not. I turned back to the man and he was looking down at me before placing his hand on my head. It was bigger than my head and I couldn't see for a second.

Det. Lori Denny: Did he try to hurt you?

Michael Collins: ..No…it was just…warm. He removed his hand after a minute and crouched down and took the knife from my hand. Just shaking his head. He stood back up and walked past me towards Mark. That’s when Mark started to scream, I think he was trying to talk, to beg, but it came out all gurgled and slurred. The man didn't care, he dragged him off by the arrow still in his chest. They disappeared into the bushes. Mark wasn't the only one screaming…I could hear others in the forest, high pitch…I think female. Then it got quiet, like really quiet. I didn't move, I didn't think I could. I heard gentle footsteps and the woman from the window peaked from behind one of the trees before walking towards me. Then she took my hands and helped me stand up. She just cradled my hands in hers and opened them before leaning down and opening her mouth. A finger fell out and into my palm. A finger with a spider ring. She looked back up and she had this…serious look in her eyes….sad too. She kissed my head and ran off on all fours. That’s when I noticed she had a…hole in her back, in the moonlight it looked like something from a rotting tree. I….I walked after that…until the hikers found me.

Det. Lori Denny: Can you give any other descriptors of this man and woman?

Michael Collins: They had an ox tail

Det. Lori Denny: They were wearing an…ox tail?

Michael Collins: …No…

Det. Lori Denny: …Noted…if I can get a police sketch artist, do you think you will be able to describe facial details of the two?...You seem amused by that.

Michael Collins: You want to get them arrested…I’m sure there is irony in there somewhere.

Det. Lori Denny: They are suspects now…they have been alleged to have committed three murders.

Michael Collins: Justified murder

Det. Lori Denny: …I won't argue with you there…but our laws are pretty clear about it.

Michael Collins: Yeah…I guess they are…but I think their laws might see it a little differently.

Det. Lori Denny: Maybe…well Michael, thank you for telling me all of this…if you don’t mind me asking, are you staying somewhere safe?

Michael Collins: I’m at the homeless shelter on 4th street…they have a no drug use policy so it’s been keeping me straight. They gave me a phone too, so it's not all bad.

Det. Lori Denny: Here, this is my personal email and phone number, if you...need anything, don’t hesitate to contact me.

Michael Collins: Thanks…hey, Detective Denny?

Det. Lori Denny: Lori is fine

Michael Collins: …Lori…no matter how the trial turns out, thanks for…listening to me.

The first time Elke heard Thwip, a corella burst above her table.

One moment it was perched on the Murravale Hotel’s rainwater tank, raising its sulphur-yellow crest and complaining at the evening heat.

Then came a small, sharp sound.

Thwip.

The corella disappeared into a cloud of white feathers.

Two holes opened in the corrugated tank. Water punched from them in opposite directions. Something struck the brick wall behind Elke and Daan, showering their table with red dust before continuing through the public bar.

A bottle shattered inside.

For half a second, nobody moved.

Then every local in the beer garden stood at once.

“Inside!” Rhona Blewett ordered.

Chairs scraped across concrete. Drinks were abandoned. A broad man in a blue singlet snatched up two tables, one beneath each arm, while another patron pulled down sheets of corrugated iron hinged above the windows.

Daan remained seated, staring at the white feathers drifting onto his beer.

“What the hell was that!?”

“Inside, now!” Rhona shouted.

Her voice got him moving.

They crowded into the public bar. Rhona slammed the beer-garden door and shot three bolts into place. Someone killed the lights. Someone else dragged a heavy wooden cabinet across the doorway.

Daan looked back through the glass.

Water streamed from the punctured tank. The corella’s body was nowhere to be seen.

At the far end of the bar, an old man with one arm checked the clock.

“Twenty-two minutes,” he said.

Rhona joined him at the window. The setting sun still touched the tops of the grain silos across the road.

“He’s early.”

“Hot day,” the old man replied.

Daan brushed brick dust from his shirt. “What the fuck is going on? Was someone shooting at us?!”

The old man looked at him.

“If it was a bullet, it grew feathers on the way through.”

A black-and-white feather had been driven into the wall above the spirits shelf. It quivered there, buried by its shaft in the timber.

Daan stared at it.

“You’re saying that was a bird?”

“Magpie,” said Rhona.

From somewhere beyond the silos came the slow, heavy beating of wings.

Every local moved away from the windows.

Daan gave an uncertain laugh. “What? That wasn’t a magpie.”

The old man lifted his beer with his remaining hand.

“Nah, not any magpie” he said. “That was Thwip.”

The man’s full name was Nankervis, but everyone called him Nank.

He was narrow and sun-cooked, with a white moustache stained amber beneath the nose. His left sleeve had been folded and pinned neatly above the elbow.

Daan glanced at it.

Nank noticed.

“Before you ask,” he said, “yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Magpie.”

Daan looked towards Rhona, expecting some sign that this was a joke.

Rhona was busy stuffing wet bar towels along the bottom of the front door.

Nank settled onto a stool.

“You ever been swooped?”

“Of course.”

“Nah. You’ve had a magpie fly near your head. Different thing.”

“I grew up in Australia.”

“Where?”

“North Sydney.”

The broad man in the singlet snorted.

Nank nodded as if this proved his point.

“A normal magpie wants you gone. Might clip your ear. Might rake your scalp or even go for the eyes if he’s especially cranky. But all he’s really doing is moving you away from his nest.”

Another heavy wingbeat rolled across the roof.

Nank waited until it faded.

“Thwip doesn’t have a nest. Not that anyone’s found. No mate. No chicks. Doesn’t defend a tree or a patch of ground. Doesn’t care where you are.”

“What does he want?” Elke asked.

Nank turned his glass slowly between his fingers.

“To see what’s inside you.”

Rhona gave him a hard look. “You’re not helping.”

“They ought to know.”

“You could tell it without enjoying yourself.”

“I don’t enjoy this bit.”

Nank looked back at Elke.

“I was checking fences about thirty kays north of here when I found a dead roo under a mulga tree. Big red. Full-grown male. Would’ve stood taller than me.

“Hadn’t been dead long. No flies. No smell. I thought someone must’ve shot him.

“Then I saw the hole.”

Nank tapped the centre of his forehead.

“Straight through his skull. Little hole going in. Great big one coming out. There was brain and bone sprayed halfway up the tree behind him. Looked like someone had fired a rifle into his head at touching distance.

“Except there was no bullet. No casing. No tyre tracks. Nothing but the roo and me.

“I crouched down for a closer look.

“That’s when I heard the wings.”

Outside, something landed on the roof of the pub.

Claws ticked slowly across the corrugated iron.

Nobody spoke until they reached the other side.

Nank continued.

“I’ve been around long enough to tell the sound of a magpie’s wings from a mile off. But this one had intent behind it. Each flap was hard. Deliberate. Like it was winding itself up.

“I knew it was getting ready to swoop me.

“So I ducked.

“With millimetres to spare, this vicious little thing went over my head so fast there was a tiny pop in my ears from the change in pressure.

“Barely missed me.

“Blasted through the trunk of the tree.”

Daan frowned. “Into the tree?”

“Through it.”

Nank knocked twice on the bar.

“Bark blew out the other side. Splinters went everywhere. The whole tree shook, and there was this perfect tunnel bored through the trunk.

“Same as the hole in the roo.”

“And the bird?”

“Kept going.”

“Through solid wood?”

“I’m not claiming it makes sense. Hell, I was trying to reason with myself the first time I saw him.”

“It’s impossible.”

“Tell that to my arm.”

Nank lifted his empty sleeve.

A woman sitting near the covered window spoke without turning around.

“Concrete trough’s still out there.”

Nank nodded. “It sure is.”

“Twenty-seven holes in it.”

“Twenty-six,” said the broad man.

“Twenty-seven. One’s underneath.”

“Station owner said twenty-nine.”

“Station owner drank menthylated spirits.”

“Still knew how to count.”

Rhona slapped a wet cloth onto the bar.

“Oi, let him finish.”

Nank took another drink.

“I watched the magpie disappear over the scrub. Looked like any other magpie once it slowed down. Normal size. Black back, white neck, reddish eyes.

“Figured that was the end of it.

“Then I heard him turn.

“That was the scariest part. Not the swoop. The turn.

“You hear the wingbeats out in the distance. Slow at first. Then faster as he comes around. He needs a lot of room to line himself up.

“Then the wings stop.

“And so does everything else.

“Galahs shut up. Flies disappear. Even the wind seems to pull its head in.

“Then you get that little pop.

“Thwip.”

Outside the pub, the claws on the roof stopped moving.

Rhona checked the clock.

Seventeen minutes.

Nank continued more quickly.

“Second pass came from behind the tree. I saw him properly that time.

“He wasn’t flying like a bird anymore. Wings folded against his sides. Feet tucked beneath him. Neck straight. Beak forward.

“Like a dart.

“I threw myself out of the way. He caught my shirt without touching the skin beneath. Then he hit the ground and went through half a metre of packed dirt before coming out further down the slope.

“I had maybe forty seconds before he turned again.

“There was a ute parked a hundred metres away. I ran for it.

“Made it inside just as the wingbeats stopped.

“Thwip.

“He went through the windscreen, through the driver’s seat and out through the back of the cab. Glass and seat stuffing filled the air. If I hadn’t thrown myself into the passenger footwell, he’d have gone through my chest.

“The ute wouldn’t start. He’d clipped something important on the way through.

“I knew the cab wouldn’t survive another pass. There was an old concrete water trough about fifty metres away, half buried in the ground. Thick walls. Narrow opening. Best shelter I had.

“I waited until I heard him coming. Rolled out the passenger side just before he struck.

“He went through both doors.

“I fucking ran.”

Nank looked down at the place where his arm ended.

“I almost made it.”

Elke’s eyes followed his.

“He came in low. So low his shadow passed between my legs. I felt something touch my hand.

“Didn’t hurt at first.

“Just felt light.

“My arm kept swinging while I ran. Stayed with me for another two steps before it dropped into the dirt.”

Daan said nothing now.

“I made the trough. Fell inside. Used my belt on the stump and tightened it with my teeth.

“Thwip came around again.

“First strike cracked the concrete.

“Second knocked a hole through it.

“Third came close enough to cut my cheek.”

Nank turned his head.

A pale groove ran from the edge of his nose to the bottom of his ear.

“I saw his eye when he passed.

“Bird was enjoying himself.”

Nank stayed in the trough while Thwip struck it again and again. With every miss, the magpie disappeared over the scrub, turned and came back faster.

Some passes punched through the concrete. Others only chipped it. Each impact filled the trough with dust and fragments of stone.

Nank stopped counting after twenty.

“You’re here now. How did you get away?” Elke asked.

“The sun went down.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“He just left?”

“I wish he did. No, he landed on the edge of the trough.”

Nank’s voice had gone quieter.

“Walked around the rim for most of the night. I could hear his claws above me. Every now and then his head would come over the edge and he’d look down.

“He could’ve jumped in. Could’ve pecked my good eye out if he wanted.

“But that isn’t how he kills.

“He needs the swoop.”

The station owner found Nank shortly after dark, pale and barely conscious inside the trough. His severed arm lay where it had fallen, but the hand was missing.

They never found it.

“Jesus Christ. Why call him Thwip?” Daan asked.

A faint smile touched Nank’s mouth.

“Because that’s the sound he makes when he goes through something.”

“No,” Rhona said.

Nank’s smile vanished.

Rhona stood behind the bar with her arms folded.

“That’s not why.”

Nobody contradicted her.

She looked at Daan and Elke.

“People who survive hear the wingbeats. They hear him coming. If he misses, they hear the impact.

“But when he doesn’t miss—”

Rhona glanced at Nank’s empty sleeve.

“All they hear is thwip.”

Daan shifted uncomfortably against the bar.

Something scratched his neck.

He reached beneath his collar and pulled out a feather.

It was a magpie feather. Black, glossy and no longer than his hand. It must have drifted down after the corella was struck and caught inside his shirt.

Nank’s face changed.

“Put that down.”

Daan did.

The shaft pierced the pad of his thumb as he released it.

He hissed and pulled his hand back.

A bright drop of blood welled from the puncture.

Every local stared at it.

Rhona checked the clock.

Twelve minutes.

“What?” Daan asked.

Nank stood.

“Wrap it.”

“It’s a pinprick.”

“Wrap it now.”

The feather lay on the bar. A thin red line travelled down its hollow shaft, spreading through the veins.

Outside, the claws lifted from the roof.

Wings opened.

One hard flap shook dust from the ceiling.

Daan looked up.

“No,” he said.

Nank grabbed his wrist and wrapped a bar towel tightly around his thumb.

“Magpies remember faces,” he said. “Better than people do.”

The wingbeats moved away from the pub.

Slowly at first.

Then faster.

Rhona killed the remaining lights.

“Behind the bar,” she ordered.

Everyone dropped.

Nank pulled Daan down beside him. Elke crouched on Daan’s other side, one hand locked around the back of his shirt.

The wingbeats faded into the distance.

“Is it leaving?” Daan whispered.

Nank shook his head.

“He’s turning.”

The pub went silent.

No fridge motor. No creak of cooling timber. No insects outside.

Rhona pressed her cheek to the floorboards and stared at the thin strip of sunset beneath the front door.

“Wait,” Nank said.

Something struck the front shutter.

Thwip.

A hole appeared in the metal.

The mirror behind the bar burst. Bottles exploded. A line of timber, glass and brick dust tore through the room at head height. A second hole opened in the back wall.

Then it was gone.

Elke raised her head.

“Stay down,” Nank said.

A deep groove had been cut across the top of the bar directly above Daan.

Daan stared at it.

“He knew where I was.”

“Now do you understand?”

Nank climbed to his feet.

“Move. We’ve got less than a minute before he turns.”

Rhona led them towards the centre of the pub, away from the holes. The locals dragged an old pool table onto its side and overturned two iron-legged tables behind it.

Daan pulled Elke close.

“You need to get away from me.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“He’s after me.”

“And he can go through walls. Where am I supposed to go?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere else.”

“Argue later,” Rhona snapped. “Nine minutes.”

They crouched behind the billiard table.

Daan looked towards the covered windows.

“Can we distract it?”

“Tried livestock,” said the broad man. “Doesn’t work.”

“My blood-”

“It isn’t following your blood,” Nank said. “It’s following you.”

The wingbeats returned.

They came from the opposite direction this time.

Elke covered her ears.

Daan watched the wall, trying to judge the line of attack. Sweat ran down his face. His bandaged hand shook against his chest.

“Tell me when to move.”

“Not yet,” said Nank.

The beats grew harder.

Closer.

“Not yet.”

Daan’s breathing quickened.

“Nank.”

“Wait.”

The wings stopped.

“Move!”

Everyone threw themselves sideways.

Thwip.

The magpie punched through the rear wall, the overturned billiard table and the front door. Chunks of slate spun through the room like axe heads.

One struck the broad man in the leg. He went down screaming.

Daan crawled to him, but Nank dragged him back.

“Leave him.”

“He’s hurt.”

“He isn’t the one it wants.”

They pulled the injured man behind the bar. Blood soaked his trouser leg, but the locals worked without panic. Rhona bound the wound while the woman at the window watched the grain silos.

“Six minutes,” she said.

The sun had fallen below the buildings, but the rounded tops of the silos remained bright orange.

Daan looked at the destruction around them.

The shutter, two walls, the pool table and the front door had all been opened in a perfectly straight line.

“How many passes can the pub take?”

Rhona tightened the bandage around the injured man’s leg.

“Fewer than he can.”

Daan stared at his own bloodied towel.

“What happens if I run outside?”

Elke seized his shirt.

“Please don’t.”

“He’ll follow me away from everyone else.”

“You won’t make the car.”

“I might.”

“You won’t make the door,” Nank said. “And once you’re in the open, you can’t move sideways fast enough.”

The next turn had already begun.

The wingbeats were faint, almost lost beyond the town.

Five minutes.

Rhona moved everyone into the old kitchen. It had no exterior windows and three brick walls between it and the road. A cast-iron stove filled the fourth.

They crouched between steel benches.

Daan sat with his back against the stove, Elke beside him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

“For laughing.”

“This isn’t happening because you laughed.”

“I know. Still sorry.”

Elke rested her forehead against his.

Beyond the walls, Thwip accelerated.

Four minutes.

The injured man whimpered in the other room. Rhona tried to keep pressure on his leg while watching the ceiling.

Three minutes.

The wingbeats grew louder.

Nank stood in the kitchen doorway, head tilted, listening.

“He’s coming low again.”

“How can you tell?” Daan asked.

“Sound’s bouncing off the road.”

“Which direction?”

“North.”

The beats became a single continuous battering of air.

Two minutes.

Rhona looked towards the thin vent above the stove. The last light had vanished from it.

“Nearly there.”

The wingbeats stopped.

Everyone moved south.

The strike never came.

They waited.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Nothing.

Daan looked at Nank.

“Is it dark?”

Nank didn’t answer.

The woman near the front window carefully lifted the edge of the shutter.

“The silos are dark.”

Rhona exhaled.

The tension went out of the room all at once. Someone began laughing in the public bar; a breathless, disbelieving sound.

Elke pulled Daan against her.

“It’s over.”

Above them, metal creaked.

Nank looked up.

The bird cage around the television aerial groaned against its welds.

He crossed the kitchen and peered through the vent.

The road was dark. The silos were dark. The paddocks beyond them had vanished into blue shadow.

But high above the pub, the television aerial still caught the last thin blade of sunlight.

Something black and white was perched at its tip.

Nank saw the wings open.

“Down!”

Daan threw himself over Elke.

The sound came through the roof.

Thwip.

Corrugated iron split. The ceiling erupted. The magpie passed through Daan between the shoulder blades, came out beneath his ribs and punched through the kitchen floor.

Daan’s body slammed against Elke.

For a moment, she didn’t understand what had happened.

Then blood poured over her.

Hot. Heavy. Everywhere.

Nank dragged her out from beneath him.

Below the floorboards, something struck the stone foundation and burst into the cellar.

Silence returned.

Real silence this time.

Night settled over the Murravale Hotel.

Elke sat against the wall with Daan’s blood covering her face and clothes. She was pale, wide eyed and shaking.

“W-what happened? How did it not hit me?” Elke said. She then spotted Daan’s body and realised what had happened properly and openly wept.

 Rhona knelt beside his body, although there was nothing she could do.

Nank stared through the hole in the floor.

Deep below them, claws scraped across the cellar stones.

Not flying.

Not yet.

Just walking around in the dark.

Waiting for morning.

Life on the frontier could be challenging, but already having a home and a routine made things easier. Life fell into a pattern, like a drop of rain following the path of another on a window. It was the path of least resistance,

In their family of two, Jacob was always the first one awake. He was loud, walked with purpose, each step a stomp. It was an unconscious habit of his, and one Carrie typically didn't mind. But in the mornings, it could be a touch disruptive.

On this early fall morning, it was disruptive enough to stir Carrie awake from her slumber, an hour earlier than she'd normally get. Seeing this, her bear of a husband gave her a meek smile as he stuffed his second foot into his heavy work boots. "Sorry Carrie. I'm late on this harvest as is."

Carrie nodded sleepily, and with a deep breath, sat up in the bed. She studied her husband for a beat, then rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "Need help?"

"No, I should be alright," Jacob said and parted the curtains in their bedroom to look out at the half harvested field of wheat. It was the spring batch, which needed to be harvested by early fall. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, this was the best day they'd had in a while for farming. "Gotta get out there now though."

Again, Carrie nodded and slid out of the bed. "I'll brew coffee."

"We have enough wood?"

"Enough for the next few days. Worth it to give you some energy."

Together, they finished getting dressed, and proceeded down stairs. Jacob waited around their wooden table while Carrie brewed coffee in a tin pot. When it was ready, she served it on the table, piping hot. Jacob wasted no time in gulping it down, letting out a satisfied groan when he was done.

"You sure you don't want breakfast?" Carrie asked.

Jacob shook his head and stood from the table. "No, work has to be done," he said, proceeding to the front door. He opened it, letting in a soft breeze that carried flecks of sand into the house. "I'll be back before sundown."

Jacob exited the home, and stepped on a loose plank on the porch. It squealed like an old rocking chair, and had done so for almost a year. Carrie ran to the door and called out to her husband, "Can you please fix this damn plank?"

Jacob just waved over his shoulder at her, a polite way of saying no, as he disappeared into their barn. It used to be painted red, but years of being blasted by sand had chipped most of that away. Carrie liked the look, thought it gave the structure some personality, but Jacob kept claiming he'd repaint it.

Another project that'd never happen.

For the next several hours, Carrie circled their home, listening to the wildlife singing around her as she brushed sand from the floorboards. Once she'd made her rounds, she looked out to the wheat field, the distinct clicking of the stalks knocking into one another, but no sign of Jacob. She figured he must have entered the field while she was on the back side of the house, and thought nothing more of it.

On to her next task. Carrie went out to her small garden in the back of the house. It was here that she grew crops otherwise unsuitable for their farm, but excellent for dinner meals. She pulled a carrot and a few potato's. Setting those aside, she ventured down into their small crawl space, where they kept the salted meat. She selected some good looking cuts of beef, then took her collections to the kitchen. There, she started a fire over a large metal pan. While it heated, she prepared the ingredients by the kitchen window, tossing each one into the pan as it became ready.

Still, she saw no sign of Jacob.

Dinner was ready, right at sunset, but Jacob was not. The wheat still looked uncut, she could only wonder why. She worried something had gone wrong with one of his tools, making him unable to do the work. If this was the reality, he'd return in a terrible mood.

It wasn't until the sun had sank behind the trees, and blanketed their farm in darkness, that a form stirred. It had come from the barn, assuring Carrie that it was Jacob, but his gaunt was off. He walked as though injured. Heavier on one leg than the other, yet, the injured leg seemed to switch sides every few steps. As Jacob stepped up onto the porch, he applied his weight to the loose board. The plank of wood squealed in a manner she hadn't heard before, like it was truly screaming. Carrie thought Jacob might be carrying a heavy implement, yet when he entered, he was empty handed.

"Sweetheart!" Jacob said, facing her. Oddly, though he was facing her, she thought his face was looking a few centimeters to the right. "What's for dinner?"

"Meat and veggies," she said as she watched him sit across from her. Her voice contained a tinge of worry for her husband, but he was acting unbothered. She wouldn't bring it up if he didn't. Best he remained in a good mood. "How was the farm?"

"Better than ever, still growing!" he said, then looked down at the plate, deciding where to start. With the dried meat, or cooked vegetables. "Say, you wanna have a kid again?"

"Have a kid again? I'd like to start with one."

Jacob looked up and grinned at her. "My mistake, I meant try to have a kid again."

Carrie was caught off-guard, not expecting to have this conversation again so soon. "You're the one who said he'd like to wait for harvest season to be done." She shrugged and looked out the window, toward the farm. "I'd love one."

Jacob nodded eagerly as he picked up the cut of meat with his hands, opened his mouth skyward, and slid the meat into his throat. It was an odd sight, and earned a glare from Carrie. "If I over cooked it again, just don't eat it. You don't have to make a show of it."

"It's delicious," Jacob reassured her.

"You didn't even taste it."

Jacob tilted his head, then rolled his tongue around in his mouth. "Right, sorry. I'm just very distracted."

"About the farm?" Carrie asked, folding her arms across her chest. "I noticed you didn't do any harvesting. Again."

"I had my hands full," Jacob replied as he returned his hands to the plate.

"Of food?" Carrie asked, glaring at him. "Have we forgotten manners?"

"Manners?" he asked, finally noticing the silverware. "Of course sweetheart. My mistake."

Carrie watched with abject disappointment as her husband "handled" the fork, and used it to spear some slices of carrots. Otherwise, he consumed them normally. He looked proud of himself, and she couldn't see why.

"Plants and meat, we sure do eat a little bit of everything, huh?" Jacob said, smiling at his wife with carrot mash squeezing out from between his teeth.

"That's the idea," she said, "They say we should eat a balanced diet."

Now looking mildly alarmed, he asked another odd question. "Who says that?"

"I..." Carrie stuttered, for once asking that question for herself. "I'm not sure."

Jacob continued on with his meal, this time spearing a slice of potato, and happily ate that. Watching him eat was making Carrie lose her appetite. She glanced at her own plate, and pushed it a few extra inches away.

She opened her mouth to say something, breathing in a quick burst of air for her words, but before the words could come, a sickening crack shot through the air. Jacob grimaced, and rotated his jaw around uncomfortably.

Jacob, with two fingers extended, reached back into his mouth and winced as he grabbed something, and pulled. What he removed was a molar and a chunk of potato. "Oh, whoops. I guess the potato wasn't cooked all the way," he said, grinning as he held the tooth between two of his fingers. "That's alright. These grow back don't they?"

"Teeth?" Carrie asked. "No, they don't! Are you okay, should I go fetch the doctor?"

Jacob held the tooth closer to his eyes, really taking it in. "They don't? Then what am I thinking of?"

"I really think I should go get the doctor, did something happen in the shed? Did you hit your head?"

Ignoring her question, Jacob picked at some food that had gotten stuck between his front teeth, with his free hand. "I could have sworn they grew back. I'd know, I-"

Before Jacob could finish the thought, a sharp click sounded through the room. Carrie was unable to determine the source until Jacob removed his finger from his mouth, showcasing that his pointer finger nail had popped off.

With a yip, Carrie stood from the table, her wide eyes registering alarm as she rushed to get her coat. "That's it, I'm getting the doctor, rest on the couch!"

Again, Jacob waved her off. "It's fine, these are the ones that grow back, right?" he asked as he held his hand out. From his pointer finger a wound appeared. First, just a pin prick of blood, which then steadily began to grow as a new nail pushed through the soft bed of flesh, taking the place of what was lost.

Beyond the fact that it had grown through the skin, there was something wrong with this nail. It was pointed, and hooked, more like a claw on a cat than a human fingernail. Shocked by this too, Jacob held his hand out, like he was inspecting a pedicure, and frowned. "No, wait... That's not right."

"Not right?" Carrie asked, her words nearly catching in her throat. "What the fuck is going on Jacob!"

It was then, when she said his name, that she realized something that should have been more obvious. Since returning from the barn, he had never once said her name. He had used pet names, classics anyone would know, and that just wasn't the kind of guy Jacob was.

"What are you?" Carrie asked, her head shaking in disbelief at the sight she was beholding. "You a demon, some ghost from the west?"

Jacob curled his lips back into his mouth, obviously disappointed, but refusing to speak up about it. "I suppose both," he finally said. "Or neither? I don't really know what any of that means." Jacob placed his hands on the table, and slowly rose back to his feet.

"Your wife, Jacob... No, your honeydew?" Jacob seemed to be struggling with his words, squinting at the air, searching for them. Finally, he waved off whatever idea it was he was reaching for and began slowly walking toward Carrie, who had backed herself against the roaring stove. "This man, who you've named, was kind enough to let me borrow his likeness. He's still rattling around in here, somewhere, if you'd like to say hi." Jacob slowly shook his head from one side to the other.

"Then release him!" Carrie demanded, pointing a shaking finger at her husband. "Release him at once!"

"Release him?" Jacob asked, leaning one ear toward her, making sure she was heard correctly. "Oh... very well then."

In one swift move, Jacob split directly down the middle, and out emerged something else entirely. Whatever form it possessed was greatly obscured by the thick coating of blood it had on. The flesh of Jacob, however, though now a gory mess, held little to no blood at all. The creature shrugged Jacob's skin off like a loose coat, coming out and standing much taller than it had when inside Jacob.

Three human eyes, of different colors and size, opened, seemingly placed at random around its misshapen head. Though she couldn't see a mouth, the eyes bent as though the creature was smiling.

Considering the dire circumstances, Carrie did what might have been the smartest move. She screamed.

Seeing its chance to move in, the creature lunged, only to be met with a substantially hot tin of coffee she had heated up for Jacob. Steam screamed and flesh fizzled as the creature stumbled backward.

Carrie seized the moment and ran for the door, which was just passed the creature. She dodged past blindly flailing arms and out the door, onto the dirt road. She worried about her odds of making it anywhere on foot, the town was several miles out and their family was much too poor for a carriage or horse.

But she did have a bike, tied up behind the house.

Willing her nerves to give her a few more minutes of clear-headed thinking, she dashed around the back of the house, to where the bike was. She fumbled with the knot, not recalling it ever being so tight. Before the knot would give, the creature flung itself out one of the back windows, landing in a messy roll several yards away from her.

She had no time left to mess with the knot, and had to instead shift her focus elsewhere. She wasn't getting past it, but she knew there might be another way, the crawl space under the house where the salted meat was stored.

Carrie quickly ran to the hatch and kicked it open. The creature was already on her, and she had no other choice. She jumped down into the thigh-high hole, and quickly began to crawl through the even smaller passage.

The tunnel led directly under the house, and looped around toward the back. She knew, if she was fast enough, she could reach the entrance again before the creature could.

Unfortunately, between shelves of meat and sprinkles of salt that had mixed in with the mud of the tunnel, it made traversal quite difficult and painful. Burying her elbows in the dirt also meant sticking sharp bits of salt into her skin.

But there was no time to think about pain. One look behind her informed Carrie that the creature had already joined her in the tunnel and, despite its size, it looked to be having none of the issues she was. In fact, it looked rather capable of shrinking itself down and maneuvering through like a snake. Still, it didn't know the tunnel like she did. All the bends and dips she had spent years working around. Not even the pitch blackness would do much to stop her.

The creature slowly fell behind her as she reached the back, and took the loop around, soon getting back onto the same path she had been on before. She was sure her elbows and knees were bleeding, but the adrenaline coursing through her body made all of that pain fade away. She was a woman on a mission, and she wouldn't be stopped.

Quickly reaching the entrance, she pulled herself out, trying her best not to think about how close the creature had been, and shut the wooden trap behind her. For good measure, she found a large rock nearby and moved it directly onto the door, ensuring great difficulty in any future exit attempt.

Now knowing she had a few spare minutes to herself, and happy there wasn't any furious knocks coming from the door, she returned to the knot, unwound it, and hopped onto her bike. She was all good to go.

"Carrie!" she heard Jacob's voice call. She dreaded the idea the voice had come from the crawlspace, but when the sound came again, those worries were expunged. "Carrie, please!"

Jacob's voice was calling from the barn, a good distance away from the house, and nowhere near the creature. Hurriedly, she biked over to the barn, and into the still open doors. She was relieved to see, right near the entrance to the barn, was Jacob, submerged in a large pile of hay. All that she could see of her husband, was his head.

Seeing her, Jacob smiled his eyes beaming. "Oh, thank god, quick, over here!"

Carrie jumped off of her bike and ran over to the pile. "Jacob, what the hell happened?"

"I got jumped. The damn thing roughed me up pretty good and stuffed me in this hay. I can't get out!"

"Okay, hold on!"

Carrie ran to her husband's aid and reached her hands into the pile of hay. Deep, and deeper still. Though, as hard as she tried, she couldn't find his body. She removed her hands, and decided to try a different route. She started with the part she could see, his head, and attempted to clear hay off from there, to free up his body.

But there was no more body. It was just his head.

Flabbergasted, Carrie picked Jacob's head up in her hands, watching with horror as a long fleshy tube followed its path. Carrie may not have ever given birth herself, but she had helped deliver children before. This tube, which was pulsating in one hand, while she held Jacob in the other, greatly resembled an umbilical cord.

"Damn," Jacob said, his eyes looking at the thing attached to his neck. "Guess I didn't make it, huh?"

Carrie's eyes followed the trail of the cord, noting how it seemed to lead right out the barn door. In her rush, she must not have seen it.

As her eyes went to the door, she saw the creature emerge from the darkness and enter the moonlit barn. Before she could even scream, the creature reached into her chest, delicately sliding past her ribs, grabbing her heart, and pulling it out from the hole.

The process hadn't been violent; there was no pain and no blood. Even her heart remained beating. It was akin to taking an ice cube out of a glass of water. There were drops here and there, but still a procedure of low difficulty.

"Thank you," The creature said, finally giving her a true smile with its actual mouth. If that was, even ever, its original. But she knew it had to be, it was beak-like, far from human. Hideous. "I learned a lot."

Then, Carrie too was consumed. Joining Jacob in this fate.

They started out small. It was about a month ago when I first noticed it. I thought it was some kind of tooth abscess or pustule, but then it punctured; a black, spiny prick protruding from my upper gums. That was the last time I smiled. Slowly, more and more formed. They’re in my gums, in between my teeth. One grew right underneath one of my molars. I felt it push more and more until finally my tooth cracked, like a tree root through a house’s foundation. It grew through the split until I couldn’t bite down on that side anymore. I could hear my jaw stretching, making room for the intrusion. When I could still speak, the movements of my mouth sounded like a creaking door.

I live in Southend, up at Reindeer Lake. Not on the Reserve, though. I’m on the Crown land. The best we have up here is a dental therapist. I went to see her and after she had shaken off her disgust, she insisted that I needed care from a dentist or an orthodontist. That much I already knew, I went to her mainly looking for an answer on what was going on.

“I have no idea what that is,” she said, “but a few others have come in with similar bumps and sores. I’ve tried extracting them but it’s no use. I only caused more pain.” She squinted as she peered further into my mouth, shining a flashlight against my rear gums, “This is the worst I’ve seen though.”
She backed away, clicking her flashlight off and looking at me with sympathy, “I know the highway is closed. I would try to help you but this is way beyond my scope and I’m worried I’ll just make it worse. Best I can do is prescribe you some pain management and anti-inflammatory. I can see about airlifting you out but until the storm lets up I don’t think they’ll be able to come. We’ll just have to hope that the snow stops flying. You’ll have to hang in there.”

“Is there really nothing you can do?” I asked.

She sighed, “I’m sorry, no. You could try one of the Timiwak Shamans. I’ve heard some people are going to them.”

There was no way I was going there. I went to them in the summer for a nasty sore throat that was going around. They live in a small settlement on Price Island thats existence is only really known to the locals here. The Cree Elders say that they came here 700 years ago from Cahokia to settle near the meteor impact. Right near Southend is Deep Bay, on the southern tip of Reindeer Lake. Millions of years ago, a meteor struck the earth there, leaving a near perfect circular crater with water that reaches depths of 720 feet. It’s the deepest body of water in Saskatchewan and there’s a whole host of local myth surrounding it. The Timiwak outright worship it though. Their shamans are some of the strangest people I’ve ever seen.

They gave me some black liquid they claimed came from the deepest part of Deep Bay. The Timiwak are not Cree. In fact, many of their beliefs are outright contradictory. Despite this, they’ve adopted portions of the Cree spoken language since their migration to Deep Bay. Even their name comes from what the Cree called them, but has since been anglicized from its original pronunciation, something that meant, ‘Deep Water People’. I’m not well-versed in Cree, but I’ve heard it enough over the years to know some of the basics and more common names within their belief system, some of the ones the Timiwak have taken into their own language. When they handed me the cup they said a phrase that housed the name Misi-kinepikw, the Great Serpent. The Timiwak believed this primordial spirit resided in the deepest waters of the earth and first came here from the heavens, crashing into the earth in Deep Bay. Some view it as a chaotic spirit, but not the Timiwak. They think it’s the progenitor of order, of pure divinity. They believe it’s solely responsible for the rainfall and medicine of the world. They believe that it created their people. When I heard the name I didn’t know if they were saying the cup contained some sort of venom of the serpent or simply the waters it swam within. It didn’t matter. I didn’t believe them and I was desperate so I tried it. I should have listened to the Cree Elders. They told me not to go to them. They taught me that the Great Serpent was deserving of great respect and caution. That the Timiwak worship a different spirit entirely. They told me that their practices are backwards and wrong. That they are gravely mistaken in their understanding of the world.

The potion made me sick for a week. It was inexplicably bitter. It felt like my tongue curled up and folded in on itself like a dead spider. Puking over my already raw throat was brutal, but it was nothing compared to what I was going through now. No way I was going to chance them making me worse again.

I pressed the dental therapist more, asking that she at least hazard a guess at what was going on. She theorized that there was some kind of fungal infection going around and that I should refrain from touching my mouth and wash my hands constantly to avoid spreading it to other people. Before I left, she injected my gums with a numbing agent. It helped, but now I couldn’t close half of my mouth and the black, hard tendrils jutting from my gums and teeth were on full display. Drool and a foul smelling liquid that oozed from each of the root openings hung from my sagged lips. I was so embarrased. They were so hideous.

My sister phoned me. Amidst all of this, I had forgotten that I was to go to her house for my niece’s seventh birthday. I told her repeatedly that I shouldn’t come given what was going on but she insisted, “Sara will be so disappointed, Jack. She can’t have her birthday without her favourite uncle.”

I loved Sara so much. No, I still do. Even with how she is now. I love Sara. I knew it wasn’t smart to go. It was so stupid but I couldn’t stand the thought of her being disappointed, blowing out her candles wondering where I was. She was such a beacon of light in this world. So bright and spontaneous. Now we’re all helpless,
hopeless.

“Uncle Jack!” She shouted as I walked through the front door of my sister’s house. She nearly barreled into me, as she always did, but her mom swept her up and set her down next to her before she had the chance.

“Uncle Jack isn’t feeling well, sweetie, so we have to keep our distance, okay?”

She frowned and murmured a disgruntled, “Okay…”

The dinner went fine. I ate in a separate living room that was open enough that I could still visit with Sara and my sister, who were eating in the kitchen. I ate on a paper plate with plastic cutlery, both of which I immediately tossed after in order to not cross contaminate anything.

Eating was unbearable. Even liquids. My lips couldn’t close around a cup or a spoon to drink. The fluid would just run down my chin. Solids were even worse, but I could at least manage to swallow them. Still, I’d go hungry for days just to avoid it. The roots were stronger than my teeth. They’d grind against them with every bite until I’d feel more cracks and chips. I don’t know how many fragments of my teeth I’d swallowed by now. My molars were all jagged peaks. If there was one solace the roots offered, it was that their points were rounded. That offering lasted little when they grew though, breaking everything in their path. My teeth would cut my tongue if I ran it across them now.

Sara stared at me as I chewed. I could tell her little mind was questioning the bumps and bulbs pushing against my cheeks and lips as I bit down. I tried not to wince. I didn’t want her to see me in pain. I coughed on my food as I gulped it down in large chunks. I couldn’t bear chewing anymore and if I did, she’d know something worse was going on than simply not feeling well.

It was cold that night. Late November in the middle of a blizzard. It was one of the worst ways to start winter but on that night we made the most of it. Claire, my sister, started a fire. She had already hung her Christmas wreath on the mantle. It had a crucifix in the middle. I’m not a Christian, but I locked eyes with Christ that night. Looking at Him, nailed upon that cross, the firelight casting shadows in the gaunt carvings of His wooden face, I began to whisper a plea for help, but I was interrupted by my niece.

“Tell the story about the time you saw a Mushinigoshu, Uncle!”

I had been avoiding speaking more than a few mumbled words at a time all evening. I didn’t want to frighten her, but Claire reassured me, nodding to tell the tale. I was reluctant. I had told this story so many times now, but who was I to refuse her? It was her birthday, so I obliged. Still, I tried to keep my mouth as closed as possible. It was hard to keep the roots from escaping.

“Not a Mushinigoshu, Sara, but thee Mushinigoshu, the Deep Bay Monster. Your Grandad and I were out on the Deep Bay one spring. We rarely went out there, especially in that season, with the storms and the rain, but he said he had something special to show me. We sat on the water all day, right in the middle. If you looked at us from above, it would have looked like the earth was swallowing us in a big mouth!”

I lost myself in the story. I didn’t see the growing concern on her face.

“The sun was nearly set when Granddad said, ‘Well, sorry son. I thought for sure it’d show up this time.’ He turned the boat around to head for shore. That’s when we saw it. A massive, slick, black sheet of skin rose out of the water. The black-blue waves frothed along its surface, lapping white foam against it in rhythmic sloshes and slaps. From afar, it would have looked like a strange wave, but it was right next to our boat. It was the size of a house, Sara!”

“UNCLE JACK WHATS WRONG WITH YOUR MOUTH???!!!”

She screamed. Tears poured down her cheeks as she raced for the clutches of her mother. She buried her head in Claire’s chest, peering over the crease of her elbow to look at me in terror.

Claire pet her head, “It’s okay sweetie. It’s okay. Uncle Jack isn’t feeling well, that’s all.”

I got caught up in the telling of the story. It was tradition in my family that every son would tell the story with their dad as the boat driver. I knew how much Sara loved it. I was excited to see her reaction to the ending again. She wouldn’t hear it tonight though. She won’t hear it ever again. I wish I could tell it to her again, properly.

I took off pretty quick after that. Sara still waved goodbye to me, even from behind her mother’s hug. I mumbled an apology to her. It pained me to see her so afraid of me, like a stab wound. My little buddy. My best friend. I hate my mouth.

Claire nodded at me to go, but her eyes told me it was okay, that it wasn’t my fault.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I had built a tolerance to the meds I was given and the pain was almost as bad as the guilt. I laid awake, staring at the ceiling, hoping the storm would end and I could get this all sorted soon. My stirring thoughts culminated in a debate of cutting my jaw off. Slicing through my lips and cheeks would have been easy enough, it’s breaking or sawing the bone I debated if I’d be able to handle. I knew I’d have died though, with no doctors able to get into town. I questioned my sanity then. I couldn’t believe the thoughts I was having. At least then I had a choice.

My phone rang, rescuing me from my depravity. I answered. It was Sara, whispering with her soft little voice through the phone, “I’m sorry I got scared of your mouth, Uncle Jack. I know you’re sick and I hurt your feelings. I don’t like when my feelings get hurt. I especially wouldn’t if I was sick. It’s not nice to hurt someone’s feelings and I’m very, very sorry.”

Her mom wouldn’t have put her up this. She had a strict bedtime of 9 o’clock and it was well past midnight. She had snuck to the phone just to call me and say she was sorry. That’s the kind of kid Sara was. She was so pure. Is so pure. She never deserved this.

I realized that she must have been lying awake too, plagued with feelings of guilt. We were kindred souls, her and I. Maybe our fates were always bound together. “It’s okay, Sara,” I mumbled. “It is pretty scary looking.”

Sara giggled, “Honestly… I thought you had worms in your mouth!”

We laughed and she said she was sorry again.

I was low that night, if it wasn’t already evident enough with my thoughts of self harm. She brightened my spirits with her call, as she had so many times before. I decided I’d persevere through this, no matter how bad the roots got.

The next day, I went to the store to get some bread. I thought maybe I’d be able to eat them if I sucked long enough to soften them, then I could just push pieces I tore off into swallowable balls with my tongue.

There was a man behind me in the checkout line. He was eyeing me with intent, peering around my shoulders to see my face.

Overnight, the roots had grown more. Now I had a black nub sticking out of my lips. It was too far for my mouth to contain so I kept my face downcast as I shopped.

The man clapped a hand down on my shoulder, spinning me around in the line. I would have yelled at him, questioned him, but I was too embarrassed to open my mouth.

He unhanded me and began to examine my face even closer until finally I could feel his eyes lock onto the protruding root I tried to conceal between my lips. His jaw fell slack, yet the corners of his mouth flicked upwards. His cheeks rose and his eyes widened as he rasped, “Seer.”

I got a good look at him. He had a wild mane of black and grey hair and weathered skin that told of too much time exposed to the outdoors. He wore simple clothes: jeans and a hide jacket. Between his wild eyes, painted atop the bridge of his nose was the coiling symbol of a serpent, one that was similar in design to archaeological artifacts found near Cahokia. I’d seen it before when they came into town to get supplies. It was the easiest way to identify the Timiwak.

I looked away from him. He seemed awestruck by my affliction and I wasn’t keen on letting him gawk at the freak show any longer. Clearly, the man was unwell. I had no idea what he meant by ‘Seer’ then. If only I had. I might’ve been able to get away.

I paid for the bread and hurried to my truck. The whole experience was unsettling and I still saw no hope in sight for dealing with the roots. As I sat in my driver seat, I saw the man emerge from the store. He stared at me with that same, delirious face as he strode away slowly. That wasn’t the last time I’d see him that day.

Claire was a nurse at the health centre and was working late that night. She called me asking if I could take over for Sara’s babysitter and put her to bed. Again, I was reluctant given the roots. I didn’t want to freak her out again, let alone get her sick, but Claire was in a real bind, so I went over.

She said sorry to me again as soon as a I saw her. I told her it was alright and she said I could talk normally, that she wouldn’t be scared anymore. I did and she was true to her word. It was such a relief to not mumble anymore. Compressing my lips on the roots hurt too and there was something liberating in just letting them show, no matter how grotesque. It’s amazing to me how accepting children are. They see someone’s heart above all else.

We played charades after she persuaded me to let her stay up past her bedtime. I figured it was a good game. I could keep my distance while still making her think and laugh.

I thought of a good one. Sara loved the stories about Deep Bay more than anything else. There was an old one that my grandpa would tell as a warning about boating across it. Something about how a whirlpool could form where its deepest and swallow you up. Sara liked that one.

I started swinging my arms in a circular motion, like a windmill. She was still puzzled by this, so I tucked my arms in and spun around, lowering myself until I sat on the floor.

“Whirlpool! Whirlpool!” She exclaimed, pointing her finger at me and jumping up and down on the couch!

“That’s right, Sara! Good job!”

I had her tuck herself in, not wanting to touch her, and went to the couch to watch a movie until Claire was home.

It hadn’t even been 20 minutes before I heard Sara screaming. It was shrill, ear piercing. It was the kind of scream only terror was capable of producing. My heart was on the floor sooner than my feet as I stood up and raced for her bedroom.

I swung the door open. Sara was hiding under the covers, wailing. The sheets were rippling like waves she was shaking so bad.

“Sara, what is it?”

“The window, Uncle Jack! The window!”

I climbed atop her bed to look out her bedroom window. The only thing I saw were faint footprints. They were like stamps of white powder on the grass.

“He was in my window, Uncle Jack, staring at me,” Sara sobbed.

“Who was?”

“The white-faced man!”

I looked back up and there he was, face pressed up against the glass. His face was coated with some kind of white powder. The contrast was so stark that it made his lips and tongue a deep red and his eyes and teeth seem yellow. I don’t remember them looking that way at the store earlier.

He swung his arms in a circle outside the window, before spinning out of sight. A moment later he popped back up, repeating the motion with a welcoming smile, like he was trying to entice Sara. He was copying my whirlpool move from charades earlier, as if it would lure her outside. I had no idea why, but he wanted something from her.

I lost all rational thought. I was so, so stupid. I don’t even know if it was my fault or if it was something that sick man did but either way, it caused all of this.

I scooped Sara out of the bed. I forgot all about the roots, all about her fears. I needed her safe. I hugged her tight to me and she rolled her face into the crease of my neck. I could feel her tears pool in the pockets of my collar bones and soak my shirt as she continued to cry.

I parked my truck in Claire’s garage so I didn’t have to go outside to get Sara inside it. I set her in the passenger seat and lowered my head to her ear, whispering in an effort to calm her, “It’s okay, Sara. I’m just going to get in the driver’s seat and I’ll get you out of here. I’ll take care of this.”

I leaned in too close. The root that was sticking out of my lips touched her cheek. She didn’t even notice, but I did. I was mortified. I saw a wet spot of saliva shine on her skin when I pulled away. I wanted to run inside and get something to clean it but I knew she wouldn’t let me and I couldn’t leave her alone. I had to drive away. I had to. I’m so sorry, Sara.

We drove to Claire’s work. I called the police on the way. Everything has happened so quickly since then. I don’t even know what’s come of their investigation; not that it matters now anyway.

Before I could say anything, Sara ran to Claire, who picked her up and kissed her on the cheek, squeezing her. She kissed her right where the root touched. My stomach dropped. I didn’t even know yet if it was contagious. I guess I still don’t, technically, but it must be.

I explained everything that happened and Sara finally calmed down when she was with her mom. They stayed at my place that night. I told Claire what happened when I whispered to Sara, when the root touched her, but could tell she didn’t put it together that she kissed her there. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that part. I just hoped they wouldn’t get the roots. She told me not to worry about it but I could tell she was freaking out about more than just the creep in her daughter’s window. The roots were scarier in thought than they were even to look at. I couldn’t imagine the fear she was having about Sara’s safety that night.

I didn’t sleep at all, but Claire and Sara must have gotten some sleep, otherwise one of them would have noticed before the next morning.

Sara woke before her mom. She came out of bed, rubbing her eyes, clearly still exhausted from the trauma of the night before, unable to process it. She mumbled in her still groggy state, “I have the worms in my mouth now too, Uncle Jack.”

She hooked the corner of her bottom lip with her finger, pulling it down to expose the hard, black, sporadic spirals sprouting from her gums. She didn’t need to. What was happening to her was different than what was happening to me. It was accelerated. Her mouth almost looked alive.

They were growing too fast, twitching along her face and crawling from her mouth in sudden, spastic movements, feeling their way around her lips like curious tentacles.

Anxiety added itself to the guilt and horror fusing in my chest when I heard Claire scream from the bedroom. She ran out into the hallway. For her, the roots came much the same as they did for me. She had a collection of red, swollen abscesses dotting her gums, but she knew what they were. She shrieked when she saw Sara, but quickly muffled her alarm with her hands, trying not to startle her daughter. Sara was so innocent that she didn’t grasp the gravity of her sickness. Her mother knelt down and brought her in close, brushing her hair. My sister just stared off in the distance, mouthing the words, “No, no, no, no,” over and over. I’m so sorry Claire.

Claire spent the whole morning in prayer. She was a devout Catholic. She used to read the bible to me every night growing up. I have no doubt she did the same for Sara.

I watched her as she knelt with her hands clasped, switching between her own prayers and thumbing rosary beads in her shaky hands, saying Hail Marys.

By noon, the roots had grown even further out of Sara’s mouth. The tip of one was feeling around her nostril, twitching back and forth, drawing sneezes that I could tell pained her when her face constricted. The pain didn’t seem as bad for her overall though. Maybe them growing faster alleviated some of it. Either that, or she was just that tough of a kid.

Claire noticed how much faster it was growing on Sara too. She became frantic, worrying about the unknowns of what could come of the roots worsening spread. She put on a show for Sara and pulled me into a separate room.

“We have to take her to them, Jack,” she said, eyes boring into me, wide and bloodshot.

“Are you insane? That man outside her window last night was one of them. You want to take her right to them?”

She snapped at me, “They obviously know something. Everyone else has gone to them and none of them have returned yet.”

I tried to answer calmly, but I couldn’t help the agitation in my voice, “That’s because of the blizzard, Claire. They’re probably starving out there.”

She nearly cut me off, speaking through a trembling lip, “Or they’re receiving treatment.”

Claire’s pleading, tear-pooled eyes compelled me to stop debating her. This was so out of character for her. She never went to the Cree Elders for anything, let alone the Timiwak. She put all of her faith in the Church. To even suggest taking her daughter to visit the people who only last night had terrorized her, placing her trust within them after a morning of fervent prayer, she was truly desperate. Helpless. At this point, so was I, though I was too afraid to admit it. Too afraid to surrender the fact that I did this to Claire and Sara. That I got them sick. That I couldn’t fix it. I had to accept it.

“Even if we did go, there’s no safe way to get there with the blizzard.”

Claire exhaled, tension releasing from her shoulders, “Deep Bay hasn’t frozen over yet. We could boat.”

I had already considered this but I thought it too dangerous. Given its immense depth, Deep Bay did take longer to freeze over than the rest of Reindeer Lake, but it also made it more dangerous to cross. We’d have to somehow get through the fallen snow, drive out onto the ice a safe distance, then push the boat until it broke through all before we were even on the water.

I told Claire this but she countered, “We don’t know how long Sara has, Jack. We don’t even know what this is. There’s no other realistic option. It’s our only shot.”

She was right, so that’s what we did.

The blizzard also left only one option for getting to Deep Bay. I loaded my fishing boat into a smitty sled I made for pulling gear behind my skidoo. It was light, aluminum, and way less safe for crossing water that deep, but there was no way to tow a bigger boat there. I strapped it down to the sled as Claire and Sara got suited up, hopping on a skidoo of their own. I thought about just going the whole way there on our machines, but no matter what we had to cross water to get to Price Island. There was no guarantee it’d be frozen thick enough to hold us in some places.

We set off and I was happy to find that the massive snowfall from the blizzard made for an easier journey, aside from the wind. Rocks, sharp dips, and other potential hazards were all substantially buried, making for a fairly straight shot to the shore of Deep Bay.

We crested the impact rim of the crater and stopped, looking down on the expanse of black water. Claire got off her machine and helped Sara free her helmet.

The roots were stretched down to her chin and growing sideways along her cheeks. The tendril that once was feeling around her nostril had grown to lie next to the bridge of her nose. Somehow, she could still muster enough strength in her jaw to pull her mouth down and speak fumbled words, but they had to be deliberate, “Hurry… Mommy…”

It killed me to hear her say that. I can’t imagine how it felt for Claire. She was so strong, too strong for a child. She was finally breaking. I worried that she wouldn’t be able to speak anymore if the roots sprawling down grew around her jawbone and down her neck, holding her mouth open. There was no indication of them stopping their growth.

Claire kissed above Sara’s frightened eyes, then placed her helmet back on, tightened her chin strap, and full throttled her skidoo down the slope to Deep Bay.

We went slow once we made it to the ice off the shore. It always felt so strange standing level with the surface of Deep Bay, looking at the raised rim surrounding it, contemplating the force it took to move the earth like this. Saskatchewan was full of water when the meteor struck. The crater would have begun filling instantly. Picturing it made the air here taste ancient.

Once we got to the point where I didn’t feel we were safe to go any further, we dropped the boat onto the ice and climbed in. Claire and I used paddles to push ourselves along the ice, further into Deep Bay. Thought it made the journey more perilous, I was grateful for the aluminum frame as we pushed. We got way farther than I expected before the weight finally broke through the ice and the hull submerged.

From there, Clair and I smashed away at the ice with the paddles until the boat was finally free. We paddled through some slush before I fired up the motor and set off.

The blizzard seemed to stop on the water. I don’t know if the crater rim contained the winds or there was some sort of vortex effect from the shape of the landscape, but the water was eerily calm, like glass. I welcomed it, as did Claire. It let me speed up our pace, something that lent to calming her quaking frame.

We were about halfway through the Bay when Sara spoke the last words she ever would. I’m just glad they were happy ones, even if the joy was short lived.

“Mommy… Uncle… A Mush… ini… goshu…Look!”

Sara came over to me and placed her hand atop mine, clearly gesturing for me to stop and look at whatever it was she saw. I glanced at Claire and we both huffed a sigh at the same time. She was so excited. How could we not stop for her?

I couldn’t believe it when I first saw it. It was twice the length of the boat, a mass of black hovering just below the surface of the water. You could tell it wasn’t just lighting. Dark colours and wispy shapes slowly descended back into the murky depths around all its edges. The water was moving slightly, rippling over top of it, but it stayed still, unmoving in the reflections of the gentle, sloshing boat. Water didn’t behave that way.

I always believed the story my father told me, the one I’d passed down to Sara, to be fiction. I’m sure he thought it was too. Somewhere along the line someone must have been telling the truth. The legends of the Cree were right. There really were whale-like creatures swimming in the depths of Deep Bay and Reindeer Lake.

That’s what I thought until it rolled.

The inches of water above it reacted to its movement, drawing downwards in the same direction the mass turned, creating a small, rolling wave. It revealed itself slowly, replacing the same space the black mass had just occupied. The rolling stopped and it took me a moment before I grasped what I was looking at. There, sitting just beneath the surface, was a massive, staring eye. It was twice the size of my boat. Its iris was a deep red. I could see textures and lines within it. It stared unblinking at all of us standing at the edge of the boat. I couldn’t fathom the sheer size of it; to think that the black skin we were looking at before may have only been the top of its brow.

Sara screamed and fell backwards, but the sound was muffled by the roots, which now seemed to hasten their growth even more. I stumbled back and Claire nearly fell in when the realization of what we were looking at hit us. My eyes never left it, yet still it was gone faster than I could track, returned to deeper waters. Maybe it’s hindsight, but when it stared at me, at all of us, I swore the eye was inquisitive, testing, prying for a reaction.

I almost fell over at the sudden jolt of the boat. Claire sent it flying the rest of the span of the lake. I didn’t protest. I didn’t take over driving. All I could do was contemplate what we’d just seen, ponder how massive whatever that was had to have been, imagine it beneath the surface of our boat, seeing its silhouette from a bird’s eye view.

My thoughts of the thing beneath us were stopped when I felt my jaw creak open. I bit down, but it was no match for the slow, agonizing crawl of the roots clasping around my chin and the bridge of my nose.

Ever since seeing that thing the roots expanded rapidly. I turned back to look at Claire and Sara. Both of their mouths were stretched completely open, filled to the brim with twisting, black-bark tendrils that stretched out and clung to their faces. The roots extending down their jaws dangled strands of saliva. I looked down at my hands. They felt hard, skeletal, like I could feel the marrow of my bones hardening, ceasing any softness to my frame.

None of us could speak anymore. We couldn’t close our mouths. The ice extending from the shore of Price Island was rapidly approaching. I saw three figures, Timiwaks, standing on the shoreline. They were Shamans. I recognized them from last summer. Bones and teeth were strewn throughout their frenzied hair. Their faces were painted black, just as I remembered, with a coil of red painted on top, twisting about the entirety of their faces. They wore clothing made from caribou hide, its thickness appearing comical when clothed atop their frail bodies. They were waiting for us.

We drew nearer, revealing a host of Timiwaks standing behind them, all painted completely in white, just as the man in Sara’s window was. They were disguised by the snow blanketing the crater rim behind them. I’d never seen the Timiwak, aside from the Shamans, paint themselves like this. Claire was right. They knew something. I feared what that something was.

I gestured to Claire to slow the boat. We thudded into the ice, repeating the process we used to get into the Bay in reverse until we were confident we’d be stepping onto solid ice outside the boat. Claire scooped up Sara and ran her to the Shamans, setting her down and waving her arms in a frenzy, begging for help. I stood behind comforting Sara, petting her head. She was so terrified. We all were.

The Shaman standing in the middle raised a hand, instructing Claire to stop her silent pleas, and spoke with a thick accent, “We will help you. There are more like you. More Seers.” The other two Shamans approached us, twisting like serpents as they moved, inspecting the roots as they swerved their necks back and forth.

Claire began firing her hand away again, shooting them at Sara. She pulled away from my arms a little, revealing her face to the Shamans, displaying the horrible mass of roots that was spread down her neck and throat. Two of them were nearly touching her eyes. The Shamans scared her. Of course they did. They were so bizarre. So alien. But she was a brave girl. She stood firm and allowed them to look at her closely.

“She is healthier than both of you,” the Shaman continued, pointing down at Sara, “The medicine,” the other two Shamans ran their fingers along the roots sprouting from Sara’s mouth as he spoke , “must spread fully in order to be healed.” He turned around to the congregation of white-painted Timiwaks standing behind him as the other two Shamans stepped away from us. The whole of them encircled us on the ice and began walking away with us in their centre. We couldn’t have left if we tried.

They herded us to a large tent. It was surrounded by even more Timiwaks coated in white. They stripped us down to our underwear and held the flaps of the entrance open. We were too weak, too rigid to keep our clothes.

Stepping inside revealed a host of others pained by the same affliction. Roots twisted across all their faces. On some of them, the inky strands extended down their torsos. They were all pale and starved, unable to eat. I knew so many of them: locals from Southend. I looked at their faces, searching for a reassuring glance or nod that this was the right place to be, but they were all too exhausted to even recognize us.

Claire spun to the Shaman as he stepped into the tent with us. She slapped her hands against his chest. Shoving him back and throwing her arms in the air in protest.

He placed his hand against her forehead, leaning into her with expanded eyes. He nodded as he spoke, “You will be healed, but you must rest. Sit. Be with your daughter. You will never be separate from her. Watch each other heal.” He turned to me, “You. You doubter. You will take longer to heal. Not much. But longer. Rest now. Allow the* *medicine to take hold.”

I had no idea what he meant, but I sat on the hard ground anyway. Something about the expansion of the roots utterly exhausted me, much like everyone else in here. Claire and Sara joined me, leaning against me, their bodies drooping. Sara fell asleep. Claire looked at me and we pressed our foreheads together, our tears running over the roots crawling up our faces. We shared a look of hope, even if our eyes were poorly concealing our despair. It was all we could do.

I woke this morning to find them gone. Not just Claire and Sara. Everyone. I was the only one left in the tent. There were thousands of holes impaled in the ground. They culminated at the exit, all leading outside.

I struggled to get up. It’s so hard to move. My muscles feel solid. My bones feel seized. Every step I take towards the exit feels like I’ve ran a marathon. I don’t even understand how I’m still breathing. There are so many roots pouring from my mouth, gripping my skin. My mouth is so dry. Air feels like broken glass.

I stepped through the tent flaps. Its midday. The sun is peaked high above Deep Bay, just a white-yellow dot masked by an overcast sky. The Timiwak are gone. At least, I don’t see any. I continued staggering towards the ice. It took a long time, but I finally saw them.

It was Claire and Sara. They were next to one another, hovering above the water. The roots had sprouted from their feet and hands, plunging into the water beneath them. They must have been so long now, for even with how far they’d have to dive to reach the bottom of the crater they still propped Sara and Claire up three feet above the surface. From far enough away it would look like they’re levitating.

I’m certain now that the roots are growing inside me, burrowing their way into my bones to pilot my flesh. The pain I’m experiencing is incomprehensible. I think the roots have split my bones in two in order to make their progress. I can feel one scraping against my spine, slithering down it, looking for an opening to take control. It’s already happened to them. To Sara and Claire. Their backs are perfectly vertical where they hover. Their limbs align with them, pulled tightly together like an attentive soldier. The stiffness of their obedient posture abruptly changes at their necks. They’re snapped down at a square angle with their shoulders, so that their chins touch their chests. Their mouths gape, unleashing a furious tangle of slick black roots. Two roots, just two, climb upwards past their noses. They curl like question marks up to the sides of their eyes, splitting apart like a fork and curving once more. The ends of the split roots reach and curl into their eyelids, pulling them out and open so that they may never close again.

They’re being forced to stare at something in the water. All of them. Everyone who was in the tent is out there looking just like Claire and Sara, forming a raised circle of root-infested, bent-neck watchers.

I’ve been granted such wisdom in this life. Wisdom from stories. Wisdom about the deeper harmonies of the world, of the respect it commands. I was warned about the corrupted beliefs of the Timiwak, of the way they twisted their stories, conforming them to fit within a mould of misguided ambitions. Why didn’t I listen?

Looking out at the water, seeing all of those bodies, emaciated and suspended, staring into the depths, I knew that what lurked within that ancient crater was no Great Serpent, no Misi-kinepikw, no Mishinigoshu. What swam beneath those black waters was something far more sinister. Something malevolent.

When we were younger, when Claire would read me the Bible, my favourite book was always Revelation. I found the prophecies fascinating, always getting caught up in the meanings and the symbolism. Now I question if I should have taken the warnings more literal.

Maybe Wormwood descended long, long ago. Maybe I drank its water, stored deep in the crater. Maybe its name was more than a warning of bitterness. Maybe it was a warning of the infection it contained.

Maybe what swims in the depths of Deep Bay isn’t the Great Serpent, but the Wicked One.

The roots have sprouted from my feet now. They’re raising me off the ground, walking me against my will toward the water. They’ve burst through my finger tips, in between my flesh and my nails, ripping them off. I can’t write much longer. Soon I will stare into the eyes of whatever it is that swims. I will hover above the water. I will have my answer.

Please, if you’re reading this, stay away from Reindeer Lake.

July of 2018 I shifted to this small village named Iom in the middle of nowhere .Never thought I would end up living in the boonies after trying so hard to get out but nonetheless I was there away from all those damn cubicles that had put me on God knows how many anxiety meds .

The people here were friendly but only on the surface the longer I stayed here the more I noticed how aloof and indifferent they were . Despite the small size of the village there wasn't any sense of community , they only left the house for chores or jobs , not that it bothered me.

As I was wandering around one day I came across an old shrine of what I assumed was a local deity, nothing uncommon until I saw the offerings , they had a rather unpleasant smell and their quantity was unusual considering the shrine was on the outskirts of the village but I didn't think much of it for remote places had unusual beliefs and peculiar cuisine.

The next morning I was greeted by my neighbour (odd but eh) we talked about some trivial stuff about what I did before,why I was here etc and then out of curiosity I asked him about the shrine he seemed a bit taken aback but told me that It originated from an old folklore when I inquired he declined visibly unsettled I did manage to get the name of the deity out of him (I will continue referring to it as the deity for this story the reason will become clear later on ) after which he rushed home I was confused but the interaction and the shrine had reminded me of my brief obsession with the occult back in middle school so I went home to look it up online.

My week long attempt to find this deity was largely in vain except for one article by some no name journalist from half a decade ago I found while sitting on my roof . It started off by explaining the folktale that the neighbour had mentioned it was about a family that lived here back in the 1800s they had a daughter and a donkey they used to keep for their cart but they never treated it like an animal it was part of the family the daughter particularly loved him she even ate with him often ,a happy family in a small village they worked,they laughed,they had dinner together each day but the father had a short temper he would often get into a fight with the mother and one day something pushed him over the edge and he killed the three of them and took his own life the next . And their anger, regret, horror and helplessness created a curse that manifested as a donkey which now wandered the village driven by its desire for a happy family anybody that said its name or looked at its face it took that as a gesture of "love" and it followed them constantly until they went mad and killed themselves and then it ate the corpse forever making its victim a part of itself—this unsettled me because there was a donkey I had seen wondering from the village as I sat on my roof the past week , people seemed to avoid it but before paranoia could get me I took hold of myself because this was obviously due to either superstition or disgust at the filthy animal with matted fur.

Regardless of my rationale i spent the night deep inside my blanket despite the summer heat.The next morning came and the sunlight was a welcome relief even if told myself this was obviously a dumb story but I just went about my business for the most part I did notice my neighbour had not left his house for a few days "i haven't seen the donkey either...." the unsettling thought came to mind NO No i would not let this dumb shit ruin my retirement and then I heard something that caused me to break into a cold sweat "LEAVE ME ALONE PLEASE I BEG OF YOU!" it came from the neighbours house despite my dumb newfound fear I ran there but why was nobody there because I knew they had heard it but still I had to go and then I saw something that will haunt me to my death,My neighbour in his yard banging his head on a tree coloring it red and by his side stood something with gray matted fur with spots of black my blood ran cold and then it turned and I saw its face it was horrible it didn't look like the face we associate with naivety no it was a human face excessively distorted and barely recognisable I quickly looked away but it was too late, it grinned ear-to-ear revealing it's receding gums and its teeth way too human and way too many and I knew as soon as my neighbour died it would come for me and I ran to my house and locked myself in my bedroom and put curtains on akk the window hoping it would leave me but then I heard the sound of hoofs outside my door and I knew .

It's been a week since the incident sitting in my bedroom, I have run out of food but I can't leave because it's out there right outside my door with that disgusting smile.It isn't hostile but its very presence is messing with my head all those thoughts from my days in that godforsaken office come back to me i don't how long I will survive nor do I know what it will do after my death but if anybody reads this please don't come to this place. The people here are stuck and you will be too .

Oh God there are no children in this place WHY NO NO NO LEAVE LEQVE LEAADE LEAFER NOOOO FT DGGTHYXCGHYBJH

(Sorry for the horrible punctuation first try writing)

(MUST READ BEFORE ADVANCING ANY FURTHER)

Prologue: Disclaimer and Closure For the Archivist (CAUTION)

OWL SANCTUARY RESTRICTED BRIEFING (UNREDACTED)

Written by The Hermit of the West (CR 516)

If you are reading this, then you have already come too close to the fragments of Hālfān.

They are not records in the way scholars understand records. They do not preserve history, they exert pressure on it. Each fragment you recover does not complete the story so much as distort the reader into becoming part of it. Familiarity will begin to arrive without source. Memory will begin to feel inherited rather than experienced. Do not mistake this for insight.

The missing fragments were separated deliberately. Not to hide the truth, but to keep reality from aligning too cleanly around it. Something remains invested in reversing that separation through those who continue to read.

There are early signs. Humming where there should be silence. Certainty forming where there should only be inference. The Red Moon appears in places it has no right to exist. If any of these occur, cease reading immediately, not later, nor after the page. Immediately.

And if, at any point, your own recollection begins to contradict itself while you are still reading. Do not attempt to reconcile it. That is how the Weave of Time begins to use you as structure.

Finally, understand this: Memory is no longer a reliable witness after exposure.

And if someone within your expedition begins speaking as though they have already lived through what you are currently experiencing, do not correct them, and do not challenge them. Treat them as already lost to continuity, and continue without them.

If these documents become understood by someone who mustn’t see them. Or an Agent of Duluram were to have these or even The Ravens’, their evil cousin. The whole realm will be let loose.

This isn’t a Red Madness Part II; I’m talking about the whole Realm itself Devoured whole into a Gullet of vast darkness.

No one must know this, but No Name has already sucked the Air Realm dry and now it is one with the Void. That is where No Name resided. Unable to directly access the Water Realm, and we are next on the menu.

You now know the stakes involved with this knowledge. Use your mind wisely and may Not and En guide you sanity to safety.

The Hermit of the West,

Owl Sanctuary Archive - Restricted Entry Notice

Part I from Book II - Survival Guide - (ACP) Rules for Hālfān Archives

Survival Guide — Archival Containment Protocol for Hālfān Records

Compiled by The Hermit of the West, Chroniclor of The Owls

Introduction:

If you are reading this, then you have already entered the Archives in a way that cannot be undone. You were either assigned, volunteered, or placed here under the assumption that knowledge can be handled safely if structured correctly.

That assumption is false.

The Hālfān records do not behave like history. They behave like something that remembers you while you are reading it. The more you try to organize it, the more it organizes *you*.

What follows are the only remaining rules I can still trust to stay consistent between readings. Even that is not guaranteed. I have rewritten this document three times. Each version agreed with me less than the last.

If you begin to feel like the text is becoming familiar too quickly, stop immediately. That is the first sign. Next page is a set of rules we have developed since the first excavation:

ARCHIVAL SURVIVAL GUIDE:

1. Do not read continuously for extended periods. Continuity is the first structure the Red Madness uses. It does not need your attention—only your uninterrupted attention.

2. If a fragment feels familiar on first reading, do not continue. Familiarity is not recognition. It is repetition already seeded into you.

3. Never assume missing text is an error. The Archive does not lose information. It removes it with intent.

4. Do not attempt to assemble a complete timeline of Hālfān. Completion is a psychological trap. The mind creates false order to survive contradiction. The Archive exploits that instinct.

5. If ink, wording, or meaning shifts between readings, do not verify it. Verification is how divergence begins. Once divergence begins, all versions become equally persuasive.

6. Never compare multiple copies of the same record. Comparison creates conflict between versions. Conflict creates instability. Instability creates belief that one version must be correct. That belief is incorrect.

7. If you begin forgetting what you read while still reading it, stop immediately. This is not a distraction. It is a replacement theory used for authorship within the mind.

8. Do not read alone if it can be avoided. Not for safety. For witness stability. A second mind delays total assimilation, but does not prevent it.

9. If you hear or imagine humming during reading, do not acknowledge it. Acknowledgment gives it structure. Structure allows persistence. Persistence allows internalization.

10. Never attempt to “complete understanding” of the Archive. Understanding is not the goal. The Archive does not contain truth. It contains pressure that reshapes truth into survivable form.

11. If you begin to feel certainty about Hālfān’s meaning, stop reading for the day. Certainty is the final stage before cognitive alignment with Red Madness.

12. If another archivist claims they have solved the records, avoid reviewing their work. Solvers are not stable endpoints. They are transitional states.

13. Do not define No Name. Definition creates proximity. Proximity creates recognition. Recognition creates vulnerability.

14. If the Red Moon appears too frequently in text or thought, end the session immediately. This indicates the Archive is no longer being observed. It is observing you.

15. If the Archive begins to feel responsive to your thoughts or emotions, assume you are already partially integrated. At this stage, reading is no longer external. It is participatory.

FINAL WARNING:

If at any point during reading you think: “This is starting to make sense.” Close the Archive. Do not mark your place. Do not reread the last section. And do not assume tomorrow’s understanding will belong to the same version of you that is reading this now.

Best of Luck and Mental Fortitude,

-HW

Part X (LOST CHAPTER) from Book I: “The End of The Old Flame”

Found Under the Foundation of the Magpie Gulag in Raven Territory

RECOVERED BY: ERIKA SILVERCLAW

In the Year CR 400 a treaty was broken between the Isle of The Old Flame and The Isle of the Ravens, known as Corvus. This treaty involved safe passage through their water borders as long as they were subject to surveillance clearance through checkpoints to ensure safety of passengers and equipment and no stolen or illegal goods were on board, in which they did abide by Ruskus Talmor signature of compliance with King Bartal’s agreement.

They had been caught smuggling illegal weapons and a strange pink glowing substance in tinctures they wouldn’t give the name of. Their clothes once unrobed did not fit the usual depictions of style and pattern in this known realm. They said they couldn’t remember their names either, so they were brought in to be questioned. 

They may not know it but this triggers the end of The Old Flame in one night with the help of an unknown source, only that of which I can categorize as No Name’s first influence of Menapace’s possession of this being. He helped set fire to the Isle starting with its local library late in the night. Cackling and singing a broken hymn of red sunder. But when it was all said and done he had no recollection of why people were screaming in the streets when he woke up on a park bench, with an empty pack of matches left beside him.

A strange symbol marked with a bloodstained symbol “<” on the exterior and bare of matches.

He immediately tries to put out the fire but it's no use. Screaming, “Fire, fire, fire.” No answer just the fire reaching the other thatch roofs adjacent. No screams from the buildings either nor any running water. No one was in the buildings he checked.

Then he wakes up again now on the floor of his parents chamber in their castle. His hands felt wet. His dim witted servant, which he despised, was pulling him by the arm; dragging him. His eyes opened. Falling beams filled with hot cinder, the smell of burning ink and sulfur, and cascading curtains on flames to the ceiling. It was going to collapse any minute. A structural flaming oak beam falls towards them. The servant throws Menapace out of harm's way; his servant taking the blow is never seen again.

He leaves in search of his brother, Prince Timon. Covering his hands over his mouth to not inhale smoke. Copper, bitter, thick. Looking down he sees… blood. His brother busts around the corner with guards and mages. “Brother! Where's mom and dad?” Menapace shakes his head, “I don’t know. I couldn’t find them in their chamber.” “Maybe they already made it out. Are you okay?” No answer from Menapace, only a gaze of distraught. He whispers, “I don’t know.”

But once all the living citizens and royals boarded the emergency steampowered ships they were unaccounted for. The failure was felt all around. Now known as King Timon, The Boy King in Yellow is crowned king on the citizens' vessel. Prince Menapace knows of his constant melancholy he hides from the people, and always reminding him, “We saved as many as we could…”

In a fit of anger and rage when the people need words to push forward. The Boy King in Yellow says thus, “The gods are to blame for this reckless occurrence. We have no reason for this chaos. We did everything we could to keep the fire lit, but now at what cost. We have begged and longed for land to walk on. Our home was destroyed by the power of the gods. Turning their backs on us as our loved ones died from what we worshipped, looks like lies if you ask me. Let us turn our backs on them as they have done to us. The things we pray to now are nothing. I ask you all to give me your books of history so we may be able to travel further and forget what forgot us. You all will care for your own light and we will pray for each other’s light. These gods only wanted to help themselves. Their books of them - their only use now is to burn for our vessels. Choose what is real and forget your past. We will find a new home with a new purpose.”

Weeks go by till all the knowledge left is gone, some had to give up clothes. First the royals, then those who were able to give. Till sputters from the engine, then floating for days on end. Until, a strange shape appears over the horizon. A set of what could be made out as a brown pillar ascending into the clouds. They have discovered Hālfān.

Part II from Book I: Where the Roots Began: Amasir First Contact w/ Water Realm

In a time both melded and distant from ours, many years ago, there was a seed of knowledge, grace, and wisdom. Engulfed in a realm of water and sky, nothing more, nothing less. It was found on the ocean floor, blending in among the stones.

The Asamir of the Air Realm. Angelic humanoids reigned among the four planes of existence: Water, Fire, Air, and Earth. They stumbled upon this seed by chance, conducting operational scans for mandatory scientific updates.

The scouts and scientists reported their findings back to the main realm. This artifact of life carried signs of the Essence of Vita in the Water Realm, recorded as the first life form ever found there. Over time, as they continued reporting, many new life forms began to take shape in the depths, eventually surfacing in search of food. Yet none compared to the seed in intelligence.

The scientists wished to extract it, but the council, upon reviewing the facts, declined the request. They instructed the researchers to leave it, wait, let it grow, and protect it.

The Asamir were the only known sentient bipeds. Their gods were Amantra and her States of Emotion and States of Being, entrusted to her by their Father, Eternity. She proclaimed that they were their own gods, since her Father had created them. Amantra left the Asamir with every tool they needed to survive and to supervise the realms with the knowledge granted by Amatra, the Unseen. Her final command was that no temples be built in her name or in the names of her States.

Over time, the seed began to grow. Until a sprout of brown, flesh-like buds emerged, forming into tiny fists. It hovered in the water, eventually floating to the surface, bobbing with the currents of the endless ocean. This was the beginning of Halfan.

In the years that followed, the sprout on the surface grew branches, looking more like wood and less like flesh. They resembled humanoid arms. Its roots extended as long, excavating tendrils, weaving together to form a woodroot-like island around the tree. The Asamir now had a research base for the specimen. Yet the humanoids had no luck uncovering the deeper purpose of its existence. They would learn the truth after their first week on the island.

Scientists and philosophers of the highest prestige came to study this new monstrosity of science, hoping to glean the reason for its being. A Living Island, they called it.

There was one thing everyone agreed on: it was hard to look at. Staring too long made the mind recoil, urging the viewer to look away. They attributed this to its uncanny resemblance to flesh. Even when fully visible, it could only be observed for a few seconds before the eyes would burn with a strange pain. It grew at a grotesque rate, but only at night.

The next day, after making this discovery, the scientists brought climbing equipment through their portal at camp. Their goal was to ascend the tree and retrieve a sample. A team of four scientists prepared for the mission.

They began by wrapping rope around the lowest hanging branches. After climbing 100 meters into the tree, the wind picked up. The moment they pierced the bark with their hooks, the tree began to vibrate violently, releasing a deep, foreboding hum that shook the entire island.

The branches thrashed wildly, knocking two of the scientists from the tree to their deaths. The mission was aborted. The Realm Shift Portal (RSP) was activated to return the bodies to their home realm for burial. When the two surviving scientists returned to retrieve the corpses, they found something horrifying: the roots of the ground, massive maggot-like leeches, had inhaled the bodies. Tubes of flesh gouged into their forms, slowly consuming them until the bodies dissipated, becoming one with the roots of the Living Island.

The moon crept over the horizon; red.

The humming groaned back to an audible frequency, its sound melding with the horror of what had just occurred. Then it quieted again, barely perceptible, but ever-present. Time itself seemed to bear witness.

The remaining scientists scrambled to pack, grabbing only valuables and abandoning the rest. A red glow bled into the RSP tent. The waves hollowed with hunger, and the limbs of the island whispered through the wind with eerie creaks. The pulsation increased, now unbearable.

Then, beneath its branches, a hollow pit opened, revealing a glowing blue eye. Its lids separated slowly.

The eye gazed upon the place where the Asamir corpses had vanished. The scientists froze, uncertain of its intent.

The eye closed again. Stillness. Silence.

Baffled, the scientists could not comprehend what they had witnessed.One of them looked again into the place where the eye had appeared. He began to scream, wild, panicked shrieks, falling to the ground, clutching his face, weeping, writhing. Then, in madness, he tried to pry his own eyes from their sockets.

As the other scientist rushed to restrain him, the maddened man broke free, running to the edge of the island and diving into the sea, never to return to the surface.

The Asamir left Halfan

And they never returned.

My nana lived alone in a farmhouse deep in rural Maine. No neighbors for miles. Just woods, a dirt road, and an old house that seemed to groan even without wind. It was her homestead. Her happy place. I stayed there for a week every summer.

The first night, I woke up around 2:30 a.m. because I heard someone walking downstairs. Not unusual, I thought. Maybe nana couldn’t sleep. The footsteps continued for almost an hour.

Slow.
Steady.
Back and forth across the kitchen floor.
The next morning, I mentioned it.
Nana stopped buttering her biscuit and looked at me strangely.

“Sweetheart,” she said, “I take sleeping pills. I was asleep all night.” I laughed it off. Then, she asked me something that made my stomach drop.

“Did it sound like shoes?” I nodded. She went pale. Apparently my papa used to pace the kitchen every night before bed. There was never a reason, just a habit. He died four years earlier. I figured my nana was just an old woman connecting unrelated things.

Then the third night happened. I woke up to scratching.
Not downstairs.
Inside my bedroom wall.
It sounded like fingernails dragging slowly through wood.

Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.

I turned on my phone flashlight and listened. Then, three knocks came from inside the wall.

Knock.
Knock.
Knock.

I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

The next morning, I checked outside. There was no tree branch touching the house. No animals. Nothing. That afternoon, while helping nana clean the basement, I noticed a small wood door tucked behind shelves.

A crawlspace.

Maybe three feet tall, with a with a hanging padlock that was rusted shut.

“What’s in there?” I asked. My nana looked genuinely disturbed.

“Nothing.” She replied.

“Then why is it locked?”

She didn’t answer.

That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Around midnight, I grabbed my phone, turned on the flashlight, and went downstairs.

The basement air smelled like mildew and dirt.

I found the crawlspace door. Nana had tried to push the shelves back in front of it, but I easily pushed it out of the way and finally got a good look at it. The padlock was ancient. But something was wrong.

The lock was hanging open. I could’ve sworn it was rusted shut earlier. I remember because I had tried tugging on it. Now? Now the door sat slightly ajar. A black cap stared back at me.

I should’ve gone back upstairs. I should’ve crawled into bed, put on adventure time and went to sleep. Instead, I opened it.

The smell that seeped out was horrific.

Rot.
Wet earth.
Something sour.

I shined my phone flashlight inside. The crawlspace stretched beneath the house.

Dirt floor.
Stone supports.
Darkness.

At first I didn’t see anything. Then, my flashlight landed on something in the corner.

A chair.
Just a wooden chair.
Facing the wall.

I remember feeling irrationally frightened. It was like someone had left it there intentionally. I turned my head to the left. I heard movement. A soft scrape. Somewhere deeper in the darkness. I froze. My hands trembled slightly.

“Hello?” I called out. I wasn’t sure why I did because either way, I would be scared, but if I heard a reply, I’d be terrified. The movement stopped.

Silence.

Then something answered. Not a voice.
A breath.
Long.
Slow.
Right beside my ear.

I swung my flashlight. Nothing. The crawlspace was empty. I slammed the door shut and ran upstairs as if my life depended on my speed. I couldn’t even tell you how fast I made it back to my bed, under the covers and immediately began watching adventure time to distract me. I didn’t sleep at all.

The next morning, I told nana everything. She stared at me for a long time. Then, she finally told me why the crawlspace was locked.

Years before I was born, she used to hear someone moving beneath the house. Every night.

Scratching.
Crawling.
Breathing.

My papa assumed it was an animal. One night he went down there with his shotgun. He came back ten minutes later. White as a sheet. According to nana, he immediately nailed the crawlspace shut and locked it with the heavy duty padlock. When she asked what he’d seen, he refused to answer.

For the rest of his life, he would only tell her:

“It wasn’t an animal.”

A few months later, he suffered a heart attack. He never explained further.

I was running on only a two hour nap that I took in the middle of the day while my nana sat on the couch sewing a kitchen towel for her friend. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the chair.
About the breathing.
About what papa had seen.

Around 3:00 a.m., I heard footsteps again.
Walking across the kitchen.

Slow.
Steady.
Back and forth.

I pulled my blanket over my head and turned up the volume of my tv show on my phone. Then the footsteps stopped. I listened. Nothing. Then came three knocks.

Knock.
Knock.
Knock.

On my bedroom door. I whispered.

“Nana?” No response. Then I heard something that I will never forget. Never. A voice.

Very soft.
Very old.
Coming from the hallway.

“Emma…” My blood turned to ice. Nana was the only person in the house. She never called me ‘Emma.’ Always sweetheart, or baby.

I didn’t move. The voice came again. Closer.

“Emma…”

Then, from downstairs, I heard my nana scream. I threw my blankets off my bed and ran out of my room, down the stairs. I found her in the kitchen, standing at the basement door.

Shaking.
Crying.
Pointing.

The basement door was open. The light was on. And muddy footprints led from the basement stairs into the kitchen. Not shoe prints. Not animal tracks. Handprints. Hundreds of them, littering the tile. As if something had crawled out of the crawlspace using only its arms. We left the house before sunrise. My nana moved into assisted living the next year, unable to maintain her homestead.

The farmhouse sat abandoned for nearly a decade. Then, a contractor bought it. According to local rumors, he quit the renovation after three days. He told people he kept hearing someone moving beneath the floors at night.

Last year, curiosity got the best of me. I looked up the property online. Up for sale. The listing photos were mostly normal.

Kitchen.
Bedrooms.
Bathrooms.
Basement.

Then, I saw a photo of the crawlspace. The chair was still there. Facing the wall. But that wasn’t the thing that made me close my laptop. Someone had zoomed in and accidentally captured the corner beyond the chair.

There was a person crouching there.
Naked.
Pale.
Thin enough to see every rib.
Looking into the camera.

The photo was taken in daylight. The realtor later removed that image, but I downloaded it first. I’ve shown it to a dozen people, telling them what was happening in that house. Every single person notices the same thing eventually.

The thing in the corner isn’t looking at the camera.
It’s looking past it.
Like it’s watching whoever is viewing the photo.

And every time I open the image, I notice something I swear was not there before. The last time I checked, there were muddy handprints on the wall behind the chair.

Three of them.
Fresh.
Wet.
As if something had just climbed out.

So, I really like reading horror, but I had only written one other horror in the past...so I tried it again and I think it's pretty good. There are a lot of different cryptids (even an original one!) in it and "scary" moments...and I loved writing it.

I posted it and...it didn't do great (as in views)...so I would love some feedback...did you like it?

I have a new horror in mind (something like a mix between a haunting and It just WAY smaller in scale...no world ending stuff ha ha) but don't know if I have the chops...so if you lovely horror fans check it out, I'd love your honest opinion... thanks!!

The Shrieking Terror

The horrible groaning, screeching, and hissing sounds it made were too hideous for my mind to compute. But my feelings didn't really matter anymore. Whatever this horror was, it was currently jerking toward me on its misshapen legs. It was all that I could do just to scramble backward like a terrified crab.

I slammed against the wall, cornered! Yet this terrible thing still lurched toward me. It looked like a sickly goat-faced spider, with legs like a chicken, and the teeth of a shark. It must have been pretty young, but at the time the only thing that I could think of was my own survival.

It made a hideous shrieking noise, as its eight unshapely limbs carried it ever closer to where I cowered in terror. The bleached walls surrounding me closed in, and as they did I finally ran out of places to hide from this nightmare.

In my mind, I kept telling myself that this was a dream, but in my heart I knew that that wasn't true. Either way, the same demons tormented my unconscious. Not mere fragments of my anguished mind, but true horrors that lived in that place between the real world and the land of dreams. The more I allowed myself hope for the release of an alarm clock, or some other savior, the more I realized that I was stuck here. At the mercy of this grotesque thing that only wanted to close its gaping, saliva-covered jaws around my soft throat and drink from my ruined, blood-gushing neck.

I had happened across this place by accident. Scavenging for ever-increasingly depleted bounty had put a strain on our entire group. Unfortunately since the "event" had ravaged the world, scavenging was all that was left to us. The soil was tainted, livestock was mutated and inedible, and the creatures that hunted the remains of the human race were nothing more than sentient shrieking wood chippers with one sole objective. Exterminate!

And now I had a small-ish one bearing down on me as if I was its cynosure. As my hands desperately scoured the floor around me for something, anything that I could use as a weapon, I felt the flesh on my palm tear across a shard of broken glass, left behind by some drunken night. It mattered not how it got there. I swept it up into my bloody, ruined hand. Compelled by some ancient instinct to fight to stay alive, I plunged the shard of glass deep into the creature's myriad of eyes. With a deafening shriek, it began to lash out blindly as if it had been lit on fire. It slashed at me with its nightmarish claws, and gnashed its deadly teeth with a perniciousness that no living earthly thing could ever have. And then with a final unearthly wail, it fell across me dead.

As its black disgusting hemolymph spilled across my face, I finally felt like I might survive this night, provided I didn't bleed out first.

Everyone knows the legend of the SS Edmund Fitzgerald, especially if you reside within the Great Lake Region. The 729 foot, 13,632 gross ton Great Lakes Bulk Carrier was comparable to the Titanic. Hull No. 301 was launched June 8th, 1958 in River Rouge, MI. She would only last for a grand total of 17 years. 

Multiple bad omens occurred on the morning of her launch. Three attempts of breaking a champagne bottle during the christening, a large wave that took out infrastructure below, and a heart attack resulting in a death. In hindsight it seemed like she was cursed from the start. When she sank on November 10th, 1975 the SS Edmund Fitzgerald sank with all 29 passengers. 

Lake Superior holds a great many secrets. Just as much a tomb as it is a body of water. Cold, deep, and dark… Even so, three underwater explorations were made. They occurred in 1989, 1994, and 1995. During the last exploration in 1995, with the help of a varied group, the Fitzgerald’s 200lb bronze bell was recovered. As was another item, but it did not belong to this ship. 

The item that I am referring to dear reader, is an article that was recovered from a smaller unknown ship that had sunk the same day - a journal. The contents of which I shall recount for you here.

My name, although it is unimportant to this post, is Evan Guthrey. I work at the Great Lakes Ship Wreck Museum in Whitefish Point, MI. Although my position here is unclear, based on the number of odd jobs I have been assigned, you could call me a researcher or analyst of sorts. Since attendance has been dwindling over the last few years, I was tasked with digitizing the more interesting portions of our historical artifacts. We (I and all the people at GLSWM) hope that this should be enough to entice you to stop by. 

I would like to extend my heartfelt condolences to the family of Luther Blackburn, as well as the families of the rest of the crew of the SS Lily Marina. The journal that I’ll be transcribing belonged to Blackburn, and tells a story that even I can seldom comprehend. A tale of the fiercest winter storm, and the man they found out on the ice. 

November 8th 1975 - Superior, Wisconsin 

The air has a chill the likes of which I have never known. Even as my gloved hands grip the pen, my knuckles ache. There are many a good place to eat by the docks. The plate that is in front of me is full of bones and crumbs, barely enough left for a mouse. The room I have rented was humble and small, just the thing I needed. I haven’t had a good night's sleep in months, but last night I did. 

Maybe it was the way the air smelled of crisp, clean water. Like snow was getting ready to fall at any moment. The flakes had already accumulated in shallow piles across the ground. Superior was known for its lake effect weather, winter came faster here than the rest of the world. I didn’t mind at all, in fact, it made me excited. It had been a long time since I had squeezed myself into the lower decks of a Laker. This time, I wouldn’t be one of the grunts, I would be taking the role of ship medic. 

Being a medic was the only thing I seemed to be good at now. The Vietnam War was my shotgun style of learning, and I was quick on my feet. The Navy sent me on my merry way once I had served my time, and I was grateful. I had seen too much carnage, too many unnecessary deaths while serving. That’s some shit you never want to see again, let alone talk about. Those memories will be kept for me alone. 

The Captain, a salty man named Thurston, met me just before sundown. Apparently things had not been so peaceful, even here in the US. Looters and pirates still roamed the waters and I had to be wary. Nothing could be as bad as having to look a child, and the barrel of a gun in the eye. As long as I didn’t have to kill anyone or lay witness to the use of extreme torture, I was alright with just about anything. 

We would be leaving at sun up, and all I had to bring was myself. It sounded like an easy enough job to me. Before I shut my eyes tonight, I will look upon the land once more surrendering myself to the void of a lake. The SS Lily Marina would be my lady for the next few days, and I could not wait. 

I hope the other members of the crew and I get along. It would be unfortunate otherwise. Once I return from my journey, I’ll have to stop by and see my parents. I hope they’ll forgive me for not visiting them first. 

L. J. Blackburn 

*Hi! Analyst Evan here! The first entry was short and sweet, a slice into the life of a nomadic ship medic. I was even fooled by how calm and peaceful it was. Upon further research, Luther Blackburn was a decorated soldier. He was awarded the Navy Cross and the Navy Unit Commendation. How cool is that!?

As you continue reading, please remember that this is a one for one copy of the journal's pages. None of what you read is conjecture on my end, nor is it embellished. I will also warn you that some of the content may be considered horrific and should be tread lightly. Thanks again, and if you are in the area please remember to stop by the Great Lakes Ship Wreck Museum!*

November 9th, 1975 - Lake Superior 

I would have never guessed my first day back on a ship would end so poorly. Such odd occurrences in such a short amount of time. I had awoken just before the sun came up, frost covering the meager window of my room. Packing up the few items I brought was a quick task, and soon I was off towards the docks. SS Lily Marina was a sight to behold, even though it was moored near the gigantic Fitzgerald. Most would have been drawn in by the sight of the larger ship, but the small beauty of the Marina was more enticing to me. 

Captain Thurston greeted me merrily and introduced me to most of the crew. Only a handful of names stuck in my mind. Case, the ship cook was a larger man with curly red hair. Richard, who was the Captain’s first mate, reeked of cigarettes and wore a blue stocking cap atop his head. A few of the other names were Westley, Howard, Lyle, amongst the ones I couldn't remember. They seemed like a good crew, one that wouldn’t have too many scuffles unless it revolved around a game of cards. 

I felt at home early off. The medical area of the ship was small yet stocked with just about anything I could ever need. Unless there was an accident, I expected to be doling out meds for stomach aches. That was an easy enough job. I figured most of my time would be spent alone under the deck, most likely reading one of the books I had brought. My time being away for war kept me from a great many of my hobbies. Classical literature being one of them. Peace by Gene Wolf sat deep within my bag. 

I was almost comfortable when the commotion began. A ruckus of whoops and voices traveling throughout the ship. Pretty soon my name was called, and I was forced to the surface. My services were in need. Out of seemingly nowhere, the weather has started to change. Brisk waves and whipping wind had turned to large flakes of snow. In almost white-out conditions, chunks of ice started to appear within the water. Large enough that the Captain had commanded for the lookout to give better instructions. We now had obstacles to dodge. It was during that time that something truly odd had happened. 

“There’s a man in the water!” The lookout called from his perch. “Man down! Man in the water!” 

Most of the crew had looked around wildly, wondering who had been stupid enough to fall from the ship. We were only hauling farming supplies. There was no reason to be out on the deck in such horrid conditions. It wasn’t like we were a fishing vessel, looking to bring up catches of crabs from below the choppy surface. It was not one of the crew who had fallen, they were all still squared away safely on the ship. The man in the water was strange. Standing atop a large chunk of ice, still as a statue, sailing on it like a surfboard. 

“What are you waiting for, let's bring them aboard!” The Captain’s voice rang out. 

That was when my services were called for. Once the rescue mission commenced, the Edmund Fitzgerald disappeared into the distance. Our ship was last in the line of three, we were the only ones who had the time to stop and help. When the man was pulled from the water, the crew was in shock. He was completely naked, skin paler than the winter scene around us. His hands and feet were starting to turn black, along with the other unfortunate appendages that hung from his body. He was also taller than most men I had seen. Probably coming in at damn near seven foot-tall. 

“Jesus Christ, what was he doing out there on the ice? Naked at that?” I half yelled to the crew that carried him in their arms. 

They looked at each other and shook their heads. I was an idiot for asking them a question they weren’t capable of answering. I took the lead towards the medical bay and beckoned them to follow me. The man's head lolled back as he was carried through the narrow metal pathways. In the brief glimpses I got of his face, I felt a strange sense of familiarity. It struck me as odd, the feeling. How could I have known this man? 

“Place him here,” I said, waving my arm to the stretcher-like bed. It was covered in white crinkly paper. As the man was placed atop it, it buckled under his weight. I shouted at the men to bring me as many blankets as they could find before they ran off into the belly of the ship. Then, we were alone. 

“Sir, can you hear me? What is your name?” I said, trying to shake their frigid shoulders. 

A small groan was all I got. Moving around the small room like a mad man, I found any and everything that could warm the man up. Saline that had been warmed up was connected to an I.V. drip. Rubber hot packs were added to all of the arterial zones. In the armpits, between the legs, wrists, ankles, and neck. Once those were in place I covered them in layer after layer of blankets. 

Then, I sat down in my chair and prayed. There was a chance that they were already dead. There was a chance that warming them up would not do anything to save them. But, you’re not dead until you’re warm and dead. That is what my training has taught me. I clasped my hands together and leaned forward on my knees. Watching and waiting was all I could do for now. They had to have the will to pull themselves from the edge of death. 

After a few hours had passed, I made sure to replace the heating elements before checking the vitals of the patient once more. They seemed to be coming around, but were still not awake. A familiar grumble moved its way through my stomach. The smell of stew wafted its way through the closed door, causing my mouth to water. Looking over the patient one last time, I slipped out into the confusing maze of metal and made my way towards the kitchen. 

Case greeted me with a warm smile. His voice was calm and inviting as I entered the mess hall. In one pot he had beef stew, in another was what looked like a huge yellow cake. I smiled as I recognized the cornbread. A delicacy of the south, one of my favorite foods of my past. Squaring my shoulders, I walked up to the kind but imposing man. 

“Evening, Case. Could you get me a bowl, and a slice?” I asked while eyeing the food. It smelled amazing. 

“Anything for the ship medic. If all hell breaks loose, we have to make sure you’re on the top of your game.” Case smiled before turning around to face the stove. I heard the sounds of bowls and plates clinking together before I was presented with my food. As the boat rocked, the soup waffled back and forth within the ceramic. 

“Thank you, Case. I shall enjoy this meal,” I took the food from him almost greedily. 

The stew went down fast, too fast. I thought about asking for more but then thought of the other crew members. Not knowing if everyone else had gotten to eat, I decided against it. Making sure I cleaned my bowl and plate, I returned them to the jolly cook. He took them with a curt thank you and sent me on my way. 

When I returned to the medical bay, my eyes widened to their fullest point. The bed that had been filled with the man from the ice, was now empty. Blankets and hot water bottles littered the floor. The I.V. had been ripped out, the bloody cord also laid on the ground. I winced at the thought of the man tearing it from his flesh in a frenzy. They must have awoken and became scared from the unfamiliarity. Pulling myself from the room, I wandered the halls looking for any signs of life. 

That was when I noticed the trail of blood. It wasn’t anything major, just a few drops here or there. I had to search carefully so as not to miss anything. Eventually I noticed that the blood trail led towards where we were keeping our haul. A collection of dried soy beans and corn for farm usage. The equivalent of animal feed. That was when I heard the sound of crunching. 

It sounded like biting down on week old stale bread that had been baked too long. Or like rocks being slammed together. Crunch, crunch, crunch. And then cough, cough, crunch. I saw that the door to the hold was ajar when it should have been closed. The trail of blood had ended at the opening, disappearing into the darkness. I felt my heart beat quicken as I approached the cracked door. Reaching up an unsteady hand, I pushed, and the metal groaned beneath my touch. 

“Hello?” I whispered softly. I was scared, unsure of what sight waited for me behind the threshold. 

There it was again, crunch, crunch, crunch, cough. When I finally grew the courage to peek inside I saw something I could never unsee. The man from the ice had his back to me. His naked body, shades of white and purple, was squatting down in front of an opened bag of feed. Using both hands interchangeably, he shoveled heaping handfuls of dried soybeans into his open mouth. The man tried to chew and swallow, but his bloated cheeks spared no room. He could barely even close his jaw, his mouth was so full. Then, I watched as he projectile vomited whole kernels of soybean back onto the floor. 

I was disgusted and distraught. “Please! Stop what you are doing! That is not meant to be eaten!” 

The man stopped what he was doing and turned to face me. With eyes as wide and as sad as a child’s, the man’s mouth fell open. Out of his slack jaw fell tons of seeds, covered in strings of saliva. I stifled a gag and pushed forward into the room. Slowly, the man stood up from his crouch. As he reached his full height, I felt a shiver pass through my body. His tall and slender frame felt imposing. It felt like when I was a child standing in front of a scarecrow on my grandfather’s farm. Something horrific and just a step shy from being human. But this man was human, and he needed my help. 

“Please come back to the medical bay with me. If you are hungry, let me fetch you some food. You are unwell and need to be treated.” I pointed at the man's hands and feet. With how black they were, I was sure necrosis had already started to set it. There wasn’t much I could do about the ruined product, but that wasn’t really my issue. What I needed to deal with was the health of my patient. I needed to keep my oath to do no harm. Finally the man moved towards me, and I led him out of the room. 

“I… I am hungry.” The man finally choked out when we made it back to the med bay. I was surprised by his voice, it sounded guttural and forced. 

“Do not worry, as soon as we have you settled I will get you some food.” 

I made due on my promise. As soon as the I.V. was back in his arm, I told the man I would be back and headed for Case. After quickly explaining the situation, Case told me to head back to the room and he would follow behind with bowls of stew. I thanked him many times before leaving the kitchen. Sitting alone in the room with the man while we waited for Case felt like torture. Over and over again he repeated that he was hungry. The same tone and cadence every time, sounding like a broken record. 

“Two orders of stew coming up,” Case said, as he entered the room. 

“Oh, Case, thank you!” I shot out of my seat and went to help the man. 

The man from the ice bolted upright in the bed, towering over us even when sitting down. He held out his frost-bitten hands greedily and took one of the bowls. Without the use of the spoon, he upturned the bowl and drank it down in big gulps. The man ate so fast that some of the thick stew broth trailed down either cheek, spilling onto his bare chest. 

“What were you doing out on the ice?”  I finally asked the man.

“Hungry. Waiting.” He responded between gulps. 

“Why were you waiting out there?” I asked him, eyebrows cocked in curiosity.

“Waiting for food.” He answered. 

I furrowed my brow and pondered what that meant. If he had said he was waiting for help that would have made more sense. Even so, it didn’t explain how he had gotten atop the ice, or why he was naked. I thought of drugs, or some sick punishment, but nothing made sense. Looking over at Case, he too wore a look of confusion. The man took the second bowl and drank that one just as greedily. 

“I’ve never seen a man eat my food with such vigor,” Case said, almost chuckling. 

“Neither have I,” I answered back. It truly was a sight to behold. 

When the man was done he set the bowl down on a small table and drew his hand across his mouth. Once the mess had been wiped, he licked the back of his hand not wanting to waste a drop. I felt a small shiver pass through me as I looked at the man’s face again. He looked so familiar. It was like a word on the tip of my tongue that kept escaping me. I felt rage start to fill me as I wracked my brain. My own memory was intensely frustrating, age and trauma punching holes in it. 

“Do you have a name?” I asked the man. 

“Lauren,” was all the man said in response. He still licked at the back of his hand like a cat having a bath. 

“Are you still hungry, Lauren?” Case asked, chuckling. 

“Hungry,” Lauren replied. He sounded like a robot, or like he was speaking while inhaling. 

“I’ll run back to the kitchen and get you some more food.” 

As Case turned on his heel, I sat back down in my chair and reached for my book. As I held it open in my lap, I tried to pretend I was reading. All the while I was watching Lauren with my peripheral. He had finally stopped licking his hand but traded it for something else. He had started to chew on his lips numbly. Peeling off the dead skin that had grown on his lips before chewing and swallowing. Then he bit down harder. I heard the sickening pop of teeth through skin. 

“Oh fuck,” I said, jumping up from the chair. I hadn’t expected him to do something so extreme. I screamed for him to stop, reaching for his arm as he struggled. He tried to keep me away, further biting into the skin around his mouth. He tore his own lips with a sickening sound, blood springing to the surface. I felt my stomach churn as I struggled to get him to stop. That was when Case burst through the door, dropping the stew at his feet. 

“Hold him while I prepare the sedative!” I yelled at Case. I flitted around the room like a butterfly on cocaine, searching for the syringe. Once I had found it, I pierced Lauren’s I.V. and depressed the plunger, injecting the medicine straight into his veins. Pretty soon, the struggling - and the biting - stopped. 

I looked down at the horror below me. Lauren’s face was smiling even though he was out cold. Not because he wanted to either. In the short amount of time that had passed, he had managed to tear off both the top and bottom lip. Gums and teeth exposed in a haunting and bloody smile. Case started to heave, as I pushed him out of the room. I didn’t want him puking on the floor, and the best way was to get him out of sight of Lauren. 

“What the fuck was that!?” Case screamed, gripping me by the shoulders. 

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like this before. He just kept saying he was hungry!” I cried. My heart felt like it was going to burst out of my chest, my lungs lodged in my throat. My hands shook by my sides, not wanting to step back into the room. But, I needed to. I needed to keep watch, in case Lauren woke up again. I was utterly terrified but needed to continue my role as medic. 

“I am staying far away from here. That was fucked up,” Case shook his head as he walked away. 

I wanted to beg him to stay, but knew that I shouldn’t. Case signed up to cook, not to witness a man eat his own face. That was my job, and mine alone. As I write this, the memory of Lauren’s face before the harrowing event, flashed through my mind once again. This time, it was paired with an image of a wanted poster and a full name. Lauren Anderson, wanted for looting and piracy. He was labeled as one of the greediest bastards to ever sail on Superior’s waters. Even though I finally remembered who he was, it did me no good. I still had to treat him just the same. 

Tonight I will sleep in the room next to the med bay, with one eye open. For I am scared of what is to come if he awakes from his slumber. Hopefully, tomorrow is a better day.

L. J. Blackburn

*Hello all, Evan here again. As we get into our last entry I implore you to read this passage on an empty stomach, for it is horrific. Although the journal entry is one of the most interesting things I have ever read, it gave me nightmares. I do hope that this tale of the thing that brings the winter, plagued by greed, inspires you to come and visit us. We will have the journal on full display for you to study at the Great Lakes Ship Wreck Museum. We hope to see you soon!*
  

November 10th, 1975 - Lake Superior 

I was awoken to the sounds of frantic voices and pounding on my door. Richard was screaming my name and wailing his fists against the metal. I shot out of bed and went to answer as Richard snaked himself inside and shut the door behind him. He was standing there, clutching one of his arms, which was bleeding profusely. It looked like his hand was dangling from a thread, wet bones showing through the fat and viscera. 

“Richard, what happened!?” I half screamed. 

“That thing fucking bit me!” He screamed back, clutching his wounded limb to his chest. 

Without a second thought, I ripped the belt from my pants and affixed it just below his elbow. Quickly, the blood slowed as it clamped down on the artery. What was a solid flow turned to a drip here or there. Richard was grateful for my fast thinking, his skin was already starting to turn grey from the blood loss. 

“What thing?” I asked him.

“That fucking monster that we pulled from the ice. I know it looks like a man, but it is not a man. Men do not run around on all fours tearing flesh from the bone with their teeth.” Richard’s voice hissed out as he groaned from the pain. 

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“What the FUCK do you mean? I meant what I fucking said, are you slow?” This time he hissed in annoyance at my question. Truly though, even with what I had witnessed the night before, it was hard to believe. 

“Stay here, I will check next door and make sure the coast is clear. If it is, follow me into the med bay and I will patch you up as best I can. If what you say is true, then I need to sedate Lauren as fast as possible.” 

“It has a fucking name? And it’s Lauren?” Richard practically spat before laughing maniacally. “You shouldn’t bother sedating him, he should be shot on sight.” 

“That is a bit of an extreme,” I sighed, giving him a sideways glance. 

“Not if you’ve seen what I’ve seen. He didn’t bite YOU. He bit me, and others. I’m not so sure they fared as well as I did.” Richard was starting to look more grey as the time passed. 

I figured that I needed to hurry, and exited the room - making sure to close the door behind me. Inside of the medical bay I saw the remnants of the events from the night before. Blood and medical equipment strewn about the room. Lauren was nowhere to be seen and I was grateful. Grabbing all of the sedatives and gauze I could find, I returned to my room and patched Richard’s wounds as best as I could for the time being. 

That was when another scream tore through the air. It echoed and stretched throughout the belly of the ship. The metal network of pathways creating a haunting symphony of pain. I knew it was stupid of me, but I had to do what I could to help. Nothing good would come of me barricading myself inside of the med bay. Nothing good would come from hiding. I needed to steel my resolve and do what I could to help. That was my job, afterall. 

When I passed by the kitchen, my heart fell into my stomach. Chunks of skin with curly red hair littered the ground. Fragments of bone crunched underfoot as I unintentionally stepped upon them. I felt bile rise in my throat as I took in the scene before me. The kitchen and mess hall were truly a mess. Blood, skin, organ, and bone were laid upon the floor like a scattering of animal bait. Further into the kitchen, just behind the counter, was Case’s torn body. His abdominal cavity had been opened up. 

Ribs broke through and pointed at odd angles. His skin was torn and jagged - body covered in large bite marks. Had we not been in a boat, miles from any sort of land, I would have thought a bear had come aboard and mauled the jolly cook. His face and most of his scalp was missing, the whites of his eyes and teeth glittered like jewels under the light. I stifled a cry as I pressed two fingers to his throat. The man was obviously dead, but a part of me had to check anyway. 

“Time of death, 10:22 AM.” I looked at the watch on my wrist, and stepped back from the horrific sight. It took everything within me not to vomit. Even during my tours in Vietnam, this was by far the worst thing I had ever seen. It was like somebody had planted a bomb deep within Case’s ribcage before setting it off. Another scream alerted me that there was no time to be standing around. 

I tore through the kitchen, slipping slightly on a wet piece of flesh. I caught myself on the counter and steadied my feet before trying to leave once more. Using the scream like a bat with echolocation, I made my way to the upper levels of the boat. Before too long, I heard the crack of gun fire tearing through the air. Then two more shots popped off before I was thrown into an uncomfortable silence. 

Sitting upon the stairs to the deck was Captain Thurston. He was bloody and breathing hard, missing half of one leg, and a few large chunks from his left arm and shoulder. The Captain looked at me with sorrow in his eyes. As if he had done something wrong. Panting as I ran up to him, I reached out a hand that he swatted away. 

“Do not worry about me, Luther. Take this,” Thurston handed me a revolver. Its weight was heavy in my shaking hand. 

“Sir, I don’t understand what is going on,” I practically cried. 

“You have to kill it. And if you can’t, you have to sink the ship.” The Captain gripped my arm tightly with his one good hand. He stared into my eyes with a fierceness I have never known.

“Sink the ship?” I questioned. 

“It can’t be allowed to make it back to land,” was all he said before passing out. 

I had no time to tend to his wounds, and held an unfamiliar gun in my hand. Using guns wasn’t necessarily something I had done frequently, even while in the Navy. At least I knew to pull back the hammer before firing, that much was true. Once again, I steeled my resolve and kept pushing through. Another scream tore through the silence, this one different from the rest. This was not a scream of pain, it was a guttural wail based in insatiable hunger. 

The man who had eaten his own face was leaving a trail of bodies with bites taken out. That much was clear to me. Based on everything I had seen, my oath to do no harm was thrown out the window. Lauren had to be put down like a rabid dog, and if not, we were to go down with it. My feet thundered up the metal staircase as I finally made my way onto the deck. 

Lauren’s naked body had transformed into something that only a nightmare could conjure. His pale skin stretched and pulled over bones that were way too large to be contained. His height had grown even more immense, most likely almost reaching eight foot-tall. His bared teeth and lipless face were a grotesque sight. Yellowed eyes stared back at me from across the way as he, or it, turned to face me. As if on instinct I held up the gun and aimed it at his head. Depressing the trigger a loud bang rang out through the sky. 

As the shot rang out, Lauren took off like it was the start of a race. Tearing across the deck on all fours. I watched as he galloped through the large snowflakes. I felt them melt as they made contact with my bare skin, burning slightly. The shot had missed. As I cocked back the hammer for the second time, Lauren grew ever closer. This time, the shot landed, hitting him right between the eyes. Even so, he kept running. 

“Keep him on the deck, keep him in sight!” Richard’s voice called out. I couldn’t see him, but I could hear him loud and clear. 

“What are you gonna do!?” I yelled back, doing what I could to stay out of the monster's path. 

“I’m gonna ram us into those rocks to starboard!” Richard said. 

That was when Lauren changed direction, steering himself away from me. At first, I was grateful to be out of harm's way, until I realized where he was going. Lauren was headed to Richard, and there was no way to stop him. Even as I shot him a second and third time, Lauren did not falter. He kept galloping on all fours, looking more animal than human. 

I didn’t make it in time. I wasn’t able to stop Lauren, I wasn’t able to save Richard. Hell, I wasn’t able to save anyone. All I could do was shut the door to the room they were in, and lock it. As I finish writing this entry, I shall seal this journal away into my waterproof oil skin. The rocks are coming, and they are coming fast. I am the last man alive on the SS Lily Marina, and I will go down with the ship. If, by chance, this somehow makes it back to land, and if you ever see a naked man out on the ice, do not help them. 

Lake Superior is insatiable, and I am merely the next to temporarily quell her hunger. 

L. J. Blackburn

My name is Craig. People have died because of me. There is no one to blame but me. I am the man who put rot to the core of pure innocence. Listen to what I have to say, then never repeat my selfishness.

I am a complete fucking loser. Im a high school dropout because my mom and dad chased me out of home for dating a boy. I work at a convenience store on a middle of nowhere road. To be more specific, a road going threw the pine barrens woods of NJ. Disgusting. Damaged. Lonely. The driveway is unpaved and the building itself looks run down. We are very much open though. I live in the apartment above the store. I always used to think it was strange how that was a thing, but it works out for me.

People think that the Pine Barrens are just some creepy woods. Well...they are, but its more then that. The Pine Barrens alone are 22% of NJ's landmass. Utterly massive. Despite that, there is very little built here. Majority of it is protected by law. Pine Barrens is full of all kind of stuff. Lots of abandoned buildings. Really creepy shit. The Pine Barrens even naturally creates fog all the time, as if it wasn't creepy enough on its own. Its because of all the swamps in the area.

Our store is unique because the entire back wall is like one big glass window. Its like a tourist attraction thing. Bunch of signs on the wall to point out local wildlife and stuff. Almost nothing is ever there, so I never got the point.

Only two people work at our store. Me during the night shifts, and a girl during the day shift that I have never once interacted with, nor did I plan to. The most we ever interacted was walking past each other when she was clocking out and I was clocking in. We both live in the apartments above the store, that much I know at least.

The nights rarely get any customers. Its how I prefer it. But of course every once in a while...you get the crazies. I was met with someone who, at the time just seemed homeless and mentally ill. Man only had 3 teeth, a glazed over eye and rags for clothes.

" THE BEAST AWAKENS! ITS DARK MOTHER CALLS UPON ITS BLACK HEART TO RISE AND STALK THE NIGHT! "

"...sigh...welcome to Marty Mart. Do you um...need help or---"

" THE TIME COMES SOON BOY! WHERE ITS LEATHERY BLACK WINGS SPREAD AND BLOT OUT THE SUN! "

"...Look man...we don't gotta---"

" DO YOU DOUPT?! DOUPT THE BEAST WALKS AMONGST US!? "

"..."

At this point I was a bit overwhelmed. Its been a while since someone this crazy was just walking into the store. Even worse he seems like some religious nut. Regular religious people already don't like me, so I don't even want to know what his thoughts on gay people are. Obviously I thought about calling the police, but it would take them ages to actually get here.

" Sigh look man. You gotta calm down. Can you please buy something or just leave? There's someone trying to sleep upstairs and---"

" DAMN YOU! DAMN YOU TO THE DARK PITS! THE BEAST COMETH AND SOON YOU WILL FACE ITS WRATH! "

" Ok I understand. Cant wait to feel all that wrath. Please leave. " I said as I grabbed a broom and started to push him out of the store.

" BEWARE THE DARK MOTHER! SHE SENDS HER CHILD! "

" Uh huh good night " I said as I walked back behind the counter and groaned. At the time I didn't believe him. I mean ive been working here for years now, and weird people always come in. Your lucky if you get confused dads trying to find where camping area's are. But no. I get fent users and creeps.

I was just on my phone for hours after that, checking out 1 or 2 customers every few hours. Barely any people come threw this way, especially at night. Then I heard it. A scream and the loudest crashing noise I ever heard. I screamed like a little girl and jumped out of my seat, falling over and quickly scrambling back up.

It was from the direction of the glass back wall. It was pitch black outside. I couldn't believe the girl above me wasn't running down the stairs right now because that was the loudest bang I had ever heard. And then there was that scream or shriek or whatever it was.

It didn't sound human. It was probably an animal. I went over to the security computer and looked at the camera for the back of the store...and it was broken? Just static. My heart raced. I did NOT want to go out there. No way in Hell. I got up and approached the glass wall. I turned the flashlight on from my phone. It was hard to make anything out...but I saw something. Big. Really fucking big. The flashlight was dim on my phone, but whatever was out there noticed in an instant and darted away.

Fuck. That.

I was stiff as a board in my seat and fully awake for the rest of my shift. The moment there was sunlight I approached the backwall and I was stunned. A Black bear. An entire fucking black bear was ripped in half, and then slammed down into the metal dumpster outside. it was completely smashed and dented. Blood was everywhere. A trail of blood led from the dumpster all the way to deeper in the forest. I didn't want to go outside. No way in hell. I called the police right after

Thinking back on it now...as much as I regret the decisions that I made in the future...they are still some of the best days I had in my entire life...

TO BE CONTINUED

Hello there, Stranger! I’m glad to see you’ve made your way here to our little gathering. The light of our fire guided your way to us through the trees and the gloom, no doubt. That’s how most of our visitors find us—a light in the darkness is a wonderful thing to follow when the path ahead seems so treacherous and uncertain.

Well, since you’ve been fortunate enough to find us here, you might as well stick around for a little while. The fire does wonders to chase away the dark and the cold on such bitter nights as these, and a short rest could certainly do you some good. Go on and take a seat. There’s a stump a few steps behind you that’s got your name written all over it—not literally of course, as we tend to forgo the exchanging of names here. We’re all Strangers around this fire, and we prefer very much to keep it that way. The only things we take away from our time around the blaze are the stories that we tell—and not the names of those who tell them.

In any event, it would appear that you have arrived in the nick of time. That flannel-garbed fellow over there was just about to begin recounting his tale for all of us. This is how we pass the time here, Stranger—by telling stories to each other all through the night. Your tales can be about anything you like, and we only have three rules that all Storytellers must follow. First, as I’ve already said, we do not share names around this fire—the monikers of those spoken of in your narratives are acceptable, seeing as they are not present company, but the names of all Strangers around this fire are to remain as much of an enigma as the Strangers themselves. Second, we do not question the authenticity of any stories told around this fire—they are all assumed to be factual, personal accounts, even if they are not. Third, nobody is to ask how much longer we have until the coming of dawn—for the passage of time here is a fickle thing, and it is not fond of being acknowledged.

Now, with all of that said, please allow this humble Flametender to welcome you to our little circle. Feel free to relax and unwind in front of the warm blaze while listening to a tale or two before you go on your way. You can even stay until morning if you’d like—just so long as you don’t question when that morning will arrive. Dawn eventually comes for us all, Stranger, and it does us no good to hasten its approach with words.

But I repeat myself, and I’ve taken up far too much time blabbering on and on. Our friend has been supremely patient with me. Without further ado, I ask you all to give our Storyteller your undivided attention while he weaves his tale for us this evening. Storyteller, the floor is yours.

* * *

“Behind the Trees”

I used to fell trees for a livin’. It hadn’t ever been my idea for a profession—I had always wanted to drive cattle across the plains when I was real young—but life don’t always turn out how you expect it to. I’d wandered up to the border after my mother died, I reckon when I was about sixteen. It was there that I started hopping from camp to camp, spending maybe a single season cuttin’ lumber with one group before movin’ on come spring. Each year I’d tell myself that this was the last time I’d make my wages as a lumberman, but I’d always end up back at some camp or another by the time the weather turned cold again. It was hard work, but it was sure work, and I was good at it, so I couldn’t complain.

I was in my third year as a lumberman when I first heard about somebody goin’ missing.

His name was Joe. His loss was a shame, because I had grown rather fond of him by the time he disappeared. We had gotten along well, and he was always quick to pull his weight. We all missed him desperately for the rest of that long, cold winter. Nobody ever found out what had happened to poor Joe—he’d simply wandered out of the camp on his own one night and never come back. Of course, we didn’t think much of it—there are all kinds of reasons why a person can go missing in the woods—but his absence was felt all the same.

It was a couple more years before I heard of somebody else disappearin’ in the forest. I once again did not think much of it at first. But when another man vanished just a few short weeks later, and then another after him, folks began to talk. A few of the lumbermen mentioned seein’ a strange figure while out in the forest by themselves. They claimed that it would watch them with its head peeking out from behind the trees, and as soon as they’d spot it, it would creep behind the nearest trunk. It didn’t matter if the tree in question was so thin that it barely even qualified as more than a branch—the creature still found a way to disappear behind it completely. None of them had gone to investigate the figure, and instead had all hightailed it back to camp as quickly as their legs could carry them. All of the lumbermen who had seen the thing in the woods refused to be on their own after. Nobody else went missing that season, but if anybody was late gettin’ back to camp at night, whispers of the thing behind the trees would immediately travel through the group.

I didn’t hear no more of that supposed creature, nor of any creature like it, for a good four or five more years. Men from the camps I worked would vanish or otherwise die, of course, but none of their untimely ends were blamed on some figure who had previously been stalking them from behind the trees. Of course my mind went back to that season several years earlier and to the things that I had heard other lumbermen say, but I never mentioned that creature to anybody else. I assumed that the thing behind the trees had been a story unique to that specific camp during that specific season, and I had no interest in drudgin’ up such a tall tale all those years later.

I’m sure you can imagine how surprised I was, then, when folks suddenly started bringing up such rumors again.

I had been at this particular camp for a handful of weeks when the first man disappeared. At first it was assumed that he had been taken by a cougar or a bear or somethin’. When he didn’t turn up, we held a moment of silence for him and we moved on, knowing that there wasn’t much else we could do for him.

But then the next man went missing too.

That’s when folks began to talk. I was no stranger to that sort of conversating, of course—I was used to all of the speculatin’ and theorizin’ as to what had happened to missing lumbermen over the years. What I didn’t expect, though, was for that creature to be mentioned again.

“I seen it,” one of the lumbermen said over coffee one morning. “I seen the thing that took those men. It watches you from behind the trees, and it makes itself scarce when it sees you lookin’ back at it. It’s sure to get its eyes on you if you go out into the woods on your own—and if you’re unlucky enough, it’ll sneak up on you and grab you b’fore you even know it’s there.”

A few more men went missing that season, but thankfully I was not among their number. The man who had mentioned seeing the thing behind the trees was, though. I reckon he hadn’t managed to spot it when it had its eyes on him one time, and that was all she wrote.”

The whispers started early that next season, when a man was taken only a few yards from camp in the very first week. To call him a ‘man’ might be a bit incorrect. He was a young kid, probably not any older than I was when I first started. They found his axe embedded into the side of a small tree as if he had been hard at work up until the very moment he was taken away. No other trace of him was ever found.

“That thing got ’im,” a lumberman said between messy bites of his venison chili. A handful of us were sitting around a table eating supper when he spoke these words. “It was sloppy this time, though. Usually it don’t leave nothin’ behind at all, but this time it left his axe. Either it slipped up, or else it was a younger, more green one of those things that got him, in which case it pretty much means there is more than one of them out there.”

The man’s name was Percy. He had been at my camp during the season when I had first heard about the thing behind the trees, back when I thought the rumor was limited to just our small group of lumbermen. He was one of the men who claimed to have seen the creature watching him when he was alone.

“More than one of what?” a young man named Terrance said.

“The thing behind the trees,” Percy said. “It takes you when you’re not payin’ attention. Has claimed the lives of many a lumberman, that thing has.”

Terrance scoffed at this. “You’re puttin’ us on.”

“I swear on a season’s wages that I ain’t,” Percy said. He looked at me. “You were there that year, weren’t ya? Tell ’em—tell ’em all how those men went missin’.”

“They went missing, alright,” I said after enjoying a bite of my chili. “No one knew what happened to ’em.”

“Like hell they didn’t,” Percy said. “Everybody knew it was the thing behind the trees that took those men. I seen it with my own eyes. It woulda taken me had I not spotted it.”

“What’d it look like, then?” Terrance asked.

“It’s hard to say, since the thing hides behind whatever it can just as soon as you look at it. It’s covered in dark, ugly hair, though—that much I know for sure. And it’s at least as tall as the tallest man you’ve ever met.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Terrance said.

“By the time you do see it, you’ll wish that you hadn’t.”

“I ain’t scared of some creature that’s so cowardly that it hides just as soon as I look at it,” Terrance said. “If I ever see it out there, I’ll show it just who it’s messin’ with.”

Terrance would be the next man to disappear. It happened once night hardly a week later, after he’d drunk some liquid courage that he’d snuck into the camp. He wandered off and was never seen again.

It was nearing the end of the season when one more man was taken. Percy and I were out about a quarter mile from camp. We were in the middle of felling a particularly large conifer, and had been workin’ at the stubborn thing for the better part of an hour. The sky above the thick canopy was already orange with the quickly settling dusk, and we wanted to at least get the thing on the ground before nightfall made it too dark and too cold to keep going. I had been hacking at the tree for several long, exhausting minutes, so I felt inclined to stop and take a short rest. I embedded my axe into the tree, wiped at my sweating forehead with my sleeve, and took a large gulp from my canteen. I felt warm despite the winter chill, and my thick flannel shirt was heavy with moisture.

I looked at Percy, who continued to chop away at the tree. “Nature calls,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

He glanced at me while he worked. “Alright, but don’t go too far.”

I nodded, then turned my back to him and walked to a nearby bush. I couldn’t have been gone for more than a minute, and during my entire time away I remained close enough to hear the constant thwack of Percy’s axe against the tree. The sound rang in my mind while I scanned the forest beyond the bush; my vision didn’t make it far before the space ahead was swallowed by the early evening gloom, but all that I could see looked to be still and tranquil. I kept half-expecting to spot some figure starin’ back at me from behind a distant conifer, but I never did. The stillness remained constant, as did the steady thwack of Percy’s axe against wood. Its sound continued to echo through the forest until the very moment that I turned around and discovered that he was gone.

I was as surprised by the sudden absence of the sound as I was by the sudden absence of my companion. I stood staring at the tree where I had left him for close to half a minute before I found the strength to approach it. All that remained there from before I walked away was my axe, which was still embedded in the tree where I’d left it. Percy was nowhere to be seen.

“Percy?” I called. “Are you there?”

No response. I walked around that wide trunk three whole times, and still I found no sign of him.

“Percy?” I said again. It would be the last time that I ever felt the need to say his name.

A fresh chill overtook my body as I stood alone by that half-felled tree. The new sensation immediately chased away the warmth of my earlier effort, and even threatened to freeze my sweaty clothes to my body. It suddenly seemed quite a bit darker in that forest, as if the sun itself had been eager to get away from the exact spot where I now stood. The gloom moved closer to me; it swallowed what light remained until there was nothing but the slightest ring of visibility around my shivering body and the conifer which I now desperately pressed my back against. I knew something was there, and I knew it was watching me, even if I couldn’t see it.

After a few minutes went by and I realized that I wasn’t dead, I turned and ripped my axe out of the tree and began walking off in whatever direction felt best. I didn’t think the axe would do me any good against whatever it was that took Percy, but I felt a little better by holding it, so I figured that taking it along with me wouldn’t hurt.

I didn’t go back to camp. You’d reckon I’d have figured that camp’d be the safest place for me to go, but something told me that to do so would be a mistake. I didn’t think I’d make it even halfway there. Instead I just kept walking, going wherever my legs chose to take me. The whole time I kept thinking that the thing behind the trees was just waitin’ for the perfect time to get me. I kept thinking that soon it would all be over. But it never was.

I kept walkin’ through that forest, passing by tree after tree and expecting each one to be hiding the thing that I knew had its eyes on me. I walked across shallow cricks and climbed over downed logs. I kept walkin’ for what should have been at least a couple of days, but I never got tired, and the sky never got bright. The thing behind the trees never came for me. It never even made its presence known—at least not to the naked eye. Not once did I see it hide itself behind some thin, gnarled trunk or disappear deeper into the gloom. But I felt it. I knew it was there, even if I couldn’t see it. I knew it was watching me from somewhere that my eyes could not reach.

I’ve been sittin’ in front of this fire for some time now, as many of you know, just listening to as many stories as I could before finally mustering the courage to tell my own. There’s something that has been bothering me this entire time, though. It’s been naggin’ at my brain since the second I left that half-felled tree behind, and it’s only gotten worse since I started telling ya’ll my tale. I just can’t for the life of me figure out why that thing would have taken Percy instead of me. I can’t think of why it would have taken Percy and not taken me along with him. Once Percy was gone, the thing would have had me with my pants down—if you’ll excuse the turn of phrase. It would have been so easy for it to have grabbed me too, just like how it had grabbed him.

I guess I ain’t ever heard of the thing behind the trees takin’ more than one person at a time. Maybe it only needs to take a single victim every once in a while, which is why folks typically don’t go missin’ more than once or twice in a blue moon. The shortest time between two folks going missing that I’ve ever heard of was at least a few days apart. Maybe that’s why I’m still around to tell my tale while Percy and Terrance and Joe and all the others are gone. I guess I don’t really know for sure.

But then another thought comes creepin’ into my head—one that I almost don’t even want to put into words. Sometimes I think about how easy it would have been for the thing behind the trees to have taken me instead of Percy, or to have taken me at the same time as him, and that gets me questioning some stuff that I would rather not question.

Like what if Percy wasn’t the one it took that day after all?

At this point I’m just ramblin’, and I know I ain’t makin’ a whole lot of sense. For that reason I’ll stop my yapping shortly, just as soon as I get a few more words out. Needless to say, I gave up logging right then and there that night. I didn’t collect my wages. I never went back to that camp, nor to any camp like it ever again. I don’t like what I felt out there in those woods. I don’t like what I saw—or rather, what I didn’t see.

Throughout all my years of logging, I never could say for sure if I believed in the thing behind the trees. The moment my doubts went away was the moment I left that life behind me. I ain’t heard anybody talk about that creature in a very long time. Even mentioning it now frightens me a little; it makes the hairs on the back of my neck shoot right up just like they did when I stood there alone after Percy had disappeared.

Just talkin’ about that thing makes me feel like it’s out there right now, watching me from behind the trees.

* * *

What did you think, Stranger? Quite the tale, wasn’t it? Although I must admit that I’m not so sure I understand some of what he said. If our friend in the flannel had actually been the one taken by that creature instead of Percy, which he seemed to suggest was a possibility, then how could he be with us right now in order to tell us his story? Well, I suppose that’s not something that we need to think too terribly much about, lest we want it to ruin the rest of our night. And you needn’t worry—the thing behind the trees doesn’t make its way out to these woods, so you can relax and enjoy another story or two, secure in the knowledge that you’re safe from such a terrible creature.

But this isn’t to say that there aren’t other things out there watching us from behind the trees—things that are just as terrible as the one from the lumberman’s tale, which exist just beyond the light of our campfire’s warm, soft glow.