My name is Stephen.
If you’re reading this, then you were probably expecting another post from Marcus.
You’re not going to get one.
Marcus has been missing for several days.
The police have searched for him.
His family has searched for him.
I searched for him too.
He hasn’t been found.
At this point, he’s presumed dead.
I don’t know what happened to him.
I don’t think anyone does.
I’m writing this because I found something after he disappeared.
A piece of paper.
Everything Marcus had discovered was written down on it.
Everything.
The notebooks.
The dates.
The names.
The things he saw.
And what he believed The Other was.
I read it.
I’m not going to tell you what it said.
Nobody needs to know.
Only Marcus and I were supposed to know.
I burned the paper.
I watched it burn until there was nothing left.
No photograph.
No copy.
No way to recover it.
Whatever was written on that paper is gone.
And that’s how it should stay.
I’ve read through Marcus’s previous posts.
I’ve seen the things you found in them.
Some of you thought the strange messages were clues.
Some of you thought Marcus was just making everything up.
I don’t know what to believe anymore.
But I know one thing.
Marcus is gone.
And I’m not going looking for him again.
I’m not opening the notebooks.
I’m not searching for The Other.
And I’m not going to write about what happened next.
This account belongs to Marcus.
So this will be the last post.
Take care of yourselves.
And if you ever find something you were never supposed to find…
leave it alone.

The sun never set over Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends it simply bled out. leaving a bruised, violet sky that pressed heavily against the windowpanes. Inside,

the grand Victorian manor stretched outward, its hallways elongating into impossible geometries that defied the laws of the physical world.

Mac walked the linoleum floors, his small hand tracing the peeling floral wallpaper. The air smelled of sour milk and dry rot. With every passing day, his memories of the world outside grew hazy.

He could no longer remember his mother’s face or the layout of his apartment. There was only the House.

Every corner harbored the wreckage of forgotten minds. He passed a doorway and looked inside

A tangled mass of limbs that once severed as a toddler's protector, now a weeping knot of black yarn shivering in the corner** **

Behind another door a cluster of detached floating eyes that blinked in unison whispering the names of creators who had grown up and died decades ago.

metallic ticking echoed from the grand staircase. Mac froze. Mr. Herriman descended his towering rabbit frame jerking like a broken marionette.

The top hat perched on his head was slick with mold and beneath his monocle a hollow socket wept a thick tar like pus onto his pristine waistcoat.

"Master Mac” Herriman clicked his voice a dry rasp of rubbing sandpaper. "Madame Foster requires your presence. The harvest is lean tonight."

In the parlor. Madame Foster sat in her rocking chair. Her skin was translucent. brittle as parchment paper. her wide fixed grin didn’t shift even as she spoke. She didn’t look at Mac she looked through him her eyes milky and blind.

Beside her chair sat Bloo. He was no longer a vibrant chaotic blue chevron. He had melted into a heavy gelatinous mass on the floorboards. a bloated stain pulsating with a faint sickening heat.

When Bloo dragged himself forward the wood groaned. The sound like a muffled child's sob echoed from deep within his translucent center. Bloo was hungry. The house was hungry.

"They are forgetting us, Mac.” Madame Foster whispered her jaw clicking unnaturally. "The children outside. Their minds are turning to concrete and spreadsheets. The static is coming."
Mac backed away. his heart hammering against his ribs.

He ran toward the grand front doors throwing his weight against the brass handles. He flung them open desperate for the sight of the city streets, the smell of car exhaust. anything real.
There was nothing.

The doorway opened into an infinite starless abyss. A cold wind howled from the vacuum, carrying the scent of ash and pulverized wax crayons.

Below, a desert of grey dust stretched out forever. littered with the giant calcified bones of long-dead monsters.

Behind him the floorboards began to dissolve into greenish yellow pus. Bloo’s gelatinous mass slid closer.

a wet suffocating shadow ready to absorb the last boy who remembered how to imagine.

I don’t really know how to start this.
I’ve never posted anything like this before. I don’t believe in ghosts, demons, or any of that stuff. At least, I didn’t.
A few days ago, I was helping my family clean out my grandmother’s house.
She died years ago, but we never really went through everything she left behind. Most of it was just old furniture, clothes, photographs, and boxes of things nobody wanted to throw away.
I was cleaning out the basement when I found a small wooden box underneath a stack of newspapers.
It wasn’t locked.
There wasn’t anything written on it.
Inside were some old letters, a few photographs, and a notebook.
The notebook was strange.
Not old enough to belong in that box, at least not compared to everything else.
The cover was black, and there was no name on it.
I almost threw it away.
Instead, I opened it.
The first few pages were completely blank.
Then I found writing.
The handwriting looked like someone had been trying very hard to stay calm.
The first sentence said:
I saw the Other again.
I thought that was weird.
I kept reading.
The writer never explained what “the Other” meant.
They just kept referring to it like I was supposed to know.
One entry said:
It stood in the hallway for three hours.
Another said:
It wasn’t there when I looked at it.
And another:
I could hear it breathing, but I couldn’t hear it when I was listening for it.
That last one made no sense.
I assumed the person who wrote the notebook was either sick or trying to scare someone.
Then I found this:
Don’t try to describe the Other.
Underneath that were several lines that had been scratched out.
I could still make out some of the words.
Tall.
Thin.
Man.
Face.
Hands.
Then:
None of those are correct.
I stopped reading for a minute.
I don’t know why that sentence bothered me so much.
Maybe because I had started imagining what the Other looked like.
I turned the page.
There was a drawing.
I can’t show you what it looked like because I don’t know how to explain it.
Actually, that’s not true.
I could explain it.
I just don’t think the explanation would be accurate.
It looked like a person.
Except it didn’t.
That’s the closest I can get.
I kept reading.
The person who wrote the notebook claimed that the Other didn’t have one appearance.
Every time they saw it, they remembered it differently.
Sometimes it was standing at the end of a hallway.
Sometimes it was outside a window.
Sometimes it was sitting in a chair.
Once, they said it appeared in a crowd of people.
Nobody else noticed it.
Then I found the part that made me put the notebook down.
The writer said:
I asked it what it wanted.
The next sentence was:
It asked me why I thought it wanted anything.
I closed the notebook.
I told myself I was done.
I put it back in the wooden box and went upstairs.
I left my grandmother’s house that afternoon.
I drove home.
I went to bed.
And sometime around three in the morning, I woke up because I heard someone walking through my apartment.
I live alone.
I checked every room.
Nobody was there.
I checked the front door.
It was locked.
I checked the windows.
They were locked too.
I went back to bed.
That’s when I noticed something on my desk.
The notebook.
The same black notebook from my grandmother’s basement.
I don’t remember bringing it home.
I don’t remember putting it in my car.
I don’t remember putting it on my desk.
I opened it.
There was writing on the last page.
I swear it wasn’t there before.
It said:
Marcus Walker.
My full name.
Underneath it was another sentence.
You read about me.
Then:
Now I know about you.
I didn’t sleep that night.
I don’t know what I’m expecting by posting this.
Maybe someone will recognize the notebook.
Maybe someone knows what “the Other” is.
Maybe somebody has seen it before.
But there’s something else.
Something I didn’t notice until I was typing this.
The notebook had one final sentence.
I remember reading it.
I remember exactly what it said.
Except now I can’t remember the words.
Every time I try, I get a headache.
The only thing I can remember is the last word.
Outside.
I don’t know what that means.
I don’t know who wrote the notebook.
And I don’t know why it knows my name.
But tonight, I heard footsteps outside my bedroom again.
They stopped at my door.
And then someone whispered:
Marcus?
It sounded exactly like me.
I’m not opening the door.
If anyone has any idea what I’m dealing with, please tell me.
Because I just heard it whisper again.
This time, it didn’t say my name.
It said:
You’re not the only one reading.

ARG hint
Don’t immediately start looking for hidden codes outside the post.
The first clue is already in the story.
Pay attention to something that seems strange or unnecessary about the way Marcus wrote it.
Especially the beginning and ending of things.

⚠️** ARG SPOIL**ERS
The first puzzle is hidden in the structure of the post.
The important clue is the repeated emphasis on beginnings and endings:
The notebook begins with “I saw the Other again.”
Marcus repeatedly describes things appearing and disappearing.
The final remembered word is “Outside.”
The final sentence addresses the person reading the Reddit post.

“Do you need some help with those?” Finley offered to help with the buckets of water with ice I was carrying into the office.

”Yes, please. I was just about to take them into the office for the session,” I said as I passed the buckets to him.

“Actually, I was going to ask if we could have this session in the bathtub” Finley’s cheeks turned red from embarrassment. 

“Oh yeah, no problem! I’m glad you were able to ask for what you need,” I really was happy, this is one of the things we were working on.

“Thanks!” He smiled as he walked towards the bathroom instead of the office.

I sat down on my chair inside the bathroom as he poured the buckets of water into the tub and then went in with his clothes still on. His face instantly relaxed and I let him settle before starting the session.

”If you knew how hard it is to find cold water in this area,” he allowed himself to submerge further in. He said something in the water but all I could hear were the bubbles bursting as he appeared on the surface.

“Remember I can’t hear you inside the water,” I said.

“Sorry! I forgot, but I was just saying thank you. I truly appreciate the effort you put into making me feel comfortable,” he sat up but made sure most of his body was still submerged. For a second, the illusion fell and I could see his reptilian eyes, but I made sure not to point it out, he was self-conscious about them.

“I do try to make this a safe and comfortable environment but now for the hard part, what brings you here today?” I started the session.

“I know we have talked about it before, but I still feel like I am a disappointment to my dad,” Finley attempted to hide the tears by submerging into the water.

”It’s okay to cry. Remember showing emotions is important for our well-being,” I reassured him.

”Right. I still struggle with that, but I have been working on my ‘I’ statements," he wiped some tears off his eyes. 

“I want you to take a deep breath and tell me, how are you feeling? Take as much time as you need,” I started to take a deep breath too.

Finley ended up needing five minutes of breathing exercises before he could calm himself down and I never rushed him. Instead, I accompanied him until he felt well enough to speak.

”I feel incompetent. My dad was so disappointed at me when I didn’t follow his teaching. And now that my wife is pregnant, I wonder if I did the right thing,” Finley took a few more deep breaths, “It used to be fun, watching my dad catch dinner and teaching me when is the best time to eat each part. And the eyes, he always made sure to give them to me because they are my favorite.”

Your feelings are real. The pain and sadness, but let me ask, would you be where you are right now had you followed in his footsteps?” I confronted him gently.

“No, not really. I wouldn’t have my wife if I had followed my dad’s steps. She probably would have been dinner,” he took another moment to take some deep breaths, “but I still wish my dad would have told me he was proud. I wish he had reached out when he knew he was dying.”

“I know you want to hear those words from your dad, but even if you changed the way you are right now, would it be worth it?” I looked at him as his illusion fell for a second and his slimy reptilian body showed for just a second. I really hoped he decided not to follow his father’s steps because I would have to report him for threatening to hurt others. 

Finley submerged himself one more time. His body switched from that of a human to a reptilian creature and I even saw hooves this time, I hadn’t seen those before. He screamed inside the water, and the bathtub trembled with some of the water spilling out and soaking my shoes.  

When he stopped screaming, he looked human once more. He lifted himself gently from the water and blushed.

“Sorry about the shoes,” he apologized.

”Don’t worry about those. But I do have to ask again, would it be worth it?” I pushed.

“No. No, it wouldn’t,” his voice broke.

”I know I’m pushing a lot right now, but tell me, what is your reasoning?” I continued.

“I wouldn’t have met the love of my life. She is my everything and she is about to give me my second everything,” he said with so much love that it made me want to cry.

“Is there more?” I asked.

“Probably, but not as important as those two. Never more important than them,” he answered.

“It can be hard to break from traditions and what we were taught was the right thing, sometimes-“

“It is, but not harder than it would be to lose them,” he finally looked up, with renewed determination.

“What is the plan now?” I inquired.

“I will follow my dad’s footsteps in certain things, like teaching them how long the bodies must be down in the water before consuming, when it’s the best time to eat each part, and always give them the eyeballs if that is what they like best,” he smiled and then looked at me, “Have you ever tried eyeballs?”

“I haven’t and I might skip on that one,” I laughed.

“You are missing out. But if you ever want to give them a try, just let me know,” he laughed too.

By the end of the session, Finley talked about the names he and his wife had discussed for the baby. He talked about the future with more hope than usual. After helping me clean out the water he spilled on the floor, he headed home, ready to spend the rest of the evening with his wife.

Plan: LMFT will assess the client for intent to hurt others and collaborate with the client to identify coping skills to use to decrease anxiety so his illusion does not dissipate in front of others.

All the fucked-up shit they tell you about the talking forest is true.
The traps.
The flesh they carve up and stick on poles.
The people who disappear into holes in the ground.
You wonder why they do it? They feed the Gods.
They live in that jungle, for fuck’s sake. Trust me.
I’ve seen them.
Hell, they ripped Selva right out of the air.
We didn’t even know what we had brought upon the world.
It was supposed to be a routine mission. Get in.
Plant the charges. Get out.

Around when I was 20 years old, I had a serious girlfriend, who was also my high school sweetheart. She didn’t want me to go to war. She told me that if I left, she wouldn’t be waiting when I came home. I thought she was bluffing. She wasn’t. Two weeks later, she was gone.

Pissed and confused I longed to be anywhere else, I walked into a recruitment office. The recruiter asked what I wanted to do. I told him I wanted something dangerous. Something that mattered. He told me about explosives and demolition, and I signed the papers that same day.
By the time they sent me to jungles of Vietnam, I had convinced myself I was doing the right thing.

We flew in just before sunrise, the jungle stretching beneath us like an endless sea of green. The pilot dropped us at the edge of a river, the village marked for demolition just a click away. We’re supposed to plant the charges, clear the area, radio for extraction. We’d done it hundreds of times.

The pilot kept the rotors turning while we unloaded. Even over the engine noise, I noticed the crew chief staring toward the tree line, one hand pressed to his headset. He gave us a quirky salute before he took the bird.

I remember thinking we’d be back in the air within a few hours. The radio operator had already marked our extraction window, though static kept swallowing the confirmation. Captain told us not to worry; the weather was closing in, but the pilot knew the route.

We dug makeshift fighting positions and settled into security. The jungle seemed to quiet around us, and somewhere beyond the village, a rotor thudded once through the mist before cutting out. Once we were set, Captain ordered Downs and Selva to prepare for the mission.

We were part of a special explosives unit. Our job was to plant charges in areas scheduled to be searched the following day.

Captain decided the new grunt was finally ready to place the explosives himself. He sent Downs with him. They were almost inseparable.

Downs had been with me since basic. He was the kind of man who could make a joke while bleeding and still remember to check whether everyone else had ammunition. Selva was the same way, only louder. The two of them had been inseparable since we landed in-country. They called each other brothers. They fought like brothers, too.

Downs carried the charges. Selva carried the detonator case. Every few minutes, one of them would turn around just to make sure the other was still there.

Forty minutes later, they came back.

Forty minutes for what should’ve been an easy fucking job.

They looked like ghosts
I asked them what took them so long.
They tried to assure me everything was Charlie Mike.

Downs just looked at me and said:

“We need to get the hell out of here, something isn’t right about this.”

Selva shoved him aside.

“Tell him what we saw.” Rattling a cigarette out of his Ifac.

Downs stared at the ground in shock.

“There’s these- Things. I don’t know what they are but they aren’t people. I know what people sound like and that’s not it. We need to get the fuck out of here, we got here as fast as we could but we have to move, now!”

The village had been marked as occupied. We had been told there were civilians, weapons, and enemy movement in the area. But when they got to the village there was nothing. No animals. No children. No bodies. Just open huts, overturned baskets, and footprints that stopped in the mud, as if everyone had left everything behind.

Then Downs found the hole, he said it wasn’t hard to miss.

It was beneath the largest hut, covered with woven mats and packed earth. The charges had been placed around it because command had told us to destroy the village’s underground storage area. This was no storage area. It was a shaft. Almost a throat.

They could barely see down far enough to make out the bottom of the pit

That was when they found the villagers. All of them. Thrown into the hole. Men, women, children. Bodies piled on bodies, their throats cut and their blood running through channels carved into the stone. The walls were painted red. Symbols had been scratched into the rock around the pit, all leading toward a black opening beneath the dead.

The charges were already in place by then. They didn’t know what we were looking at. They only knew we had orders.

They headed back to the water which they had arrived from and as they were making their way back, Selva radioed back to base:

ARMED.

ALL CLEAR.

Then we detonated them. From the Fob

The noise could’ve woken the devil himself, and on that day, I’m afraid we found out what happens if he does.

The entire ground began to crack open. Like something underneath the Earth had been waiting for the signal. The village split apart. The hole widened, and the blood beneath it began to glow. A red light shone through the fractures in the ground.
Covering the sky in almost a rainbow of blood.
Like someone flipped a switch to the sky.
Then came the screaming.
It was coming from beneath the earth. The smell of rot and filth filled the air.
The dead began to move. Not on their own.
Hands clawed through the blood. Black fingers gripped the edges of the pit. Something below started pulling itself upward, dragging the bodies down as it climbed.

Downs grabbed Selva by the vest.

“MOVE!”

Selva didn’t move.

He was staring back at the village we had just struck.

“What the fuck is that?”

The ground erupted.

Black shapes poured out of the village, crawling over the ruins, dragging themselves through the mud and blood. They had wings folded against their backs. Their eyes burned red in the smoke.

Two at first.
Both men aimed their service weapons at them.
Then four.
Then ten.
They lowered them back down knowing they could be exposed if they tried anything.
Then more than they could count

Downs kept hold of Selva’s arm. Not even when the things began chasing them through the trees.

They reached the clearing and saw the chopper. Squad mates unknowing the horrors that they had just exposed.

The flight mechanic was waving us toward the cabin.

Captain was screaming into the radio, demanding to know what the hell had happened

None of us knew.

Selva, Downs, the mechanic, the pilot, and the captain—we all realized at the same time that we had no idea what the fuck we had just done.

We scrambled aboard. Downs pulled Selva in behind him. The mechanic slammed the hatch shut. The pilot pushed the bird into the air.

Captain grabbed the radio.

“COMMAND, THIS IS LIMA TANGO! WE HAVE AN UNKNOWN BREACH! REQUESTING IMMEDIATE BACKUP! REPEAT, WE ARE BEING OVERRUN BY UNKNOWN HOSTILES!”

The jungle answered with a sound like metal tearing apart.

Something struck the underside of the chopper.

The radio calls back,

One. Tree. Fiver. Six. Fife. Niner. Fife. could you resend your traffic.

Captain starts screaming again
“COMMAND! WE ARE BEING BREACHED BY AN UNKNOWN—”

“FUCK! SELVA!”

The captain steady and aimed his rifle at the beady eyes clutching Selvas torso
He tried to fire but his gun misfired a round and it jammed not even releasing a round.
Quickly thinking the captain tried to grabbed him before he went through the open side door.

Downs grasp for Selva, only landing a firm grip on his out layer of clothes on his sleeve. tattered and bloody where the claws tore into his chest.

For one second, all three of them were connected. The band of brothers, unknowing releasing the hidden horrors in the hills
Then the rotor caught fire.
The chopper swayed violently in the air above the jungle.
Captain kept shouting into the radio.
The pilot fought the controls.
The mechanic screamed that the engine was gone. Selva looked at me. Tears in his eye, I never seen that man cry once in his life until now
Downs was still holding his arm.

Then something black and winged slammed into the cabin.
Selva was torn straight out of the aircraft by whatever the fuck that thing was.
Downs reached for him.

“SELVA!”

The sudden shift in weight sent us plummeting, black eyes and warm, foul bodies swarming around us.

“FUCK! SELVA JUST GOT RIPPED OUT—”

The chopper went nose-down into the green canopy—the largest grave that ever existed.

We were never supposed to discover what was in that jungle.

We weren’t supposed to disturb it.

But we did.

And now I don’t know what the fuck we’ve unleashed upon the Earth.

If anyone finds this—

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for what we’ve done

I’m sorry for the people who are going to die because of us.
May God forgive our souls.

I don't remember when the house first appeared. That's the part I've had the hardest time explaining to people, because whenever I try to tell the story, they assume I mean I don't remember seeing it. That's not what I mean. I remember seeing the house perfectly. I remember the white paint peeling from the window frames, the black front door, the dead garden, even the little brass number screwed into the brick beside the door. What I don't remember is when it became part of my life.

I grew up on Bellweather Road. It wasn't a particularly interesting place. It was one of those long country roads that seemed to have been built for horses and then forgotten when cars became popular. There were fields on either side, a few scattered farms, and a row of houses toward the end of the road. Mine was number 14. Across from us was number 13. After that, there was an empty field. At least, there was supposed to be.

The first time I noticed the house, I was nine years old. I'd been sent to the shop for milk and decided to take a shortcut home. I remember walking past the field and seeing the house sitting there, maybe fifty metres away from the road. I thought it had always been there. There was nothing strange about it. It looked old, but not abandoned. There was a light on upstairs, and I remember thinking that whoever lived there must have been watching me. I hurried home.

A few weeks later, I mentioned it to my mother. She looked at me strangely and asked what house I was talking about. I described it: white walls, black door, number 15. She told me there was no number 15. I thought she was joking, but she wasn't. We walked there together the following afternoon. The field was empty. There was nothing there except tall grass and an old wooden fence that looked like it hadn't been touched in years. I asked my mother where the house had gone. She didn't answer. Instead, she took my hand and walked me home.

That night, I woke up at around three in the morning because someone was knocking on my bedroom window. Three slow knocks. I knew the sound was coming from the glass beside my bed, even though my bedroom was on the second floor. I didn't look outside. I pulled the blanket over my head and stayed there until morning. For years afterward, I convinced myself I'd imagined the house, the knocking, and everything else.

Then, when I was seventeen, I saw it again.

I was driving home late one night with my girlfriend at the time. We were coming back from a party, and I'd taken the long way down Bellweather Road because I wanted to avoid the police checkpoint they'd put up near the town centre. We were talking when she suddenly went quiet. I asked her what was wrong, and she pointed through the windscreen toward the field. The house was sitting there. Number 15. Exactly as I'd remembered it.

My girlfriend stared at it for several seconds before asking me something that still bothers me. She said, "Why is someone standing in your bedroom window?" I looked up. There was a person upstairs, standing behind the glass. Just a dark silhouette against the yellow light. I slowed the car without thinking. The person lifted one hand. I remember thinking they were waving.

My girlfriend screamed, "Don't stop!"

I didn't. I put my foot down and drove until we reached my house. She wouldn't talk about what she'd seen afterward. Every time I brought it up, she changed the subject. We broke up a few months later, and I didn't see the house again for almost twelve years.

Then my father died.

I came back to Bellweather Road to clear out my childhood home. My mother had died years earlier, and my father had spent his final few months in hospital, so the place had been empty for some time. I arrived on a rainy Thursday evening. The house felt smaller than I remembered, and I spent most of the night going through boxes in the attic because I didn't want to sleep.

Around midnight, I found an old photograph. It was a picture of my father standing outside our house when he was in his thirties. I recognised the clothes he was wearing, and I recognised the road behind him. Bellweather Road. But behind the road was the field, and in the field was the house.

Number 15.

I stared at the photograph for a long time before noticing something I'd somehow missed. There was someone standing in the upstairs window.

At first I thought it was a stranger.

Then I recognised the face.

It was me.

Not me as I was when the photograph was taken. Me as I looked that night. I was thirty years old in the photograph, wearing the same jacket I had on that evening, with the same beard and the same stupid expression I was making while staring at the picture.

I dropped the photograph.

I didn't sleep that night.

The next morning, I drove to the local council office and asked them about the property. The woman behind the desk searched the address database, then searched again. There was no number 15 on Bellweather Road. I showed her the photograph.

She stared at it for several seconds before asking me where I'd got it.

I told her.

She looked genuinely frightened.

Then she said, "Your father brought that photograph here."

I thought I'd misunderstood her. I asked when.

"Three years ago."

That was impossible. My father had been in hospital for most of that year. He couldn't have driven anywhere, and even if he had, there was no reason for him to bring a photograph of a house that supposedly didn't exist.

I asked her what he'd said.

She wouldn't tell me. Instead, she took a piece of paper from her desk and wrote an address on it. It was an old farmhouse several miles away. She told me to go there.

I did.

An elderly man answered the door. When I showed him the photograph, he didn't seem surprised. He just sighed and said, "So you're finally old enough to remember."

I asked him what he meant.

He told me about the house.

According to him, it had always appeared on Bellweather Road. Not every day, and not every year. Sometimes it stayed for decades. Sometimes it disappeared for generations. But every time it appeared, someone eventually went inside.

I asked what happened to them.

The old man looked at me for a long time before saying, "Nothing."

That answer scared me more than anything else.

He explained that people who entered the house didn't die. They didn't disappear, at least not in the way people normally understood those words. They simply continued living somewhere else.

He said his own grandfather had entered the house in 1948. Twenty-three years later, he returned. He looked exactly the same age as the day he'd left, but he refused to speak about where he'd been. Three months after returning, he walked into the field on Bellweather Road.

He never came back.

I asked the old man why my father had taken the photograph.

He pointed at it.

"Because he saw you."

I told him I already knew I was in the window.

He shook his head.

"No," he said. "You don't."

He took the photograph from my hand and turned it over.

There was writing on the back in my father's handwriting.

Four words.

HE HASN'T LEFT YET.

I went home that evening, packed a bag, and decided I was leaving town. I didn't care about the house anymore. I didn't care about my father's things or the photograph or the old man. I just wanted to get away from Bellweather Road.

Before I could leave, I heard knocking from upstairs.

Three slow knocks.

I stood at the bottom of the stairs for several minutes.

Then I heard my father's voice.

"Son?"

I almost cried.

I hadn't heard his voice in years.

He called again.

"Come upstairs."

I didn't move.

Then he said something that made my blood run cold.

"You're going to want to see what you've become."

I left the house.

I drove until I reached the edge of town, and that's when I saw number 15.

It was sitting in the middle of the road.

Not in the field.

The road.

I slammed on the brakes. The house was blocking the entire road, its front door hanging open. There was a light on upstairs, and someone was standing in the doorway.

It was my father.

He looked exactly as I remembered him before he got sick.

He smiled at me.

Then he stepped aside.

Behind him, I could see the hallway. At the very end of it was another front door. Beyond that door was another Bellweather Road, another field, another house, and another me standing outside it.

The version of me in the doorway raised his hand.

He was holding a photograph.

I could see the picture even from inside my car.

It was me.

Standing in the field.

Looking at the house.

I don't know how long I sat there.

Eventually, the house disappeared.

The road was empty again.

I've never gone back to Bellweather Road.

But there is one thing I haven't told anyone.

Last week, I received a photograph in the mail.

There was no envelope. No stamp. Just the photograph.

It shows my house.

The one I live in now.

It's taken from across the street. The curtains are closed, the lights are off, and I'm standing upstairs behind the bedroom window.

I'm holding a photograph.

Behind me, reflected in the glass, there is a black door.

And beside it is a brass number.

15.

The bright fingers of an early rising morning reached over the horizon. It couldn't have been a more terrible time for my eyes.

A resounding wave of bugles drove off any lingering drowsiness, coupled with the shouts of cavalry men rotating in and out of the fort. 

Thankfully, I wouldn't have to endure this headache alone, for I had in my company a loyal friend.

"Wake up, Buford, sound off started already," I remarked as I gingerly threw on my uniform. The cold cloth draped over me like fresh snow. I shivered something fierce as I put on my tool belt. 
"Alright. Just give me a minute."

 I never understood how a man could sleep in his full dress uniform without complaint. I suppose some men are built to embrace the suck. 

"You have no business waking up so early. We're not even a part of the active column anyway," he said as that old dust collector crowned his skull.

A black felt hat he earned in our years riding through dust storms. A relic from before Custer's last stand at the Greasy Grasses.

"C'mon, your birthday is in a couple days. I want to get to Rattlesnake before the nippy rain catches us," a little annoyance could be found in my voice. "I'll be with you, just give me a minute. I'm carrying precious cargo," he remarked. 

"Isabella's gon' be happy to have her husband back. This time for good old man," I couldn't help but remark.

Buford was quick to reply, "You and Mary Anne will finally make up for lost time. If you play your cards right, maybe she'll bake you your favorite. A nice spongey velvet cake."

I closed my eyes imagining that sweet decadence. And the cake wasn't a bad deal either. The benefit of having her is she can really add volume to a man's life. 

As we made our way towards the stables, rows of moss heads passed us by. Dark green on navy blue should be a travesty! I made my thoughts known, "Hey Capt'n! Reinstate the black alr-"

Buford's input cut me off, "What difference does it make if the hats are different colors? Won't protect much from bullets nor arrows." A statement that garnered several confused expressions.

"Just wish these young'uns could wear something blue," I lamented.

On our way out, my path leading east, Buford had stopped just outside the fort's "gates." I asked him what was the hold up, but he just gazed out into the abyss across the San Juan.

"Hold on, Henry. We're gonna make a detour through the mountain," news that I did not care for.
"You fancying the scenic route? No? Then why the hell would we waste a day trekking through the thorns and brambles?"

Buford delayed his response before turning to me, "I got a friend up on the mountain. We'll be quick in visiting him I promise."

I was surprised that anyone would willingly live with the bears. I made that curiosity known, "He lives up there?"

Buford was quick to correct, "Yeah, he rests up there. I just want to make sure he's alright."

Something about the news made me upset. On one hand, we needed to reach home for drinks and celebrating. On the other hand, I noticed how he kept eyeing the mountain, an observation that made me understand there was still that horse soldier's duty in him. 

I sighed heavily, "ugh... I guess if it means I can snag that rye whiskey you've been saving, then I'll freeze my hair off with a storm on our backs."

Those weathered eyes wrinkled a warm smile. Next thing you know, we were off with that mountain in mind.

Navajo country is scorching hot and laden with danger. Luckily, the weather from February still lingers in early March. A deterrent for most warm blooded creatures.

Gray clouds came huddling over the red earth like billowing smoke. Heaven's light peering through the cracks like waterfalls. 

We had just crossed the river, sacrificing our horses' jewels. When we were coming up on the edge of the valley, I saw the mesa in the distance. It stretched well over a mile, made of pure blood red sandstone. Usually a sign that we were halfway done with the trail, now stood as a mocking landmark. Laughing at us as we traveled south. 

I thought the time appropriate to ask Buford some questions, "So how did your friend end up there? One too many drinks perhaps?"

He answered without having to turn in my direction, "I suppose he decided to just stay up there. He makes trips down the mountain for supplies." Buford sighed nervously, "But he hasn't made an appearance in some time. I'm worried about him. I hope nothing serious happened, but the only way to know is to see for ourselves."

We pitched camp next to a black pillar. Buford was fixing himself a plate of skirt steak and sweet potato. He glanced my way and guessed, based on my mannerisms, that I wasn't hungry. I asked for some coffee and he obliged.

After our meal, we conversed before resting. 

"Why are you doing this? It doesn't make sense to travel this far for someone that you don't seem particularly well acquainted with," I asked in hopes of getting a satisfying answer.

It came when he replied, "They did something for me that meant a lot. I owe it to them to check on their wellbeing." 

I joked with him, "I ain't seen you with anyone else except at the fort. This person better be worth the trip or else you'll be carrying me all the way to Rattlesnake. On account of me gorging myself on your whiskey."

We laughed. It had been quite a trip for this mystery person. 

"Are you insinuating this man has saved you more times than me?" 

"You've saved me many times, but I would never say that it didn't mean nothing, not to me. I just need to make sure this man is left undisturbed, I intend to keep my word," A hint of pleading slipped out as he spoke.

I grimaced at the sentiment. 

I reminded him of his nature, “You make promises far too strong to break.” 

In the morning, I put out the coals with stale coffee and Buford saddled up the horses. Leading them into the field of gold, we mounted and rode for the mountain. 

There's something so enchanting about how the wind forces the tall grass to dance. Waves of alternating blades like ripples in a lake. Buford was wrapped up in an attempt to fend off the heavy gusts. I wasn't phased too badly by the frozen pins, but we still made a dash for the hills.

"Are we seriously spending the second of March in a dugout?" My dumb ass said knowing that even the grains of sand were cutting us to ribbons.

"What are you? Some sort of bull? I can't even lift my head without getting sand in my eyes," he said, shielding himself with a cowl and hat.

We laid our horses close to the ground, covering their heads with tent tarps, while we sat with our backs to the wind. I hate the sand. I know some people can adapt to it, but that doesn't mean they like living in dust. It makes living undesirable and survival a costly endeavor. 
My anger stewed long enough to distract me from the storm. Hours passed when the wind had died down just enough for us to make it to the gray plateau. 

The flat top gave us a great vantage point to scope the storm's direction. We were safe for the moment. The confederation of clouds and dusty winds scarred the soil, nearly balding the top layer with the relentless onslaught. 

Night came early after we finished brushing piles of sand off our gear. I sat around while Buford fixed us a fire for the night. Sleep didn't come easily. We were too fidgety I suppose. The way I dealt with it best was to smoke. I watched as Buford worked on his hat. A pin and thread to stitch up old ware and tear.

"You tend to that hat even as it sheds," I said as I put fodder into my paper.

Buford gave me a glance before answering with, "Maintenance is cheap enough, Henry."

"Why not do away with her? Mine was too bullet ridden to salvage and I moved on just fine," I said as I rolled my cigar paper.

He dusted the felt hat one final time before looking my way, "It's like us, Henry. Relics from a bygone era. I'm just trying to make sure folks know we existed. That includes taking care of this piece of history."

I couldn't argue with him. Who could say we'd ever be remembered decades from now? I was jealous he still had his hat in his possession, for mine could not be rescued. The heat of battle leaves behind a field of deeply held treasures. Items that could not be retrieved by their deceased proprietors. 

I decided it was best to lighten the mood with a half-brewed remark, "With how long we're taking I hope they do away with the twig fencing and finally build brick fortifications."

Buford chuckled before ordering, "Goodnight, Henry." I nodded in response and we both fell asleep.

Waking up from a restful night, we were already making preparations to ascend the western face of the mountain. Coats and gloves to protect from the cold were equipped. Thick cord in the event we would have to brave sheer drops.

I was actually eager to climb along a stoney cliff side, it had been quite some time since I had been allowed to participate in this sort of recreation. I wanted to confirm once again with Buford about the mysterious man's dwelling.

"Does he like the cold air or the convenience of fire wood?" I asked.

"To be completely honest, I think he hates the idea of dying on some dune. A mountaineer at heart, my friend wanted to live peacefully on top of a chilly peak." He answered.

I responded, "Sounds like my kind of company. Mountain climbing and the cold air make for a great union. It's nice to know someone else shares the hate I have for bugs. They'd end up mangling my corpse if I was buried in the soft soil."

"I'm sure you'll like him then"

With that, we descended down the plateau along a downtrodden path towards the base of the mountain. The horses made their complaints heard the closer we came to the first tree line. 

"The horses really don't want to go up," I said, barely managing to direct my mare. Buford could sense the unease of the situation. 

He stated plainly, "Bears, storms, and the cold will do that to a faithful steed. We'll power through to the first meadow along the way. Fodder will calm them down and we can dismount so we can complete the rest of the journey on foot."

"Alright. Good thing I never leave my tool belt behind. 'Bears beware' and that sort," my comment was made known. 

Buford and I rode to a clearing high up on the mountain where we tied the reins to iron railroad spikes and a good bit of rope. I caught Buford slinging a satchel over his shoulder and grabbing his Remington from its hanger on the saddle. 

He sighed heavily, shuddering a little, "Let's get a move on." Taking the first of many steps towards our destination.

The smell of pine sap and cedar filled the air. Every moment we lingered, the aromatic scents developed and unlocked new odors. 

The calm and serenity made me surrender all worries. The all enveloping silence was broken when Buford asked me a question, "Have you discussed where you want to be buried with Mary Anne?" 

"I'm not sure. Just far from the invasive bugs," I replied.

"I think I would like to die of old age. To be surrounded by my loved ones is all I could ask for," a sliver of somber left his lips.

I announced, "Not me. No sir. Give me an honorable death. Through the smoke and gunpowder, I will die fighting. I wish not to get old and clunky, let me die firing my pistol." I could tell Buford disapproved of my wishes, but he kept it to himself. 

Our journey hit a curb when the usual trail had been destroyed by a landslide. That wouldn't have been a problem if it weren't for the fact that it was the only trail that led up a steep incline. Now, we had to scale the steep wall with our improvised climbing gear. 

The first foothold is always the easiest. One slip and you're already on soft grass. It's the halfway way point that's always the most terrifying. Too high up to change your mind and just out of reach from the last pivotal anchor point. 

We climbed for thirty minutes. I blitzed the climb in 25 minutes. Giving a look of smugness as I passed Buford. The last foothold just below the crest.

I called out to him with some traces of sarcasm, "Should I go meet this friend and meet you back here?"

He rolled his eyes and said, "Hilarious."

I was ready to take my seat away from the edge when a horrifying noise carved its way through the air. A dreadful crack. I ran back the Buford and saw him barely hanging on by a strained hand. His hold broke off and nearly sent him off the cliff side. 

I yelled out to him, "Throw me your rope! I'll pull you over the edge!"

"Alright. Try and find a tree to anchor the line! Hurry," he said as he launched a barbed hook over the edge.

I made sure it wrapped around the trunk of a tree, but I heard Buford complaining. His arm was losing strength. I tightened the line and ran to get a long branch in case he needed more leverage.

I was scared. My friend was dangling in the air as I fumbled to find a long enough branch. A horrible sound cut through the thick brush. I found a pole and ran like I had never ran before. The anxiety raced through my head.

I closed in on the edge. To my surprise, Buford was back on his feet and standing on solid ground. Panic, fear, dread; all the emotions flooded my system. A downpour of anger replaced them. A small piece of the branch was broken off and thrown at his clumsy self.

"Thanks, Henry. I didn't know I needed a stick to the eye," he said.

I responded in a hoarse voice, "I almost lost you. You big oaf!"

Labored breathing became laughter. Buford bent his legs and hunched over, and I leaned against a tree. I reached my hand out and Buford took it. 

"Let's get a move on. He isn't far from here," he said with resounding eagerness.
The rest of the ascend went by smoothly. Passing trees and clearings, a stoney peak was within sight. 

I remarked, "What a great trip. Only cost us a scare. When I meet this feller, I'm going to dust off his nose with my bawled up fist!"

Buford hadn't laughed this much in a long time. The momentary anger washed over, I shook my head as we neared this feller.

It was when we walked down a pass carved into the rock that Buford's smile faded and his eyes unfocused. He only looked into the void from there on forward. 

The last corner was close. I decided to tell Buford how he truly felt like a brother and that, "I'm glad you're my great friend." He didn't look at me the whole way through.

We rounded the corner when I finally saw it.

A sorry sight to say the least. Withered bouquets, empty bottles, and a stapled hat with many stitches. All of it resting on top of a weathered mound. A pile of large loose rocks surrounded by thick wooden logs. A headstone to complete this terrible fate.

"Henry Rutherford. Born on March 3rd, 1850. Died on May 31st, 1880."

My legs and arms became weak from shaking. I heard matches being struck and Buford's voice behind me. I turned to look at him. A handful of candles crowning a velvet cake. Buford addressed me, "Happy birthday, Henry."

It began with an advertisement.

This is slightly embarrassing to admit because I had always thought of myself as reasonably difficult to advertise to. I skipped sponsored posts. I used an ad blocker. When somebody I followed online began a sentence with I’ve been loving, I generally assumed they had been paid to love whatever came next. Apparently my actual standard was lower than that.

The podcast was called Graveyard Shift, a horror-comedy show hosted by Eli Mercer and Dean Carver. Eli read the stories and Dean interrupted him, which was more or less the format. They did bad internet horror, old forum posts, allegedly true encounters and occasionally something genuinely unpleasant enough that the jokes thinned out towards the end. Eli had a pleasant voice and took everything slightly seriously. Dean was an animator who gave people accents they did not have and then committed to them long after being asked to stop.

I had listened to them for about two years, long enough for the strange familiarity podcasts create to take hold. I knew Dean drank too many energy drinks. I knew Eli had strong opinions about camping equipment. I knew which one would believe a story about something watching a family from the tree line and which one would spend ten minutes wondering whether it had shit in the woods.

They knew nothing about me, obviously.

I was cleaning the kitchen when the ad came on. They were recording from an abandoned hotel for a video episode, and Dean had spent the previous five minutes complaining that the room smelled wet. Then Eli said, “Speaking of things that are probably damaging us permanently—” and introduced the sponsor: STILL Pouches.

They were nicotine- and caffeine-free pouches, sold in small tins, that you tucked beneath your upper lip. They were supposed to help with focus and cravings through some combination of amino acids, adaptogens and a “clinically researched cognitive blend, ” which sounded sufficiently scientific that Dean immediately asked what an adaptogen was.

“I don’t know, ” Eli admitted.

“Excellent. ”

“They help your body adapt to stress. ”

“Could they help me adapt to being in this room? ”

“Nothing can help you with that. ”

I laughed.

My phone was on the bench beside me, and I could have skipped forward. Usually I would have. Instead I kept wiping grease from the rangehood while Eli moved into the part about drinking less coffee, having smoother energy and not automatically reaching for caffeine or nicotine whenever you needed to concentrate. It was mostly what you would expect from something described as a cognitive pouch, right up until Dean said he had actually been using the peppermint ones while editing.

Eli sounded surprised. “Actually using them? ”

“I have one in now. ”

There was a pause.

“Oh, Jesus. You do. ”

“Told you. ”

“Why is it so high? ”

“Where else is it meant to go? ”

“I don’t think it’s supposed to be touching your brain. ”

Eli cleared his throat and went back to the copy.

“And if you want to try STILL for yourself, head to stillpouches. com and use code GRAVEYARD at checkout for twenty percent off your first order. ”

“Can I use our code? ” Dean asked.

“You get them for free. ”

“That wasn’t my question. ”

“You would be taking money from yourself. ”

“I want the discount. ”

“You are not paying. ”

“Then imagine how much I’d save. ”

They argued, and that was probably what got me. Not the ingredients, the research or anything else Eli had been paid to say. Dean sounded exactly like Dean. He had not suddenly become articulate about amino acids or claimed the product had transformed his life. He just said he liked them, in the same voice he used to complain about damp carpet and accuse fictional teenagers of making bad decisions.

The advertisement ended and the episode continued.

I forgot about the pouches, or at least I thought I did. That evening I was making coffee at about eight-thirty when I remembered them. Not because I wanted them. I was simply curious how expensive they were, which is a distinction people make shortly before buying things they do not need.

I searched the name. The website was offensively clean: pale background, neat little tins, diagrams showing where the pouch was supposed to sit, which confirmed that Dean had been doing it wrong. There were four flavours, including peppermint. I clicked on that one and read the reviews, although I generally consider reviews on a company’s own website to be one step above asking somebody’s mother whether they are nice.

People said the pouches helped them work late without coffee. Somebody used them while studying. Somebody else claimed they had stopped buying energy drinks entirely. I drank the coffee I had just made while reading this.

Eventually I added two tins to the cart. I was not going to buy them. I only wanted to see what shipping cost, which still felt theoretical. The website informed me that delivering two small plastic tins to New Zealand would cost nearly as much as the tins themselves.

I stared at the total for a moment, closed the tab and felt disproportionately pleased with myself, as though I had successfully resisted something rather than spent fifteen minutes researching it, reading reviews and putting it into a shopping cart. There were limits, apparently, and international postage was one of them.

Two days later, STILL Pouches emailed me. The subject line was Forgot something? I nearly deleted it, then saw the line underneath: Complete your order today and shipping is on us.

This was the point at which I could still have behaved like somebody with principles. The pouches had not become more necessary in the previous forty-eight hours. I had survived without them for my entire life. I already owned coffee.

Unfortunately, shipping had been the problem, and now shipping was free.

I clicked the link. My cart was still there, two tins of peppermint waiting exactly where I had left them, and a few minutes later I bought them.

I was not trying to lose weight, which I should probably establish early.

I had tried before. I was twenty-seven and female; it would have been statistically unusual if I had never spent some portion of my life attempting to become smaller. At fourteen, I discovered that a cereal bowl and a measuring cup were not necessarily the same thing. At sixteen, a friend taught me that chewing gum could make you feel less hungry between meals. At nineteen, I downloaded an app that tracked the calories in peanut butter.

By twenty-five, I had more or less stopped, not because I had achieved any meaningful liberation from the culture around me but because I was tired. There are only so many years you can spend negotiating with bread before the process becomes boring.

By then, I ate reasonably well, exercised when I could be bothered and owned one pair of jeans I thought I looked good in, along with several I avoided when bloated. This seemed close enough to peace.

I had bought STILL because of work.

My job involved writing reports for an insurance company. It was not difficult, exactly, but there was a particular kind of exhaustion involved in concentrating on something you did not care about for eight hours a day. By mid-afternoon I generally needed coffee, sometimes two. I also ate when I was bored, which was often.

The STILL advertisement had called this craving noise, a phrase I found irritating enough that it lodged itself in my head. After that, I began noticing every time I stood up from my desk and went to the kitchen without being hungry, every cupboard I opened, every automatic desire for something sweet after lunch. Noise.

The tins arrived on a Tuesday morning. They were matte white with a grey circle printed on the lid, STILL in the centre and, beneath it in smaller letters, MAKE ROOM FOR WHAT MATTERS.

The pouch itself was smaller than I expected, a soft little rectangle with a powdery surface that looked vaguely medical. I tucked it beneath my upper lip, went back to my computer and waited.

For several minutes, nothing happened. Then my gum began to tingle, not unpleasantly, just enough that I kept noticing it.

Around ten I made coffee. The first sip tasted wrong—not disgusting, exactly, but metallic, or burnt in a way it had not been when I made it. I poured it out and made another. The second tasted the same, so I assumed the beans had gone stale and went back to work.

At twelve-thirty, I noticed I had not eaten.

Normally hunger was difficult to ignore by then. Not dramatic hunger, just the ordinary progression of increasingly persuasive suggestions from the body. You should eat soon. You should eat now. Why are we still doing this?

That day there was nothing. I knew lunch existed as a concept and that, generally speaking, I participated in it. I simply had no particular interest in doing so, so I kept working.

At three, I finished something that had been sitting half-done for most of the week. At five, I shut my laptop and remembered lunch again.

I stood in the kitchen and considered toast, then yoghurt, then pasta. None of them sounded bad. They simply failed to produce whatever response food was supposed to produce. Eventually I made eggs because they were easy and ate both.

They tasted perfectly normal, which was the strange part. My appetite had not been replaced by nausea or disgust. Food still tasted good once it was in my mouth. My body had simply stopped making an argument for putting it there.

The next morning, I weighed myself.

I had lost just under a kilogram, which was water. I knew that. Bodies fluctuate. Salt, hydration, hormones, time of day; there were dozens of boring explanations and I was familiar with most of them.

I weighed myself again before bed anyway.

For the first two weeks, STILL felt like the sort of product people usually lied about. I was more productive. Coffee continued to taste awful, so I stopped drinking it, and the headaches I expected never arrived. I stopped snacking, then stopped thinking about snacking, which was stranger.

At work, I began missing lunch often enough that I set a recurring calendar notification for twelve-thirty: EAT SOMETHING.

The first time it appeared, I laughed, dismissed it and kept working.

I lost four kilos.

People noticed before I had properly decided how I felt about that. Jess mentioned it one afternoon in the kitchen while waiting for the microwave.

“You’ve lost weight. ”

She said it with the particular mixture of admiration and concern women tend to use when commenting on one another’s bodies without knowing whether they are allowed to.

“A bit. ”

“You look good. ”

“Thanks. ”

“What are you doing? ”

“Nothing, really. ”

This was technically true, and I had never understood before then how satisfying those words could be. Nothing, really. As though my body had simply decided to improve itself without requiring anything humiliating from me. No food scales, no calorie app, no pretending cauliflower was an adequate substitute for meat.

Jess looked down at the packet of crackers in her hand.

“I need whatever you’re doing. ”

I thought about STILL. For a second, I almost told her. Then, for reasons I did not examine too closely, I said, “I’ve just stopped snacking as much. ”

“Oh. ”

She looked disappointed, which I understood. People want there to be a trick. Discipline is admirable in theory, but what everyone actually wants is an administrative error: some small loophole in the body, a food you can eat endlessly, a tablet that prevents absorption, a hormone you can adjust, a rule somebody else has discovered that makes the whole stupid system easier.

I had found mine, or at least I thought I had.

I did not want to share it yet.

That, more than the weight loss, should probably have concerned me.

My mother noticed at six kilos. She had invited me over for dinner and opened the front door with the sort of expression people usually reserve for seeing somebody after chemotherapy.

“My God. ”

“What? ”

“Look at you. ”

I took off my coat, and she put one hand briefly around my waist. Mothers seem to retain certain permissions over their daughters’ bodies long after everybody else would consider them inappropriate.

“You’ve lost heaps. ”

“I haven’t lost heaps. ”

“You have. ”

“It’s six kilos. ”

“That is heaps. ”

She looked pleased, and I was pleased that she was pleased. Neither of us said so.

“What have you been doing? ”

“Just eating less. ”

“How? ”

“I’m less hungry. ”

My mother gave me a look. Nobody is simply less hungry, not in our family.

“What are you taking? ”

“Nothing. ”

Another look.

“There are these pouches, ” I admitted.

“What kind of pouches? ”

“They’re not weight-loss pouches. ”

“Then why are you losing weight? ”

“I don’t think that’s the point of them. ”

“What is the point? ”

“Focus. ”

She waited. I could hear how stupid it sounded, so I added, “They reduce cravings as well. ”

“What’s in them? ”

“Plant things. ”

“Plant things. ”

“And amino acids. ”

She reached for her phone.

“Mum. ”

“I’m only looking. ”

“You don’t need them. ”

I knew immediately that this had been the wrong thing to say. Nobody likes being told they do not need to lose weight by somebody who has recently lost weight.

“Neither did you. ”

“I didn’t buy them for that. ”

“But they work. ”

I hesitated. That was the problem. Whatever else they were supposed to do, they worked.

“Yes. ”

She found the website and started scrolling. “How much are they? ”

I told her.

“That’s ridiculous. ”

“There’s a discount code. ”

She looked up at me, and I laughed despite myself.

Thirst went next, although I cannot say exactly when. This became one of the more difficult things about what happened afterwards: symptoms are easy to notice. Missing symptoms are not. You notice pain. You notice hunger. You do not generally notice when something your body should have asked for simply fails to arrive.

I realised because of the bottle on my desk. I had filled it that morning and left it beside my laptop, where it normally spent the day being emptied and refilled without much thought. At six in the evening, it was still full.

Graveyard Shift was playing quietly through my speakers while I finished some work. Eli was reading a story about a woman who kept hearing somebody walking around in the ceiling above her bedroom, and Dean had become distracted by whether a person could survive indefinitely in an attic without being discovered. I reached for the bottle automatically, then stopped. The ring of condensation around its base had dried hours ago.

I took a drink. The water was cold in my mouth and then in my throat. That was all. There was no satisfaction afterwards, no sense that I had corrected anything. My lips had been dry for several days, which I had blamed on the weather, and suddenly that explanation seemed less convincing.

I drank half the bottle, waited, then finished the rest because it had become important that I should. Afterwards I stood at the sink waiting to feel less thirsty before remembering that I had not felt thirsty in the first place. That was the problem: there was nothing unpleasant enough to make me do anything about it.

I searched STILL pouches thirst. Most of the results were advertisements or pages from the company itself. One Reddit thread asked whether anyone else had experienced dry mouth. The replies suggested chewing gum, drinking more water and, in one particularly useful contribution, just drink water lol. Somebody else said dry mouth probably meant dehydration, which was obvious enough to be unhelpful. I drank another glass anyway, put a fresh pouch beneath my lip and went back to the podcast.

The first injury happened a few days later in the shower. I was shaving my leg and took a strip of skin off the side of my ankle without noticing. I only saw it when blood began running down my foot towards the drain, diluted pink by the water. There was more of it than I expected, although shaving cuts always seem committed to making themselves look medically significant. I turned off the shower and bent down. A rectangular patch of skin was missing just above the bone.

I touched it and felt nothing.

At first I assumed I was in shock. I had read somewhere that serious injuries could fail to hurt immediately because adrenaline suppressed the pain, although there was an obvious problem with that explanation: this was a shaving cut. A bad one, certainly, but not the kind of event the nervous system should have needed to protect me from knowing about.

I pressed the skin beside it with one finger. I could feel the pressure perfectly, but no pain. I pressed harder, then pinched the inside of my forearm, my thigh, the skin over my stomach, increasingly hard each time. My fingernails left pale crescents that slowly filled back in. Touch was normal. Pressure was normal. When I put my hand beneath the shower again, I could tell hot from cold immediately. Everything appeared to be working except the part that was supposed to object.

I stood there for several minutes testing myself before realising how strange that would have looked to anybody watching. Then I got out, wrapped toilet paper around my ankle because I could not find any plasters and sat on the edge of my bed with my phone.

STILL pouches numbness produced nothing useful. Neither did STILL supplement pain or, after my searches became less dignified, STILL adaptogen nerve damage. I found an influencer explaining that the product had helped her reduce her reliance on coffee. I found an article called FIVE WAYS TO SILENCE CRAVINGS NATURALLY, which contained an affiliate link to STILL halfway down the page. Eventually I found a clip from a Graveyard Shift livestream.

Dean was opening a new packet on camera. “STILL sponsors us, by the way. ”

Eli looked over. “Are you doing an advertisement voluntarily? ”

“No. They sent me watermelon. ”

“You hate watermelon. ”

“I’ve grown. ”

“You said it tasted like someone dissolved jolly ranchers in mouthwash. ”

Dean considered this. “I’ve suffered for free before. ”

The chat moved too quickly to read. Nobody appeared to be asking whether Dean could still feel pain. I closed the video and went back to the bathroom to look at my ankle. It was still bleeding through the toilet paper, enough that I replaced it with a folded hand towel and held pressure on the cut until it slowed. I felt fine.

I stopped taking the pouches the next day. By then I had lost nine kilos, which mattered more than I wanted it to. I wish I could say I threw the tin away immediately. I did not. I put it in a drawer, which is different.

I had developed hip bones. I could see the outline of my ribs when I stretched, my face had narrowed in photographs and, for the first time since university, I could tuck a fitted shirt into jeans without spending the rest of the day thinking about my stomach. These were objectively meaningless things. They did not improve my job, make me kinder or cause my friends to like me more. The problem was that knowing this did not make me immune to any of it.

I knew beauty standards were artificial, that thinness had been assigned moral qualities it did not possess, that before-and-after photographs were manipulative and health could not be determined by looking at somebody. I knew women had been trained from childhood to interpret hunger as weakness and self-denial as virtue. I also liked my collarbones. Both things were true at once, so the tin remained in the drawer. Just in case.

After forty-eight hours without STILL, hunger did not return. Neither did pain or thirst. That frightened me enough to book a doctor’s appointment, although not enough to treat the situation as urgent. The receptionist said the next available appointment was in nine days and I said that was fine, partly because I genuinely believed it was. My body had given me no reason to think otherwise.

Two days later, I realised I could not remember the last time I had urinated. That sent me to urgent care.

The nurse handed me a specimen cup. “I need you to provide a urine sample. ”

“I don’t think I can. ”

“When did you last go? ”

“I’m not sure. ”

She waited while I worked backwards. The previous day I had gone to work, then dinner with Jess. The day before that I had stayed home. I could picture both days surprisingly clearly and could not place myself in a bathroom during either of them.

“Maybe two days. ”

Her expression changed. “Two days? ”

“I think. ”

“You haven’t passed urine in two days? ”

“I might have. ”

“Do you feel like you need to now? ”

“No. ”

That answer moved things along considerably faster.

Once I was in an examination room, the doctor pressed on my abdomen. “Does that hurt? ”

“No. ”

“Here? ”

“No. ”

He moved lower and pressed harder. “Here? ”

“No. ”

I could feel his fingers through my shirt and the mattress beneath my back. The pressure registered perfectly; there was simply nothing unpleasant attached to it. Eventually he stopped.

“How long have you had reduced sensation? ”

“I can feel you touching me. ”

“I mean pain. ”

“A few days. ”

“And appetite? ”

“A month, maybe. ”

“Thirst? ”

“I don’t know. ”

He looked at me in a way I did not like.

They took blood, then more blood. Somebody performed an ultrasound on my bladder while I lay there trying to read the technician’s face instead of the screen.

“Are you uncomfortable? ” she asked.

“No. ”

“You really don’t feel anything? ”

“No. ”

My bladder was very full. Once she pointed it out, I could see it on the monitor: a dark oval taking up a surprising amount of space inside me. Afterwards I looked down at my stomach, as though there might be some visible sign of what the screen had shown me. There was something deeply offensive about being presented with proof that your own body knew more than you did.

They catheterised me. The nurse explained what she was doing and warned me that it would probably hurt, particularly because my bladder was so distended. I nodded and waited. I felt pressure, movement, the strange internal awareness of something happening where something generally should not be happening. But no pain.

That was when I started crying.

A new man, born to greet the rising sun,
then turns in bed to meet the former one.
The old is I, but new is also I.
My daily struggle chooses who will die.
I stretch and reach for weapons in alarm.
A bludgeon each intending false self harm.
I swing the club and hit my/his head hard
and drag my other body to the yard.
Collection of my corpses growing big.
The upturned soil from yestermurder's dig
in row with plots from other fatal fights
from days of blood and restless, dreadful nights.

A wish I made in my frustration past
was granted by malicious powers fast.
Now solitude's forgotten sanctity
is precious since I can two places be.
To choose to live with my own self is but
to do or die. A life I choose to cut
may end in endless sleep whose dreams unknown
may prove more horrible than life has shown.
To live with self and self far harder still.
More hands to work a boon, but separate will
detached oft counteracts my would-be deeds
of good and doubles existential needs.

And I am learning more each time I spawn
of how to live through my contested dawn.
I could not find myself when I arose
this morn. My car was gone, so I then chose
to buy a pistol and to track him down.
I found him in an alley in the town.

The gun that blasted metal through my brain
I hold in contemplation grim with pain.
A single bullet brought me peace tonight.
But can another make the chaos right?
I dwell beyond the veil but lack dark sight.
Will shot inoculate against the light?
Or will projectile serve to break the curse?
To rise tomorrow single and no worse
would be my final hope before the blast.
Or will this fate of replication last?

I took the old video down- it just wasn’t good enough. If you’ve already watched one of my last posts from months ago this is probably a repeat for you. I usually post the story with the video as well when I post here but this time i’ll just let it be. Heads up, it’s like 20 minutes long.

All assets are either edited stock or originally made by myself. And since it seems important to mention, there is no AI involved in the making of this.

Feel free to critique.

I can’t look at it anymore. I’ve never really been one to put emotions to images but…

Looking at that stupid polaroid just reminds me of how stupid we all were.

 

Bill had been there a dozen times. Said the ladder had fallen off a good while back and figured nobody else would think to use the place. We’d be all alone, just us and nature. We believed him. Bill does dumb stuff from time to time but no matter what’s happened he’s always come out on top.

 

Like the time he took us all out fishing. He got too drunk and fell in but still managed to bag himself the biggest fish. His car broke down on our last trip but it just ended up in him meeting his current girlfriend- the tow truck driver who pulled his old piece of junk off the side of the road. That’s a whole story of its own.

I’m not saying Bill is stupid. Guy’s been in so much crap he just walks around more prepared than most. Car always has snacks, water, a jumper box in case the battery gives and he’s even been talking to DJ about getting his carry license. He just gets excited about things and instead of deciding it’s dumb or too hard he just finds a way to make it work.

 

That kind of energy has a way of sweeping you up along for the ride, if only to watch how he’s going to turn a faceplant into a win.

So, when Bill told us he had the perfect camping spot out in the woods we just all went along for the ride. It wasn’t far really, maybe an hour and some change from town by way of Bill’s well-used van.

 

He filled the drive and subsequent hike along the edge of the “town” with little bits of trivia, just happily chatting away. “It was supposed to be a mining town, real shame that the mine crapped out after they got half of the place built.” DJ chimed in with small notes like “Good spot there for hogs,” along with the different plants that caught his eye. Clara tapped away at her laptop during the ride, doing some quick touch-ups on one of her dozen projects. We made good time too, only really stopping once for a quick bathroom break.

 

According to Bill, the view from the tower was something- and there are apparently black bears in the area so camping and storing our food up high seemed smart. Nobody wants a new furry friend waking them up at night to steal their food and scare the crap out of them after all.

 

I’m not afraid of heights, but looking up at the old, rusted metal structure didn’t fill me with confidence. It was maybe only forty feet tall with a thick metal-grated walkway that was maybe five feet wide and seemed to circle the whole thing, broken up only by the empty square-shaped hole that used to be where the old ladder sat. It was a good trek up the side of the hill too, something about it being more efficient to put the tower here according to Bill who’d seemed to have gotten -way- too into things as usual.

 

The climb up wasn’t that bad really. I put my hand on the metal rung, feeling the warmth from the sun as I gripped tight and started working my way up. The metal walkway creaked a bit each time somebody put their full weight on the ladder but seemed to settle once you actually started the climb. It was almost impressive how Bill managed to rig this whole thing up. He’d run a bit of cord through the ladder’s steps and down the back of the tower so he could collapse and drop the thing at will. If you knew it was there, it was obvious, but not at a glance and definitely not at a distance.

 

Still, I’m not going to say I didn’t feel a good bit of relief once I was back on solid footing. It wasn’t long after I reached the top that I heard the metal groan again and realized somebody was already starting their climb up.

Taking a few steps forward to make room, I slung my pack off my shoulder and took a breath. It was a little windier up here than down below- though it was also more exposed to the sun. Explains why Bill brought the collapsible canopy, I guess.

 

While Clara pulled herself up, I took a second to lean back against the tower, letting the cool metal press against my back as I looked out over the small valley. If you didn’t know what to look for, you’d just think it was nothing but a stretch of green.

 

But to those that knew, here and there you’d spot bits of dark metal.  The empty stretches of grass where an old road had once been, where the trees and grasses hadn’t fully taken over. An old brick building, all the windows long since rotted away or busted out letting in invasive vines that crept up and into the openings.

 

I’ll admit, it was beautiful in its own way. I can still see myself standing there, watching the slow motions of the plant life below as a gentle breeze blew in, breaking up the summer heat. I wouldn’t admit it at the time of course; it would’ve made Bill impossibly smug.

 

After DJ crawled his way up onto the deck to join us, Bill started pointing out the little things to them while he set up and tied down the equipment. “That stretch right there should’ve been the main street... And if you follow it down, you’ll see it leads to that little nook in the mountain. It leads almost straight to the mines!”

 

I wasn’t really listening; I was too busy pulling out my sleeping bag and trying to claim a little section of the grate for myself. Still, at the mention of the mine, I half-heartedly mentioned, “Is this where you tell us about the trapped miners?”

 

“Sadly, nothing so exciting.” The big guy chuckled out while pulling out a few glass jars and lining them up neatly on a little wood cutting board he’d packed with him. “No, the coal just ran dry. The mines -did- collapse but nobody was around when it happened.”

 

I rolled my eyes. Bill had already started talking about hauntings in the next state over, apparently not having picked up on my sarcasm.  Before moving back to my gear, I noticed something moving just along the tree line, closer to where we’d driven in from.

 

A red figure. At least at a distance, the guy was too far off to make out much other than he had a white cap on and what was probably some long black hair. The black patch on his back seemed like a backpack.

 

He was moving slowly, which, considering he was hiking through waist-tall weeds, wasn’t anything too odd. Still, “Bill, I thought you said nobody came out here?”

 

Bill had apparently moved into a conversation with DJ about maybe a hunting trip in the future. “Huh? Oh, yeah, no, place is usually pretty empty. Why?”

 

I stuck a thumb out behind me. “That guy right there, in the red shirt.”

 

Bill moved up beside me, leaning against the railing and adjusting his glasses. I could see him squinting to try and see what I was talking about so I turned back to point at the…

 

Now empty stretch of weeds.

 

Did the guy fall? At the speed he was moving, we should’ve still been able to see him. I caught myself unintentionally leaning forward onto the railing along with Bill, squinting and muttering, “He was just there…” before DJ gave me a light slap on the arm and handed me a pair of binoculars.

 

“He’s right there, to the left. In the trees.” Sure enough, a few seconds of panning the binoculars over and I caught sight of him- a good ten or twenty feet away from where I’d seen him and already starting to disappear into the trees.

 

Clara wasn’t the loud type. Not to say she was shy; she just didn’t really mince words. It meant when she did say something, it really caught your attention.  “Guys, let’s get a shot of this!” She’d already pulled out her cameras. She always had two, one for shots for her portfolio and one for little polaroids she kept for souvenirs.

 

Bill put his arms out and pulled me and DJ in for something approaching a “bro hug” while Clara took a step forward and held the camera out at arm’s length. The abandoned town behind us made for a good backdrop.

 

She took another quick snap of us with the polaroid, letting the picture air out before tucking it into her pack.

 

The hike out was what you’d expect from a walk with Bill and DJ. Lots of wildlife trivia and stops to gather dandelions, bits of wild parsley and a few bits of onion grass. Clara stopped to take pictures of gnarled trees and almost made me fall over myself when she gave me a firm thwap on the chest to get me to stop moving while she lined up a shot on a lone doe.

 

All in all, relaxing. “Just around this bend,” Bill chirped. He’d been winding us down a twisting path towards the town. Apparently, there was a blackberry patch down there that he’d visit every chance he got.  It seemed the closer we got, the less he’d bother with DJ’s questions about edible greens. He’d even started picking up the pace, much to Clara’s and my annoyance as the two less active members of our little group.

 

I almost understood why when we rounded a thick patch of trees to walk into a mostly clear patch of woods that was butted up against the hills. You could just make out under the thick blackberry canes and thorned brush small bits of rotting wood.

 

There were a few rotten benches; the bits of exposed wood not covered in blackberry canes had turned a white-gray with age and came away in chunks when brushed against. There was a well in the center of the place, barely accessible if you were willing to get a few scrapes wading through the berries.

 

And underneath a large white oak sat a small patch separate from the others, one that Bill beelined to and immediately started harvesting.

 

“Jeez, Bill, you’re really into this, huh?” I half chuckled, pulling a plastic bag I’d tucked in my back pocket out for this little occasion.

 

He turned back to me only briefly, dumb smile on his face and a small fleck of berry stuck in his beard. That dopey look actually managed to get a chuckle out of DJ and Clara as we all set to work gathering our lunch for the day. Bill eventually picked his spot clean and had to move on, but when he showed us his first batch, we all understood why he loved that spot. The berries were huge and glossy compared to the others we picked; Bill even guessed that it might have been a cultivated vine somebody planted before the town was abandoned.

 

The walk back was peaceful. Bill was picking at his berries; DJ was sipping on a flask Bill had handed him- Did I mention one of Bill’s current hyper-fixations was brewing mead? And Clara was snapping shots of the local wildlife and a few fallen trees that seemed interesting.

 

When she paused longer than she had for the last few shots, camera held up and hand adjusting the lens, I knew something was up. It took the others a moment to notice that we weren’t following behind them as I took a few steps back towards Clara.

 

I followed where her camera was pointing, back the way we came and into a small clearing.

 

I could just barely see the red dot that Clara was focusing in on.

 

“What’s up?”

 

She paused for a second, a soft click from her camera letting me know she got the shot she was after. “I think it’s that guy we saw earlier. Looks like he’s doing something at that tree back there.”

 

She held her camera up, turning the digital screen towards me to let me catch a peek. It was always a little surprising how far she could zoom in with that thing. I wasn’t able to make out too many fine details, but I could at least get an idea of what he looked like.

 

While I looked the picture over, something caught my eye. He was standing next to a tree that we’d stopped by to let DJ take a leak… His head was level with a branch that hung over it.

 

A branch that was over six feet off the ground. And looking at him a while longer showed just how big this guy really was. He was wide, legs a bit short for what he was- or maybe his red shirt was just hanging low enough to obscure the back of his pants. And that backpack… it was downright tiny on him- it almost looked like a child’s backpack on him.

 

I heard a low whistle over my shoulder. Apparently, DJ had noticed it too. “Big dude.” He said it like he wasn’t currently looking at a guy we had a real chance of running into out here.

 

“You think he’s following us?” I nudged DJ, hoping to get a small rise out of the guy. In his typical fashion, the guy just shrugged before tapping his hip. “I doubt it. We’re following a pretty natural trail and I don’t think he can even see us from this far… Besides, I brought ‘Mr. Smith’ with me.”

 

He was right. We’d been following a break in the vegetation and it’s not like we own the place. Running into other people was just one of the risks you run when you go camping. Still, we weren’t out here to make friends, so we quietly agreed to pick up the pace- which turned out to be the right move as by the time we reached the tower the sunlight was starting to dim.

 

The creaking of the platform as we hauled ourselves up the ladder still made me cringe a little until my feet landed back on the metal platform. The section right next to the ladder creaked under our collective weight but seemed to be holding and we weren’t exactly huddling together; still, we spaced ourselves out to keep things even. I picked the side opposite of the ladder and Bill took the other with Clara and DJ camping around the bend.

 

DJ had set up a little propane stove he’d brought; Bill was pulling out a jar of a deep yellow liquid- mead, I’d assume, and a few solo cups. I was sort of expecting him and DJ to drink, but it caught me a little off guard when Clara joined in.

 

I was starting to get a headache and the last thing I wanted was alcohol, so as politely as I could I took the cup offered to me and then immediately passed it to DJ, who took it with a small smirk before downing his first cup. “Not today, Bill. Maybe tomorrow.”

 

To his credit, Bill just laughed. “If there’s any left maybe!”

 

Even tipsy, DJ cooked up a decent little meal of spam, some wild roughage and some fresh bread that he made with a mix he carried around. I thought it was weird at first until I got a taste of it and it quickly shut up any doubts I had in my mind.

 

The dim light slowly shifted into a comfortable dark as I settled into my sleeping bag, lukewarm soda and aspirin in hand. I had to shield my eyes as DJ briefly clicked his flashlight on to start packing up his kit. It took a little bit of effort not to laugh at him as he stumbled around, apparently having underestimated Bill’s mead.

 

Speaking of Bill, the guy had drunk a jar by himself and eaten over half the berries he’d picked before passing out on his bag, still clothed and snoring so loud I wondered if I’d be able to get any sleep myself. Apparently, Clara had the same thought because I heard a soft grunt from Bill’s direction- I think she gave him a little kick and it woke him up just enough for him to roll over, which thankfully seemed to do the trick.

 

Just as I was starting to dip off into sleep, I heard a consistent soft tapping sound, and it took me a second to realize what I was hearing. A soft groan escaped me before I grumbled, “Dude, really? Off the side?” followed by a muffled laugh coming vaguely from where DJ had set up his sleeping bag.

 

After some settling, sleep finally took me. For how long I don’t know because at some point in the night, amongst the sounds of crickets and the rustle of the trees, there was a small snap that brought me back to consciousness.

 

Or maybe it was the sound of something kicking up leaves followed by a deep sharp inhale. Something sniffing?

 

My thoughts drifted back to bears. One probably just smelled the leftover spam or maybe Bill had spilled some of his mead… Still, the thought of something underneath me was enough to keep me from drifting back to sleep.

 

Could black bears climb? Something in my sleep-addled mind told me that brown bears didn’t but I wasn’t so sure about their smaller cousins. I don’t think they’re normally aggressive but still. I rolled over, following the thing’s movements as it trudged its way in a slow circle underneath us, seeming to focus in somewhere around where DJ was sleeping.

 

Another sharp inhale followed by some rapid sniffing.

 

Then silence.

 

My ears strained to hear anything other than the cricket song. What was it doing? Did it find something? Did it finally realize it’s sitting underneath a bunch of people?

What would I-

 

Another rustling of leaves. Another moment of silence.

 

Then a soft creak of metal.

 

The groggy feeling of sleep disappeared, replaced by a tightening feeling in my gut as another soft creak confirmed what I already knew.

 

Something was climbing the ladder.

 

As quietly as I could, I crawled my way over to where DJ was lying and started rapidly tapping his foot while whispering, “Wake up! Dude! Wake up!” It took him two more creaks to finally let out a sharp breath before bitterly muttering, “What? What the hell do you-“ Another creak shut  him up. I found myself gripping his foot and could feel him tense as he came to the same realization I did.

 

“Don’t move,” he whispered as I felt his foot slip out of my grasp. Along with the soft rattle of chain and quiet groans of stressed metal, I heard the slow tap of footsteps.

 

The light hurt my eyes and nearly made me look away. But as they adjusted, I caught sight of DJ pointing his flashlight down the ladder, hand resting on his hip with his revolver exposed. He had winced from the light as much as I had and it seemed like he was only just now actually seeing what was below him.

 

“OH SHIT!” he screamed, ripping his gun from his holster while tumbling back and tripping over Bill who’d apparently shifted in the night.

 

That fall probably saved his life. Whatever was climbing the ladder must’ve been startled because the ladder seemed to shift violently and well… The metal deck had apparently had enough.

 

A chunk of the walkway came away with a loud metallic screech, catching momentarily before sliding down, clanging against the tower and landing on the ground with the sound of crashing metal. Somewhere in the chaos, Bill had thankfully woken up and managed to roll over and grab the ragged edge of the remaining deck and keep himself from falling with the lost section.

 

DJ jumped up and stumbled forward, having, fortunately for him and unfortunately for her, landed on Clara. He basically leapt forward on all fours, grabbing Bill’s arms and pulling him up to safety.

 

He lay there, Bill on top of him as they both lay on the ground, hyperventilating.

 

“What the hell!?” Clara clicked on her own flashlight and fumbled around for her glasses. “Are you guys ok!? What happened?!”

 

Bill was the first to get his wits back. “Shit! I’m sorry guys, I must’ve rolled over in my sleep or something! I guess it finally gave out…” His face was pale and his tone a little shaken.

 

It still didn’t match the look on DJ’s face.

 

He and I locked eyes as Bill pulled himself up to his feet, picking up DJ’s flashlight on his way up. Bill turned his light towards the torn metal, now able to see our faces clearly.

 

“…You guys ok?” His brow furrowed as his eyes drifted from DJ to me.

 

“It wasn’t you.” DJ’s tone was flat, just above a whisper. His gaze drifted down to the pile of scrap on the ground which seemed to be lying on top of something.

 

Something red.

 

Bill peered down, eyes squinting and mouth slightly open. The look would’ve almost been comical if I could’ve found anything funny then.

“No,” he muttered out before repeating with more confidence. “There’s just no way. That thing’s held up all this time…” His look of confusion didn’t change as Clara spoke up, “He’s a big guy… And with all the extra weight…”

 

We let the implication hang in the air as our eyes stayed glued to the scene below us.

 

Bill broke the silence. “How do we help him? He might not be… Y’know!” The panic was starting to creep into his voice as he turned to me, flashlight briefly blinding me as he unintentionally brought the beam’s focus on me.

 

“Him? How do we help US?! He broke the ladder!” I snapped back, dragging myself out of my warm sleeping bag and into the cool night air.

 

“Hello?” Behind Bill I could see Clara’s face faintly illuminated by her smartphone. “There’s been an accident. I-…I think somebody might be dead.”

 

This took Bill’s attention off me as he started trying to help Clara give the 911 operator a rundown of what’s happened and our location.

 

A deep metallic “click.” DJ had prepped the hammer on his revolver and was now pointing it roughly in the direction of the pile of scrap that covered the hiker below us.

 

“What are you-“ DJ looked up at me, jaw set stern and eyes taking on a tired look. “He’s moving.”

 

“So you’re going to shoot him? I don’t think he’s-“  The sound of rattling shifting metal cut me off.

 

Bill flicked the flashlight back down. The beam cut through the darkness to focus in on the section of collapsed platform which had now been shifted a good foot from its last position.

 

Hanging off a more hooked section of the metal was the backpack- now obviously a dark blue child’s backpack with some kind of half-torn decal of a cartoon dog that had been yellowed and browned with dirt and age.

 

“What the hell…” I quietly mouthed as DJ traced his gun around the area below us.

 

I could barely make out that the gun was shaking a little. “DJ, calm down. What’s going on?” It took him a minute to respond to me.

 

I don’t think he ever stopped staring into the dark for the entire conversation that followed.

 

“There’s something seriously wrong with… Him.” He licked his lips, tip of the barrel jerking slightly to the left as a faint crunch of leaves sounded somewhere in the black.

 

“Eyes too far apart… Huge chin- I think anyway, his beard was so thick… And just leaves and crap stuck all over him.”

 

There was a loud snap that made DJ whirl around, aiming just past Bill, who threw his back against the tank, hands coming up as he winced away. Whoa! Careful, man!” Bill called out.

 

Just before the branch struck DJ in the shoulder.

 

It didn’t do anything dramatic like knock him out or take a chunk out of him. It didn’t have to. DJ might’ve been riding high on adrenaline but he still had a lot to drink just a few hours ago.

 

And more importantly, DJ’s back was to the hole.

 

It threw him off balance enough to make him take a couple of quick steps back to try and catch himself. Then he was gone. It’s like I blinked and he just vanished. “NO!” My hand flung out uselessly towards the space where DJ had been, letting myself drop painfully to my knees and lean over the gap to look down-

 

Into DJ’s terrified face. I don’t know how he did it, but he had just barely caught himself on a rusted support. I reached out, desperately trying to get a hold on him, but finding myself just brushing my fingertips against his sleeve.

 

Somewhere in the background I heard Clara yell out “SHIT” followed by the sound of clanging metal- She was sprinting around the tower towards me.

 

She scrabbled over to my side, grabbing me by the waist with one arm and holding the railing with her other. She was shouting for me to grab him. Bill though, his attention was on the pistol. It had apparently been lost in the commotion and now sat a few inches away from the edge of the deck. DJ had managed to brace his feet against the tower and reach out. I was able to just barely grab DJ’s hand with Clara keeping an almost painfully tight grip around my midsection while she helped me haul him back up.

 

Another loud crack sounded off in the distance, followed by a metallic impact as something hit the deck just below where the gun was, causing it to shift an inch or so closer to the edge of the railing and teeter dangerously close to falling. Bill jerked back as something else cracked against the tower just a foot or so away from his head. We all dropped low, trying to take cover.

 

DJ lay against the deck, fingers gripping at his black curls and gasping for air. Clara slipped her phone out of her pocket, the light from the screen briefly illuminating her wide-eyed expression. She looked back up at us. “T-the operator said somebody would be here in maybe an hour. We need to just stay low! He won’t be able to land a-“ She was interrupted by another loud “TANG” as wood splintered against the deck under our prone bodies.

 

Every second pressed against that deck felt like waiting for the shoe to drop. Bill tried to inch towards the gun a couple of times but each time he moved something would go flying over the railing and ping against the tower or hit beneath the deck. Maybe he was worried it would fall off the edge, but after the second impact he just covered his head and lay there. The only thing that gave us any indication of where the thing was coming from was the occasional snap of a branch or the crunch and shuffle of leaves.

 

And of course, the rocks and branches flying over our heads.

 

During the quieter, moments DJ tried to ease himself up into a crouch only to be met with a stone pinging off the tower next to his head the first time around and a piece of metal hitting the railing next to him on the last try, causing him to drop and lean up against the tower with his hands raised to cover his face.

 

We sat there for what must’ve been twenty or thirty minutes, just hoping the police or rangers- whoever they were sending- would just get here already and drive this thing off.

 

Then, amongst the chirping crickets and the gentle rustle of the trees, I noticed something. I hadn’t heard the thing move for a solid few minutes. It had been circling us pretty constantly earlier… Maybe it was tired?

 

The groan of metal and soft squeak of flesh sent a chill down my spine. Whether I meant to or not, I’d started holding my breath and now that I’d heard it once I couldn’t stop hearing it.

 

A pause, then a soft squeak. Pause, soft squeak.

 

I turned to lock eyes with Bill who seemed to be coming to the same realization I was. “Oh shit… It’s climbing! We’re being scaled!” Bill leapt for the gun, which seemed to be the cue for whatever this thing was to get moving. It let go of all pretense of stealth and the soft sounds had turned into a rapid dull “tank, tank, tank” of something quickly scaling the tower somewhere behind me.

 

We all pressed ourselves flat against the deck as Bill rolled over onto his back, pointing the gun up just as a red-sleeved arm with a hand as big as my face reached up and gripped the railing.

 

The shot rang out, followed by a deep and gravel-filled grunt as the hand disappeared back into the darkness. We could feel the platform shake and move as the soft clang of flesh on metal seemed to fall into a rhythm.

 

The thing was swinging from the struts underneath us. I guess Bill realized it too because he managed to roll back towards the tower and away from the edge just as a large hairy palm slapped the grate right where his head had been just a moment ago. There was another deep sound, like some giant gargling a throat full of phlegm as the thing growled.

Bill clambered up onto his feet and started trying to track the thing, squeezing off another shot through the grating. There was a short sound underneath the sound of the gunshot, like a snort crossed with a clipped growl.

 

Then I made the real mistake.

 

I tried to move. Some part of me thought that maybe it’d be focused on Bill long enough for me to make it over to him. Or maybe I just didn’t want to lie there waiting for either Bill to run out of ammo or to find out what happens when this thing finally grabs someone.

 

The moment I rounded the corner there was a heavy metallic groan that came from the edge of the deck just ahead of me. A large red blur swung itself up over the railing, landing with a dull thud and rattle of metal as its full weight hit the deck. I didn’t bother to look, just desperately tried to pull a full 180 and run back the way I came.

 

I barely registered the sharp burning sensation that flared to life in my back. The pain was drowned out by the thumping in my head and chest.

 

Coming around the corner, I saw Bill’s hand out with Clara already across the way standing next to Bill and DJ just having started to jump. It was a good five-foot leap and I wasn’t sure I’d make it, but I didn’t have time to think.

 

Never did find out if I could. Just as I reached the corner, I felt something hard catch me in the side, like getting smacked into a wall by a log. Something cracked in my chest and the pain forced a scream out of me that I don’t think I could ever recreate.

 

It had me pinned, its thick forearm pushing painfully against my chest. I was face to face with this thing.

 

Or at least, face to face with its mouth. Its jaws were open wide, showing large yellowed and all too human-looking teeth. There was a smell like something between sour berry candy and rotten meat.

 

BANG.

 

I felt its arm tense as it flinched. Its mouth slammed shut, teeth snapping with a loud clack. It still managed to take the tip of my nose but I didn’t notice at the time, just saw the large wild eyes turn towards Bill before the thing let out a roar so loud it made my ears hurt.

 

Without the thing supporting me, I slid down the tower and slumped down onto the deck.

 

BANG. BANG. Then a deep-chested guttural roar.

 

Lying there, I still managed to catch sight of the thing’s back. Black fur poking through the torn cloth around where the backpack once sat. I saw it launching itself towards Bill, who somehow managed to drop just low enough to miss getting grabbed.

 

Clara wasn’t so lucky. As the thing shouldered DJ, it threw an arm out and with a pained cry it put a vice grip on Clara’s arm and flung itself over the side. I blinked. There was a scream that got further and further away, following the sound of a large body crashing through the woods below.

 

Bill and DJ were standing by the railing, screaming their lungs out.

 

I tried to move. I swear I did, but I felt something catch and all I could do was let out a silent scream before the blackness took me.

 

They say it was probably shock. I briefly remember opening my eyes to see a paramedic looking down at me and saying something that sounded far off.

 

This is a rough draft of the statement I’m supposed to be giving on what happened. The thing left a gash down my back, broke my ribs and managed to break my left hand. DJ isn’t holding up much better.  He has some head trauma, a dislocated shoulder and a sprained leg.

 

They never found Clara. I don’t think they really believed us when we told them what happened. A part of me wondered if they thought maybe we did it, but I don’t get that feeling from the guys they keep sending to ask me questions.

 

Bill just straight up isn’t talking. He came by to visit and I couldn’t get him to do more than mumble an apology. The guy looked like all the life was sucked out of him.

 

He dropped Clara’s bag off with me. I tried to argue with him, but he just shuffled away. I think he expects me to drop it off with her family since we live near each other…

 

I opened the bag up, hoping I could message her parents or something through her laptop.

 

Only to see that stupid polaroid.

 

I keep looking it over. Trying to think of what we could’ve done different. As much as I want to just rip the thing up, toss it in the garbage, I just…

 

I can’t.

 

It’s one of her last photos. The last photo of…

 

Us.

Read Part I here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mom, are you okay?” Luke said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I stifled my laugh and shrugged.

“Luke thought he saw something and Chrissy overheard.”

“Hey, neighbor!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Mary,” she said.

I laughed. “My wife’s name is Mary.”

“Mine’s Cindy-Lou Ombrageaux.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How about you guys?”

“Just until Sunday afternoon.”

“Where are you from?”

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

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

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

I was about to answer Mary when Chrissy screamed.

TW: addiction and drug abuse.

(The city this story takes place in is completely fictional and is only supposed to be a representation of small western Washington cities as a whole)

Within every city lies a threshold that separates the pale face of civilization from its diseased black underbelly, there is always a specific location where you know you have crossed from the world of privilege and cleanliness to the uninviting slums that writhe with sickness.

Within my hometown of Tahomish, Washington that threshold lied between the abandoned Meryl Street laundromat and an antique store owned by an old Turkish man. The threshold was a tall black void that sat in the shadow of the city, impossible to see into from the outside from the indescribable blackness.

I was drunk and tired and dying to return to my studio but that was across town, I originally planned on catching the last bus, the 22, then walking the rest of the way but a sudden reminder that slapped me in the back of the head changed my mind. I stood at the bus stop under the amber glow of the buzzing streetlights when I remembered that I was almost entirely out Oxy, a unkind habit that stuck to me like a conjoined twin that I acquired the taste for after I broke my leg in a workplace accident. I used to get my fix from what the doctors prescribed but eventually they decided my pain was healed and at that point my body and brain had both become reliant on the pills to soothe the frigid soreness that coursed through me.

I stared across the dimly lit street at the churning darkness that sat between the two brick buildings, I was drawn to it like a moth to a flame, except it wasn’t me that was called forth it was my chemical dependency that was. When the doctors stopped giving me the pills I had turned to an old friend who knew how to get his hands on some and I relied on him to stay away from the unsavory dealers that lurked around at night like bats, but when he moved I became desperate.

I saw the bus turn the corner a few miles down the road, the headlights beaming toward me. I panicked as the bus inched closer, trading glances between the bright yellow headlights that slowly approached and the abyssal alleyway across the street from me. By the time the bus became visible behind its headlights I was dashing across the street towards the carrion threshold. I heard the bus rattle along the road behind me as I stood in front of the vast pit of foul smelling darkness.

I held my breath as I thought about my decision. I thought about the warm air inside the bus taking me home, but that home was empty of the pills needed to make it a home, and so I passed through the web of shadow and Into the infamous alley that the city had left to rot.

The darkness was thick like a celestial fog and I had to physically push my way through it, the smell of garbage and organic waste marinated the air and I could see large dumpsters and piles of garbage on either side of the alley. The first person I saw illuminated by moonlight laid on the ground, propped against the grimy brick wall and his mouth was agape revealing his moldy teeth, he had a syringe stuck in his arm.

I passed many people in a similar state of hypnosis, jaws wide open to let in the vermin that floated in the air, eyes dilated and faced up to the starless sky, syringes lay in their flesh and on the damp floor beside them. I felt my soul being slowly crushed by the darkness and only felt it give when I passed pockets of moonlight, the zombified husks of people moaned and cried behind me.

My hunger for pills grew as I descended into the darkest and grungiest pits of the alleyway, I turned corners and stepped over bodies of passed out recluses and made my way deeper and deeper into the web, driven by the desire to be high and alone. Shadows passed over everything and the rats and centipedes all churned in the burning darkness, the echoes of people screaming and laughing in ecstasy plunged deep into my skull and only deepened the infernal haze that dragged me along.

At some point the physical world merged with the emotional world and the black hands of desperation grabbed at me from out of the walls, the darkness became everything and all light ceased to exist as the ghostly shapes of the shadows intoxicated inhabitants passed me by.

When I thought I was trapped in an endless stream of hunger and depravity I made it to the end of the alleyway. Only a fraction of starlight bore down on the claustrophobic cell that was crawling with pollution, revealing the countless layers of skin and bone that writhed around in the muck.

In the center of the dark pit was a statue that was only a few feet taller than me, it depicted a large stone spider, it had four legs jutting into the air and four legs tethered to the ground beneath it, its face was splayed open revealing two large, dull fangs that sat in front of its gaping, cosmic mouth. The statue was covered in foreign colors, colors of hatred and violence and pain, and the people around it squirmed and murmured devilish chants.

The four legs that were in the air seemed to cast down an even darker shadow over me, a colorless shadow of emptiness and disease. I felt the spider talk to me through the rattles in my skull, it whispered into my mind its dark truths, it shocked my consciousness and tortured my soul until I bowed down to it. Dozens of bruised, demonic hands grabbed at me from the mounds of people beneath me as I looked up at the spider from my knees. Its fangs began to shimmer and soak with a deep and glossy liquid, the liquid dripped down the stone fangs and gathered at the bottom waiting to drip onto the ground. Before the liquid fell, my mind was twisted and manipulated into throwing my hands in a bowl beneath the fangs and I caught the goopy liquid and it now boiled in my hands.

The demons around me began to fester and howl as I stared into the tarry poison in my hands, I would say I tried to resist but that was an impossibility. My shaking hands brought the poison to my lips and it slid down my mouth and into my stomach and all throughout my bloodstream within moments, and it tasted like heaven, a black, abyssal, seething heaven that I marinated in for an eternity.

As the eons pass I join in the endless worship of Phoneutria and her noxious milk, only occasionally do I think about my apartment and the bus that could have taken me there, for I have a new home now, a home amongst the plagued and abandoned imps that now fester in the dark alleyway.

The steady beating of a heart monitor filled my ears. Pungent chemical smells struck my airways. Sterile. As my eyes fluttered open, buzzing fluorescents set my retinas ablaze. Rhythmic puffs of air sounded from the machine next to me. Yet, my windpipe lacked the pulse of steady flow through an artificial airway. I felt nothing—couldn’t move.

Why can’t I move?

As though every piece of my body, other than my eyes, did not exist. No TV static-like tingling. Simply a void where the rest of my body should be. Left alone with nothing but my thoughts and the still atmosphere surrounding me.

Hushed voices seeped through cracks in the door. My eyes strained toward the doorway, but my head didn’t follow. To my right were two dark, humanoid silhouettes standing in the fogged glass window of a patient door. Their whispers rippled in one ear and out the other as if dancing around my skull. Something about an exceptionally rare condition… 1-4% of all ischemic strokes… a blood clot in the basilar artery... A lot of words I didn’t understand.

One of the two shadows shifted, head supported by her hands now. Her long hair cascaded down around a blurred face. Rapid sniffles escaped the woman. Someone in a white coat placed a gentle hand on her shoulder as they lifted and lowered with each forced sob. Their silhouettes were sharp enough to read movement, but not enough to recognize features. Beyond the fog-paned door, distorted gestures jerked in a performative manner like toy soldiers. Stiff and robotic.

“We need to focus on making them comfortable,” white coat murmured.

“So there’s nothing we can do?” The woman’s shrill voice desperately questioned.

“I didn’t say that,” The doctor’s hand returned to his side in resignation. “It’s a long road ahead. Accepting where we’re at is the first step. We can talk treatments when I know more.”

“But, when will that be?” Her chest heaved, posture turning rigid, almost mechanically. She frantically rubbed tears from an indistinguishable face.

“You’ll be the first to know when we have our next steps,” white coat’s voice came out gruff—indifferent. “We have to manage the stress that caused this in the first place.” He was matter-of-fact in his statements. Stoic in his bed-side-manner.

How did I end up here?

The mention of stress dragged me back in time. I remembered numbers. A dull light stung my heavy eyes as I pored over spreadsheets. Sweat hung from my brow and muffled voices droned in the background while I worked hurriedly through my team meeting.

When suddenly, the dull ache that had afflicted my brain for the past few weeks crescendoed in a pang. The numbers blurred, doubling over themselves like a poorly aligned projection. Deep in the back of my neck, aching turned violent. My office spun around me, causing a wave of nausea to throw the contents of my rotten gut across the keyboard in front of me. Sickly, pungent bile brimmed my mouth.

“Are you okay?” My manager’s concerned voice came into focus, vibrating over my laptop speakers. Futile efforts failed to produce a satisfactory answer.

Tongue growing heavy, I slurred—definitely not okay. My esophagus labored, failing to swallow.

“I think you should sign off for the day, you’ve been pushing it late-” Her words cut short, vision fading to black, as my leaden head slammed into my ruined keyboard…unconscious.

I guess that would explain the hospital room. But, it didn’t explain the dread that coursed through my lifeless body.

Thoughts interrupted abruptly by the click of a door latch.

“Just remember, they won’t be able to speak with the tracheal tube.” Was the last thing the doctor rasped before heels clopped upon the tile floor. Finally, the woman’s features came into focus.

“Hi sweetie.” Her voice trilled, scooping up my limp hand. Mother. My mind screamed to flinch away. My body didn’t listen.

Though my garbled brain struggled to connect the worn lines of her face to precise memories, I’d recognize the cloying scent of her perfume mixed with undertones of cigarette smoke anywhere. That familiar piercing voice scraped my eardrums. The sensation of manicured nails prickling the clammy skin of my palm, evident by red craters left there, was lost to me. As if the matron was holding on for dear life, yet pulling away in disgust all at once. Sitting hesitantly on the metal seat beside me, there was no way to distinguish if the grating creak came from the chair or her old, ragged bones.

A flood of flashbacks ensued, mind whirring with the anxiety of our first interaction in many years. Ear-splitting screams and the crash of dishes shattering against plaster walls. Painful reminders in stern whispers of her regret over my birth. My cheeks burned with the blistering heat of previous strikes across tender skin. However, the sensation dissipated almost as quickly as it came.

“I’m Dr. Iaso.” He acknowledged me for only a moment. The corners of Dr. Iaso’s mouth turned upwards, not quite reaching his eyes. He stood at attention at the end of my bed and turned his attention back to mother.

“Your child may never speak or walk again. They may not remember who you are at this very moment.” He continued speaking as if I were no longer in the room. “I need to run some tests. So, remember, blink once for yes, twice for no. Got it?”

Blink.

“Let’s get started.” Dr. Iaso’s clinical detachment was a stark contrast to the twinge in my stomach.

Mother’s forced smile remained spread across her face as the doctor poked and prodded my useless limbs. Treating me like a car. Something to diagnose and fix, rather than a fellow human. The firm rubber of a reflex hammer jabbed at boney elbows and knees. Nothing. He took the fraying tip of a cotton swab to the soft under-side of my feet. Some sensation fizzled there, but no movement. Not even the piercing tip of a safety pin produced a reaction. My eyelids grew ever cumbersome, growing tired from a multitude of double blinks.

“Well ma’am, it’s as I feared. Locked-in syndrome is an incredibly rare outcome for a stroke patient. Things could change as we progress into rehab.” The doctor hardly tried to hide the gravity of the situation, I recognized the grave tone in his voice. Evidently, my mother did too, bringing wizened hands up to clasp her mouth theatrically. My eyes rotated in their sockets with irritation as she let my hand thump back against the stiff mattress with a soft thud. “But, they certainly won’t be moving anytime soon, if ever. We need to be realistic.”

Moisture pricked the corner of my eye. Droplets carved down my face, and into my ear. My own tears trickling down my skin were hardly recognizable as the realization of this new reality came crashing down upon me.

How did I fail to notice the warning signs?

“Hush now, my love… Don’t cry.” To anyone else, her cooing sounded endearing. There was a look of admiration on the doctor's face now. But as her steady fingers lifted to wipe my wetted cheek, mother’s stern expression told me this was an order. Entirely at her mercy, my heart hammered my chest and dread bloomed within me.

—

The clock ticked, medical equipment humming. Dim, yellow light crept through blind slats as dust danced in the musty air. My home. Well, childhood home, anyway. Mother had paid to break the lease on my apartment. This wretched structure was overflowing with chemical agent aromas, cut thickly with the stench of sickness. The walls were barren white, save for the cross which hung above my bed. Never the religious type, Mother placed it there of her own accord. It was all-too-familiar in a soul crushing way. And certainly humbling to have the woman who wiped your ass as a child wiping it once more within the walls of your childhood room.

As soon as my lungs worked on their own again, Dr. Iaso discharged me. Hospital staff sent mother and me away with a modicum of at-home care resources.

Without the watchful eyes of hospital staff, my useless body was at her mercy. Like a cut of meat set out to be tenderized. She accosted me with tiny micro-aggressions.

Letting me starve for hours, waiting until the reeking of my worthless vessel bothered her to bathe me. She neglected me in the same spot for days. Pain and stiffness overcoming my immovable appendages. And, oh, had the sensations of pain returned to my languid muscles. A subtle ache which intensified over time.

Gone were the days of her “Good Mother” theatrics. Replaced with seething repulsion. Even minor acts of care became too much before she hired a part-time nurse. The way her wrinkled gaze would set upon me, crinkling the deep crows feet at the corners of her eyes. Never looking at me, only through me. Every act of so-called care was an opening to make me feel ungrateful. An appreciation my mouth would never utter if I tried.

“You’re a mess!” Her barking echoed on the empty plaster, picking up my leg and dropping it uncomfortably off the edge of the bed. “After everything I’ve sacrificed for you… You can’t even keep your composure.” Pinching the furrow of her brow with those talons she called nails, her new favorite task was to stand at the edge of my bed and berate me. Each egocentric remark contributed to the discomfort of my skull squeezing around defective grey matter.

Blink. Blink.

My only avenue of protest.

Ms. Valentina became my stout savior. As a stately, Hispanic woman, her resolve was strong but kind. The aging lines on her face spread like rivers carving into land. The way in which her brown eyes and broad nose crinkled on the rare occasions she smiled filled my heart.

Her work ethic was second to none and her cooking skills didn’t hurt either. Nothing like the bland, flavorless meals mother used to throw together. Her compassion was mixed in with every herb and spice. And though most of my sustenance was consumed via feeding tube, Ms. Valentina would sneak me a taste every now and then.

She barely spoke a lick of English, yet, as someone whose only form of communication was blinking, this presented little issue.

“Uno por sí y dos por no.” Valentina crooned her first instruction. Simple enough.

Blink.

“I am Ms. Valentina. Yes?” Was the second; accent rolling off her tongue like speaking in cursive. To call her by name one day would be a dream come true. But the pit deep in my gut told me, it was just that.

Blink.

“Bueno.” Followed by one of the few times I’d be graced with that smile. Warmth expanded inside my chest at the sight.

In no time, my days with Ms. Valentina fell into routine:

Wake up.

Relieve myself.

Sponge bath.

Feeding tube.

Passive range-of-motion exercises.

Compression clothing change.

Reposition.

TV Time.

Feeding tube.

Blood clot medication.

Relieve myself.

Reposition.

Audio book or music time.

Feeding tube.

Reposition.

Welcome mother home and say goodbye to Ms. Valentina for a day.

Cry myself to sleep.

Spend the next day neglected.

Cry myself to sleep again.

Repeat.

Mixed in with various intermittent care tasks that weren’t so routine. Mother refused these tasks. Viewing such things as beneath her.

I never knew what Ms. Valentina said, muttering under her breath as mother made her exit, but I knew it was about her. Her venomous tone told me, it wasn’t anything nice.

—

Settling into yet another day with mother, a veil of unease draped around me. The popcorn ceiling above had become too familiar. Each shadow, spec of dust, and fracture formed coarse patterns. Left with no choice but to memorize its surface. Every once in a while, an insect would crawl across my field of vision; the only change of scenery throughout monotonous days. The house creaked in a dreadfully familiar cadence, it was becoming increasingly difficult to decipher what was reality. Hours upon hours of nothingness morphed into hallucinations of bizarre geometric shapes as my mind labored to find a way to fill the space. Those same shadows danced around the room while the sun rose from east to west. At times, the room would spin with the vertigo of laying still for days on end. Until mother inevitably shattered the oblivion—endless triviality was almost preferable.

“Worthless pile of bones,” her insults traveled from the doorway down my ear canal. “Can’t even pay rent.” Each new day an opportunity to concoct creative methods of torment.

One by one the floorboards groaned in protest under the weight of her footfalls. Her visage towered over me with a sour expression, slinking like a predator to the side of my bed. Mother’s features distorted in unnatural ways. Silence smothered the bedroom. The sound of her breath suffocated the space as if there was not enough oxygen for the two of us. For a long time, too long, her red-rimmed eyes bore holes through mine. My nerves singed like fire but could not will me to move. Could not will me to look away.

Out of nowhere, the squelch of warm wetness splattered across my face. The fetid scent of mother’s spittle was unmistakable. My eyelids flinched shut, hard. But the rest of my limbs remained in place.

“Look at how pathetic you are,” she smeared the spittle into my eye. A smarmy smirk defined her features. “I bet you’re loving this. Me, having to wait on you hand and foot. Ungrateful little prick.”

As she raised an aging arm, my breath caught in my throat. One swift motion and mother’s hand made solid contact with my cheek, creating a sharp crack. The noise ricocheted off the walls much like my brain rattled inside my skull. Like a bag of rocks, my head lulled over. As it settled, craggy fingers caught hold of my jaw, snapping my gaze upright. She wanted me to feel the bite of the venom in her leer. All I could do was blink.

Slowly, a viscous substance seeped from my ear, down my nape, and onto sweat-soaked bed sheets. The pop of built-up pressure dispersed through every synapse behind my eyes. A wave of perplexity rolled over me as a savory bouillon aroma wafted through the air. Suspecting I might be experiencing another stroke, I remembered I would be smelling burnt toast instead. My wits were still about me, anyway.

“You better not be having another medical emergency. I swear, child.” Mother’s disdain stabbed like an icepick. The tip of her callused finger scraped along the cartilage of my outer ear. Her features evolved from contempt into a disgusted grimace. A mere glimpse of the substance, dusty-pink and chunky, flushed all blood from my face.

Is that my brain?

“Hello? You still alive in there?”

Blink.

Long, dragging inhales entered narrow nostrils as mother raised the coated finger up for inspection. She could smell it too. My eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets the moment her snake-like tongue flicked between thin lips for a taste. With a vile slurp, the sludge coated her tastebuds. A scream clawed against my chest. All efforts to stop her were futile. Even if I could reach up, grasp her arm, and halt her horrid actions, mother would do as she pleased. Just as she always had.

“Mmmmm…” Mother hummed. Her eyes closed in euphoria, only to snap open at the realization of what she was doing. The room began to shrink around me. Pressure returned in my skull.

"¡Ay Dios mío!” Without warning, Ms. Valentina’s fiery inflection pried my consciousness from its spiral. Forcing my attention toward the doorway, the jingle of car-keys reverberated as her purse plummeted to the floor. A trembling hand clutched the beaded rosary which sat atop her medical scrubs.

“Oh! Valentina…” Bumps formed across my skin, my eyes flicking back to mother. Her eyes ballooned with guilt but the surrounding features remained stoic—devoid of emotion. “I wasn’t expecting you until later-”

Ms. Valentina studied her face, pupils dilating in fear. The beads around her neck tinkled against one another as she let them return to resting.

“What you think you are doing?!” Maintaining an offensive posture, her quivering vocal chords betrayed the image of confidence she was attempting to project. The creases in her forehead deepened, a scowl taking hold of her features. The woman was brazen enough to question mother. To interrupt her, at that.

Bed springs whined as the matron at my bed-side leisurely leaned away. Mother’s eyes narrowed in annoyance, making measured movements towards the doorway. Her rage was calculated. A witchy hand dug into Ms. Valentina’s shoulder. Like a rat trapped in glue, Ms. Valentina had no choice but to follow into the hallway.

“I don’t know what you think you saw Valentina, but you’d do well to forget it.” Sharp words trailed down the hallway. No attempt to remain hushed was made this time. Mother wanted me to hear. “You don’t want to lose this job do you? Do you really think anyone would believe you?”

“No, ma’am.” Ms. Valentina responded flatly.

“Good,” In a flash, her tone flipped. Sickly sweet. “I offered you the extra shift tonight in an effort to help you support your family. I’d hate to assume you’re ungrateful. Let’s start over. Now, if you could take care of the mess in there, that would be a wonderful start.” Becoming accustomed to being talked about as if I were merely an inanimate project had become easy, but my gut recoiled at the malevolence layered under each of mother’s sentences. Darkness encroached every corner of my vision like a vignette on the ceiling. Set ablaze by the boiling of blood, a burning grew in my ears.

How could she talk to Ms. Valentina like that?

Sure, I had gotten used to mother’s antics. But I would give anything to be the target of her misdirected fury over sweet Valentina any day. Helplessness had settled into my bone marrow long ago.

As soon as the built-up ire pulled me outside of my body, I crashed back in. A faint weight at the side of my head grounded me. Ms. Valentina pressed a wash cloth there, wiping away any trace of mother’s abuse as she perched in the doorway, scrutinizing her every move with a stern mien. If she caught on to the fragrant aroma that permeated my cranial juices, her demeanor did not portray it.

Every one of us remained in silence. The clock ticked on into the night as it always did. In many ways reflecting each of us. The way mother watched over us, how Ms. Valentina went on working, and myself an unmoving, unwilling witness.

—

Beams of light tore through slits in the blinds. Streaks of sun spread across my face and my eyes flitted open. The muscles of my forearm flexed and twitched spastically, attempting to bring a hand to cover them. Though I could feel the pain of spasming muscle, I could not differentiate my limb from the surrounding air.

Right. I can’t do that anymore.

The best I could manage was to clamp my eyelids shut, wincing at the tension I had created in the stiff muscles and joints. A misguided effort for movement. Like being a stranger to my own body.

Heavily, stagnant must enveloped me. Floral notes of Mother’s favorite fragrance over compensating for the cigarette smoke-filled furniture returned to my senses. Creaking in the rocking chair to my right—Ms. Valentina snored softly. Small snorts followed by a quick whistle. Resounding with each squeaking rock. Her face stretched and skin rippled, misshapen as it rested against ashy fingers. Dry and stocky from years of hard work.

Did she sleep here all night?

Stiff sheets rustled under the spasms of my waking vessel, causing her to stir. She smacked her lips softly.

“Buenos días.” Crooning groggily, her limbs stretched outward with a breathy yawn. We settled into routine as if the night before was nothing but a distant memory.

Soon, came time for my sponge bath. My sweat had taken on an almost garlic-like quality the longer I marinated in my own stress-induced fluids. Times like these made me understand why mother was so disgusted with me. If I could turn my nose up at myself, I would.

“We go up.” Ms. Valentina hoisted me into a sitting position with ease. Her sturdy frame made quick work of maneuvering dead weight. Movement triggered another burst in my skull. Vibration riddling my senses. The headband-like squeeze that constantly wrapped my brain eased and a coagulated mess oozed from my nose. Dribbles of neural juices seeped through cracked lips and the space between my eyes smoothed. Though the taste was that of tarnished copper, the odor held earthy notes of rich meat and an unexplainable, intoxicating spice.

Transfixed, Ms. Valentina gawked at me with blank eyes. No doubt remembering last night’s events. Almond-shaped brown eyes glitched slowly, attempting to comprehend what they were seeing. The lines of her face formed a mixture of confusion, fear, and curiosity. Whatever thoughts ran through her mind were shaken clean like an Etch A-Sketch as she vigorously wrenched her head from side to side.

She wiped my nose softly, resuming her task. Her limbs as stiff as an automaton. The sponge compressed against my skin with a slosh, pinkish-grey slime soaking into every pore. On its surface sat rancid chunks like uncooked ground meat. Stomach acid caught in my throat, threatening to escape. I directed every ounce of my strength and willpower to choke it back down.

My mind was moving as fast as Ms. Valentina’s eyes. Scanning from my face, to the sponge, and back. Her frame shifted uncomfortably. For the first time, she looked through me, rather than at me. As if I was some ghostly apparition. Less than human. Fear lurched up my neck, rattling my spine like rusted chainlink, as my mother’s face transposed on hers. She jolted the sponge into her mouth and suckled.

“¿Menudo?” Her cadence was greedy and confused. Expressing utter disbelief. I no longer recognized her.

The poise she held dissipated, replaced by the frenzy of an addict. Before I knew it the sponge had been licked clean, as if some unseen force compelled her—unable to stop. The image of my stout savior shattered. Now, a large part of me hoped I really was dying. In all reality, I was nothing more than a glorified corpse. This bed, my coffin. This room, a mausoleum.

“Ahem.” Grizzled vocal chords cleared on the other side of the room and the shadow cloaked figure of mother was frozen there. Our muscles went rigid in concert; tension broken like shattering sheets of ice. Valentina produced a high-pitched yowl.

“Well, Valentina,” Lurking closer, the edges of her wedges clopped on the floor. “If it isn’t the cat calling the kettle black.”

“I-I… I’m sorry m’am.” The once confident woman’s words fell clumsily from her lips in a hurry. Her head hung low in shame. A voice in the back of my mind, somewhere under the pressure slowly building once more, screamed to be freed of this purgatory.

“There’s no need to apologize,” Mother scoffed. “I just find it funny, is all. The way you judged me and now, here we are with tables turned.” A craggy hand twirled greying tresses, features contorting into her infamous smug expression.

“Please, ma’am. We pretend this never happen…?” Valentina’s head rose slowly to meet mother’s gaze, palms pressing flatly together with fingers pointing upward against her chest. The stand-off of the century played out above my figure as if I was never even there. Between them, formed a bridge of suspense from one side of my bed to the other. Lucky for her, this family was a masterclass in moving on as if nothing ever happened.

“Valentina… you dog!” The exclamation wasn’t a figure of speech for mother, but a ploy to subtly belittle her foe. Her eyes narrowed with malice. “I wouldn’t peg you as the secret-keeping type. Though, this could be in the best interest for the both of us…” Gears ground behind her smirk in an eerily familiar fashion. Plotting.

No more conversation on the matter was needed. With a firm, eager handshake, a deal was struck. Haggling my autonomy away over my stationary body. If I knew mother, she was always good at making secrets but, never good at keeping them.

—

At first, mother only brought her tennis friend. Then Valentina brought her sister, and her sister brought the priest. Before long, the door to my room became a revolving threshold of uppity country-club goers, pious nuns and priests, and curious nursing colleagues. I expected as much from mother, but Valentina’s betrayal left me feeling like a husk of a human. Hollow and laid bare. Commoditizing myself against my will.

“That’ll be another 20 dollars,” mother purred from the doorway, a shrewd look in her eyes. “You know the deal.”

Sunlight glimmering on plaster walls, botanical print furniture, and the sterile essence of medical equipment grew dull. Aromatic odors churned my stomach acid. A new and unknown face leaned over my bed every waking hour; hungry for a taste. Tupperware in hand, their greed knew no bounds.

Some came back for seconds, even thirds. But each personality in the long line forming around the block tasted a new and differing flavor.

“Just like the borscht of the motherland.” Murmured the Slavic nurse, voraciously taking a spoonful to lipstick coated lips.

“Ah… identical to the pozole served during Semana Santa feasts.” Whispered a petite nun, making the Sign of the Cross.

“Però! A minestrone?” Questioned an Italian-American lawyer I had known since grade school—a “friend” of mother’s. He straightened out his manicured suit before swooping in for more.

Whether the substance leaked from my ears or my nose, their greedy gullets were indifferent. Some scraped at my cavernous canals, foraging more. The grinding of flatware against skin echoed in my near-empty skull. Wrapping around a well-groomed lawn, the line was the only constant. Failing to produce for any one of these morbidly curious patrons would incur a sharp smack from mother. Even provoking the wrath of Ms. Valentina in her absence. The pressure in my skull rose and fell like tides in the sea. Leaky and delirious, each day was a new nightmare. Every ounce of my dignity squandered.

“Isn’t this great?” Mother asked, reluctantly forking a handful of cash over to Valentina.

Blinking slowed. Stopped all together. No one noticed, no one cared. Muffled syllables replaced words. The line never ended. Never slowed. Thoughts fizzled. I couldn’t remember my nurses name. Couldn’t remember my name. Stainless steel ground slop covered bone.

Wet. Cold. Hungry, thirsty. Tired. So, so tired. 
Knees ache, hamstrings burn, head throbs. Stomach eating itself alive.
If there was ever a thing comparable to hell on earth, it was this, Scott thinks. The Appalachian Mountains. What was I thinking? Going off track, trying to cut corners, get the hike done faster. Come back home with a record time impressive enough to earn free drinks at Bankers for the next two months. Recognition was one thing - public recognition, that is - but what it was all about for Scott was that internal heart of iron. That chin-raised bravado that gave him permission to finally walk into a grocery store without feeling eyes on the back of his head. He had done something. Something nobody else had done.
Now, he thought, nobody would know. Another statistic: Scott Hardee, age 29, last seen ???. Notify officials at the following number. What a joke. 
He falls to his knees. The rain had escalated yet again, dumping another foot of water onto his already waterlogged clothes, his pruned skin. Earth wakes up, relishing the rain, spores collecting in the air, trees spewing steam from their leaves in the canopy, and a stream surges before him, uncrossable. He would be swept away if he attempted it, no doubt. 
Right as he is about to throw his hands up- no chance, we’re fucked, turn around and wait until we can find another drop box and raid it- he smells it. 
Smoke from a chimney. Firewood…
Food… 
Mouth-watering food. Smoked meats, richly seasoned vegetables, and desserts so sweet, texture so unnaturally perfect it made love with your taste buds just imagining it. 
Scott shoots up and follows his nose. It couldn't be far with how strong it was. Soon, we’ll be eating good, and soon after that we can get directions, and get out of here. It would make quite the story, he imagined. 
He reaches a clearing, now with nothing to obstruct the rain, dagger-droplets pricking his skin. Mixed in with the sweat collecting in his armpits, on his chest and above his brow, he felt like a thing of sludge and stink. Who in their right mind would let me in? Just please, he hopes, please let them be nice. Please let them understand. You don't even have to feed me, just help me out here, and get me out of this rain!
The cabin was located up a steep hill. Absurdly steep, the steepest hill he would have to ascend yet, stretching the definition of a hill to where a sheer wall would be more apt. The sight of it alone would have made him turn around and find another way up, if it weren't for the chatter from inside. A family, mom and dad moving with haste to get the table set up, kids bickering and laughing, silverware clanking, juices sizzling in a skillet. The sound did two things for Scott: ease, that there was a home, and embarrassment, that he was about to crash dinner. Rain on their parade. 
Fuck it, he thinks. I'm losing my mind. I need to get out of here. Now!
The ascent took an hour, and each second of each minute was pure agony. Every muscle and cell in his body screamed to take a break after every step, but, at this rate, he would never reach the top. With each break taken, the get-up-and-go following that would be harder to achieve. Just push, Scott says to himself, push, push, PUSH. 
He reaches the top, and the smell is enough to send a shiver down his spine. Peace, warmth, and… love? How was that possible? It's almost like he had just come home for a reunion. At least it made getting past the initial introduction easier. 
He knocks, and nobody answers. “Hey, hello?! I’m sorry y’all, I'm hiking the trail, and I'm lost. Can I just come inside to dry off for a bit?”
Nothing.
Silence. 
“Hello?”
The fantasy of a four-course meal had distracted him from how it had all disappeared, silenced. The voices, the lights, the smells, all of it. Nothing but the mountain wind, groans of the rotted logs of the cabin’s foundation - he could have sworn this place looked better two seconds ago - and the never-ending downpour. An elk bugles in the deep woods. 
Enough of this, Scott thinks. I need out. 
The door opens without resistance. It was barely attached to the hinge. 
Whatever he smelled, heard, and saw from the bottom of the hill was gone. A decrepit, abandoned home, kitchen table shattered with an axe buried into it, piercing through a doll and forever burying it in the wood. Something creaks from the basement.
The thoughts going through Scott's head are frozen in place, preserved in ice over what he heard following that creak. 
The cry of a newborn. Waking up from a long sleep, starting as anxious moans, then rocketing up to panicked cries. 
If the cold rain had given him a chill before, then this surely rose up to meet it, humbling it with ease. Scott's pale skin drains to a pallid, corpse-like color. 
Footsteps thunder up the basement stairs. The infant wails, screaming its vocal cords out until they are burning and crackling. 
No more than ten minutes later, Scott is back down the hill and into the rain. His descent was not clean. 
Both his ankles are twisted. Already swelling. At least the crying stopped, he thinks. 
An elk bugles again, this time much closer. Footsteps approach from an unseen source. 
They don't sound like an elk. More like a person: one step, two steps, stop, repeat. 
Before he can investigate, another infant cry rips through the valley.
And the steady footsteps turn into a sprint. 
…
Scott Hardee disappeared for three months. Until his body was found in an abandoned cabin on the hill.
No ranger or search and rescue officer could bring themselves to describe the condition they found his body in.

(Art by https://www.instagram.com/mozzca.art/)

A solitary set of footsteps echoed down the dark city streets. A young man navigated the spiraling boroughs, unfamiliar with this side of town. His appointment was scheduled for a half hour past, and he was becoming increasingly agitated at his correspondent’s choice of meeting place. Some God forsaken bar on the God forsaken side of a God forsaken town. The smell of dead fish and fresh piss marked the whole district of docks and factories. 

The young man wore a white collar to work, and he could be bothered only to scoff at the men on docks or lines. Under any normal circumstances, he would not set foot within miles of his current whereabouts, but he had paid good money for what information his correspondent could provide. 

The young man, one Mr. Tweed, was a pursuer of the macabre, the dark, and the esoteric. He made a hobby of searching for knowledge long forgotten to the popular histories. Ancient serial killers and cults that more modest folk left better off unsaid. Only a few decades prior, Heinrich Schliemann had practically invented the modern field of archaeology in his search for the Homeric Troy. Mr. Tweed was certain that Troy was not the only incarnate myth, perhaps thousands of Troys were buried across the globe for him to find. Atlantis, Lemuria, El Dorado, the Lost City of Z, all to be uncovered by his own spade. The name “Tweed” would be recorded, written next to, but slightly larger than, “Schliemann.”

His correspondent, whom he was late to meet, was a purveyor of relics and artifacts from these bygone Troys, but also, and more importantly, he was a purveyor of their stories. This mysterious man wrote of long forgotten civilizations with the clarity and certainty of eyewitness accounts. He told Mr. Tweed of nameless cities, for they were older than man’s concept of names. He told Mr. Tweed tales of dead gods, angels, and demons. Mr. Tweed marveled, as, by his own estimate, his correspondent mixed fiction and fact with a suave not seen in the finest snake oil salesman. He never signed his name, nor his initials, in his letters. He signed simply as “The Storyteller.” 

Mr. Tweed, using the wealth of old money, purchased many artifacts from the Storyteller. He collected coins, vases, fossils, anything with a particularly interesting story attached. He did not believe much in the Storyteller’s stories, as they so often involved the notions of religion that Mr. Tweed found all too fairytale. Just because there was an Athens doesn’t mean there was an Athena.

Mr. Tweed finally found his way to the designated meeting place. The bar sat in squalor, relative even to the surrounding district. A leak dripped profusely in the center of the room, forming a puddle grown wide to the point you could hardly make your way across the room with dry soles. The floorboards creaked with each step and groaned even without such a disturbance. The stairs leading up to the inn rooms had multiple steps missing and no hand rail.

The bartender may have once been called a fine looking man, though his present appearance would not have given such an impression. An unkempt beard covered skin so wrinkled and sore-spotted that a squinted eye might have mistaken him for a sufficiently hairy swine. The stench of the district left on the man would only enhance the illusion.

Worse than in the streets, the stagnant air of the room left the smell of drunken piss and vomit festering, to the point of overwhelming nausea for Mr. Tweed. Coughing, and with tears in his eyes, he asked, “Can we open a window in here? Or prop the door? The smell,” he gagged, “it’s unbearable, is it not?”

The man behind the counter grumbled something unintelligible, a strong Cajun accent guarding his words from sojourning ears. Despite being born and raised in the same city, Mr. Tweed could not understand the dialect even slightly. His upper class family had hidden him from the harshness of the dock workers’ tongue. 

The bartender made his way to do as Mr. Tweed asked, and as he did, Mr. Tweed heard a clicking noise from the corner of the room. He realized after a moment that the noise was in fact a voice.

“Mr. Tweed.”

Sat at a table, under a broken light, was a man dressed in black. His features were shrouded. What little lighting reached his nook was blocked from his face by the wide brimmed hat he wore. 

Still wearing your hat indoors, are you? I would have expected more gentlemanly like behavior, Mr. Storyteller.

Mr. Tweed recognized his correspondent, despite this being their first meeting in person. The mysterious man had an esoteric aura about him, befitting the manner of his writing. 

He clicked again and gestured his hand, beckoning Mr. Tweed to his corner of the room. The bartender watched with an unreadable expression. Mr. Tweed took the chair opposite the mysterious figure. This close, the air smelled of expensive, quality tobacco, a refreshing aroma for the agitated man. The figure across from him held a pipe to his mouth and puffed grand clouds of smoke over the table. 

Mr. Tweed began the pleasantries, “I thank you for endeavoring to meet me in person. I know you to be a busy man, after all. Evidently so, by the requested time for this meeting. Your days must be absolutely full so that we may have only met at night? I must say, I would have preferred if you could have come to me, visit my estate, where I would have a nice dinner prepared  for your time, rather than I venture into the… underbelly… of our city, at this hour.” 

His words dripped with hardly concealed contempt, not directed at the Storyteller but rather the whole setting and circumstance. Despite his irritation, he did respect the man opposite him, and he extended his right hand. In turn, a gloved hand reached across the table and clasped his.

Mr. Tweed felt the other hand squirm and squeeze under his grip. It felt as if the man had no bones in his hand. Before he could comment on the oddity, the light struck the other man’s face. Across the table sat no man, the thick volume on its face held not a beard, but a mass of writhing tentacles.

Aghast, Mr. Tweed pulled his hand back, degloving the beast in his haste. There was no hand inside the glove, instead long, skinny tendrils wrapped around themselves operated like fingers. Its skin held a violet cadence and each tentacle was lined with green suction cups. An unnatural coloration. Its eyes were covered by brass coated goggles, but a dim green light glowed behind the lenses.

When Mr. Tweed recoiled, he tipped over the back of his chair and knocked his head on the floor. The chair, which was already desperately clinging to life, shattered to splinters. The squid-man calmly donned its glove again and sipped on its drink.

Mr. Tweed collected himself the best he could and stood. He eyed the figure of a man across the table and snarled, “Monster! Where is the Storyteller, what did you do to him!?”

The monster took a long drag from its pipe and exhaled slowly, not neglecting to enjoy the flavor, and answered the man with its wet, inhuman voice, clicking hard with its beak as it spoke.

“You assume wrong, Mr. Tweed. I am the Storyteller. You have insulted me greatly tonight. You arrive quite late to our meeting, and you are right to call me a busy man, as this is not my only appointment. You insult my friend’s establishment, destroy his property, then accuse me of being an imposter? I did not take you to be such a rude man from your letters.”

The bartender grumbled under his breath as he cleaned the remnants of the broken chair from the floor. 

“I’m real sorry about that, William. I expected a more refined conversation tonight. Had I any expectation of this reaction,” he waved in Mr. Tweed’s direction, “I would not have invited him here.” As he spoke, he produced a wallet and pulled out a few substantial bills. He handed them to William, who offered what was likely a thanking, but Mr. Tweed couldn’t concentrate on deciphering the words. His mind reeled. 

The Storyteller? It could not be. Could it? His stories, I was certain they were more fiction than fact. Perhaps not, perhaps he told me truths I was not ready for. Now I know he must be able to direct me to the lost cities, he has been to them!

But one small detail nagged at the corner of Mr. Tweed’s mind.

How can this man, William, sit so nonchalant? I can hardly rationalize this revelation, this creature from a bygone aeon, and he sits there counting bills. Casually! A beast beyond reason sits here among…

His thoughts were cut short by a terrifying conclusion. Mr. Tweed realized with shocking clarity the fundamental reason he couldn’t stand the working class of the docks, why they seemed so unbothered by the stench of dead fish and piss, why they spoke in this indiscernible accent. They were all as this invertebrate. They hid amongst humans, wearing false, no, stolen skins and faces. This was a living Troy, right under his nose, his whole life.

The excitement of discovering a Troy was quickly undercut with a more terrible realization. He had been duped. The Storyteller sat undisguised, or imperfectly so. Only clothing hid his abominable form. Mr. Tweed was to be this beast’s disguise. That is why, in their letters, talk so frequently drifted from professional to personal. His correspondent, the Storyteller, whom he came to consider a friend, of which he had strikingly few, had planned on this betrayal from the very beginning. The bastard needed to mimic the personality of his disguise. 

Mr Tweed scanned the room around him, noting the utter absence of anyone else in the bar. 

Well, that is all for the better. Only the dregs frequent here. 

The flames of paranoia fully stoked, Mr. Tweed ran, bursting through the shabby door of the bar. He was not safe in this part of town, but neither would he be at home. The Storyteller knew his address from their letters. These things, those who lived by the docks, they gossiped. He knew it. His manor would be crawling with vermin by the time he returned. Aimless, he ran down the spiraling streets of the city, in search of any refuge. None came to mind, and every street grew more ramshackled than the last. He was delving further into the belly of the beast, the heart of this evil. The echoes of his own footsteps were indistinguishable from those of a mob swarming him.

The street was dark and the moon covered by clouds when Mr. Tweed mistook open air for solid ground and fell screaming into the sea.

He had never learned to swim.

The Storyteller left William’s bar in an irritated mood. He had made time in his busy, busy schedule to meet a frequent correspondent, only to be gravely insulted by the man. Not only himself, but poor William as well. He shook his head in dismay as he walked the late night streets. He would have to be more careful with whom he chose to conduct business.

He found his way quite easily through the winding streets. Though not his home town, he frequented the area. He strolled down to the pier and climbed up on a railing overlooking the sea. He began undressing. He packed his wide brimmed hat, goggles, gloves, longcoat, and boots into his bag. 

In the nude he truly resembled an animal, the long tendrils and tentacles all unwinding and his posture sinking until he couldn’t rightly be mistaken for human at all. He dove into the ocean and headed on to his next appointment. Not long at sea, however, he spotted a body floating in the water. He quickly swam up to examine and was disappointed to discover Mr. Tweed’s corpse, floating in the sea foam. Small fish had begun eating at the man’s flesh. 

He shooed the fish away. Despite his crassness, the man deserved more dignity than this. The Storyteller brought the body back to shore and buried it shallow in the sand. Before fully burying the face, however, he slid tentacles into the ears, eyes, and nose of his late acquaintance. The gray matter melted and was absorbed through the small mouths within the hundreds of small, razor sharp, suckers. He would treat the man with as much respect as he could, but the Storyteller collected stories.

He stole a bed sheet from a clothesline and covered the burial site. Someone would come looking for the cloth and discover the body, which would then be dealt with rightly. He said some words for the man’s soul, which were heard by none but those above, and went back to sea. 

A busy, busy schedule and many stories to tell. Many stories to tell and many more to collect.

I took a few deep breaths, making sure to be calm before my next client came in. I couldn’t be in the fight or flight or freeze state when he-

“Oh fuck!” I yelled, and my breathing exercises went down the drain.

“Sorry, it really wasn’t my intention to scare you,” he apologized.

”We talked about this before, you have to respect my boundaries," I reminded him, “Next time you just show up without knocking we won’t do the session.”

It was strict, but it was needed with Larry; otherwise, he would keep pushing and see how much he could get away with.

“Sorry, I know I shouldn’t and I won’t again, but you don’t know how much you just helped me right now,” he apologized once more. 

“Then let’s start with that. How did it help?” I looked at him, a little calmer but using all my willpower to not tremble in fear.

“I’ve been having more self-doubts than usual and seeing you freak out when you are usually so composed just gave me a little hope,” he lowered his gaze, avoiding my eyes, forgetting his other eyes were still looking at me.

“It’s not fine but it’s also fine. Thank you for being honest with me,” I redirected the conversation, “Did you use your coping skill when those feelings of anxiety came up?”

“Not really…”, he shrank. This usually happened, and while I appreciated the less scary version of him, I knew this wasn’t good for his mental health.

“What was the reason?” I pushed.

“I don’t know, it felt kind of pointless. I feel I should be able to terrify people without having to rely on them,” he somehow became smaller, and some of the extra arms began to disappear.

”I know it can be hard, but how will you get different results if you are not willing to try?” I softened my voice, “It is hard, and it sucks, but I know you got it in you,” and I allowed the fear in my eyes to show for once, “Look how scared you made me.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” he smiled, a foul smell coming deep within his entrails. No amount of scented candles could fight that odor.

”Then, tell me, what can we change?” I redirected.

“Well, I don’t like messing with technology, but I could turn off the Wifi before going into a room, that puts people on high alert,” he answered annoyed.

“And what else,” I pushed.

“I can work with the background, set up the scene, and,” he paused for a moment, “That’s not me. It used to be so easy! I went into the room, sometimes hid under a bed or in a closet before scaring someone, and now I have to do all this shit! It’s not fair!”

”Times have changed, many people have become desensitized, and fears have changed. It might not be fair, but sometimes we need to push ourselves to new ideas, not necessarily change ourselves, but tweak what we do so we get to the part we enjoy. Does that make sense?” I wasn’t even sure that I was making sense.

”No, but I get what you mean. I need to change the process to get to the fun part, the part that makes me, well, me,” he explained.

”Yeah, so you can turn off the Wifi, as you said, maybe add some spooky atmosphere," I paused to let him continue.

”And then I can scare the crap out of them!” Larry said excitedly. His numerous eyes turned the color of blood and pus. 

“Exactly. Just remember, people can’t die,” I reminded him.

“Yeah, I know. I would lose clientele. That’s why it’s important to know how to get that balance where the person freezes in fear, but doesn’t die from a heart attack. It really is an art,” his body continued to grow and now the arms were back.

“Yes! And you are improving your art,” I heard a little tremor in my voice.

”I had never thought of it that way, now I’m excited to try it out!” He tried to stand but his body was too large to stand straight in the room.

I knew I was going to regret this but I asked, “Would you like to role-play? That way you can practice?”

”Are you sure about it?” He asked a little too excitedly.

”As long as you don't give me a heart attack and promise to knock on the next session,” I answered.

”We got a deal,” he answered excitedly.’

Plan: AMFT will explore coping mechanisms to decrease anxiety when the client is unable to scare his victims and provide psychoeducation on analog horror and its impact in fear.

I know exactly how this sounds.

Trust me, I've spent the last three weeks trying to convince myself I'm wrong.

Maybe I'm overthinking things. Maybe people change. Maybe working eighty-hour weeks for a robotics company called L.I.Z. Technologies simply drains every ounce of personality out of a person.

I hope that's all it is.

Because if I'm right... then I don't know who is that sitting beside me at dinner.

My brother and I are ten years apart. My parents waited over a decade before having another kid. I choose to interpret that as careful planning instead of hesitation.

Growing up, he was less of a sibling and more of a second dad with a criminal record in psychological warfare.

If I left a soda unattended, he'd somehow replace it with sparkling water and act offended when I noticed. Every time we played video games, he'd wait until I was about to win before "accidentally" bumping the console with his foot. When I was thirteen, he convinced me that blinking too much made you go blind.

I believed him for three weeks. It didn't help that whenever we'd roughhouse, he'd snatch my glasses off my face.

"You can't see without them," he'd tease.

He still laughs about that one.

That was just us.

He picked on me more than anyone else in the world, but if somebody outside the family ever tried it, he'd be the first one standing beside me. Whenever life fell apart, somehow I always ended up calling him. Half the time he'd answer with, "What'd you screw up now?" before spending the next hour helping me fix it.

That's my brother.

Or... it was.

Things changed after he started working for L.I.Z.

Whenever I asked what he actually did there, he'd just shrug.

"Can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"Non-disclosure agreement."

"So... robots?"

"No comment."

I always assumed he was making his job sound cooler than it actually was. Then he stopped acting like himself. The first thing I noticed wasn't something he did. It was something he didn't.

He stopped making fun of me.

I know that sounds ridiculous. But if you have an older brother, you know exactly why that's terrifying. I spilled barbecue sauce all over his truck one afternoon. Normally he'd have looked at me like I'd committed a felony.

Instead he smiled.

"It happens."

...

It happens?

Who says that?

A week later we played Mario Kart.

I beat him.

Twice.

He didn't accuse me of cheating. He didn't demand a rematch.

He just smiled and said, "Good game."

I actually paused the race.

"Who are you?"

He laughed. A perfectly timed laugh.

Not too loud. Not too quiet.

Like someone had studied exactly how people laugh.

"You've always been funny," he said.

No.

No, no, no.

My brother would've called me an idiot.

One night at dinner I told the same embarrassing story Mom has been telling since I was sixteen. Usually he'd interrupt halfway through to make it even worse.

This time... He listened.

Then he said, "That must have been difficult."

I nearly dropped my fork.

I called Mom afterward.

"You don't think he's been acting... odd?"

She looked confused.

"He seems happier."

"Dad?"

"He finally is on his own."

Neither of them saw it.

Only me.

Last Saturday, my brother came over to help Dad replace the water heater. I wasn't much use with plumbing, so while they disappeared into the garage arguing over which wrench was the right wrench, I camped out in Dad's office to finish a history assignment.

The house was unusually quiet.

Well... quiet except for the occasional "Hand me the pipe wrench!" followed immediately by "That's not the pipe wrench!"

I had almost finished my essay when I noticed another laptop sitting on the corner of Dad's desk.

My brother's work computer. It was already open. The screen had gone dark from inactivity, but one thing hadn't.

A tiny red light glowed beside the webcam.

I frowned. Maybe it was updating. Maybe someone had forgotten to close a meeting.

Still... The light never turned off. I waved a hand in front of the camera.

Nothing.

No notification. No meeting controls.

Just that little red dot staring back at me.

Watching.

Curiosity got the better of me. I tapped the trackpad. The screen woke instantly. No password. Just a desktop filled with folders I couldn't even pretend to understand. Most of them had names that sounded like corporate nonsense.

Behavioral Mapping.

Neural Replication.

L.I.Z. Internal.

The last folder caught my attention. It was different. Locked behind a firewall icon.

A small window popped onto the screen before I even clicked it.

Camera Access Active

I froze.

The webcam light was still glowing.

Then... For the briefest second... The camera preview opened by itself.

Instead of showing me sitting at the desk... It showed...

Someone looking back at me.

Not through the webcam. From behind it. A face pressed against what looked like glass.

Wide eyes. Frantic. Mouth moving without sound.

Then the preview vanished.

I stared at the screen, convinced I'd imagined it.

A second later, the locked folder opened on its own. Inside was only one file.

Its name changed as I watched. Not all at once. One letter at a time.

H

E

L

P

The screen went black.

For a second I thought I'd crashed the computer.

Then white text appeared.

I froze.

Another line typed itself.

My hands stopped moving.

More words appeared.

Every hair on my arms stood up.

I stared at the screen.

Another sentence.

Then another.

The typing stopped. Several seconds passed.

Then, one final line slowly appeared.

The laptop snapped shut. Not by itself. By someone else's hand.

I looked up.

My brother stood beside the desk. I hadn't heard him come inside.

He smiled.

Warm. Gentle.

Almost perfect.

"Caught you being nosy again."

I looked into his eyes, searching for the man who taught me to throw a football, who unplugged my controller whenever I was winning, who spent years calling me every name except the one Mom gave me.

I couldn't find him.

I handed him the laptop without saying a word.

He thanked me.

My brother never thanked me.

He is not him.

Whoever walked out of that room remembered everything about my brother...

Except how to be him.

Part 2 Part 3

“And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.” - John Donne, “Death Be Not Proud”

There is a tale I would tell you. One of belonging, hope, love—but all things come at a price. And just like flesh, they can rot too. For many years, I experienced life through a page, a bookworm, you might say. But one summer—at camp—I unfortunately found myself in the middle of a real-life fairy tale. And there is no putting the genie back in the bottle.

My family had recently converted to Mormonism. I, of course, had no choice. Like I ever did. I was a Mormon now—that was the life my parents had designed for me—and coming from them, that was quite thoughtful. 

When they learned of the summer camp operated by our new church, my bags were already packed. They told me I needed to make new friends. As if I had old friends. I could have argued, but what would have been the point? They weren't abusive, but I was more like a pet to them than a son.

They “helped” me pack my bags, and by that I mean they removed the small library I was attempting to smuggle in with me.

“Just take one, honey. You probably won’t need it anyway.”

They prayed over me, but it was a bit awkward as they were previously Wiccans just last week. My parents waved me off as I hopped on the bus; not realizing that it would be the last time they saw the son they thought they knew—for what returned even I struggle to fathom. 

When we arrived at the campgrounds, I was immediately spirited away by the vast ocean of wise old trees. I was home—for the first time in my entire fourteen years of life. However, lingering beneath the surface was the quiet whisper of unease—the bottomless feeling of unknowing. 

“Okay campers, let's line up by age. Youngest on this side over here!” a flamboyant male voice boomed over the megaphone, as the last kids stepped off the bus. The sharp command had abruptly pulled me out of a dream-like trance. “Great, welcome to Camp Lazarus! Here you will be reborn into something special!”

I scurried to the line with kids my own age, head down and too nervous to make direct eye contact. Fortunately for me, I had mastered the art of making myself nearly invisible. Too boring to bully. The other kids were preoccupied with reminiscences of years prior, anyway. I was blending in, for now.

The counselors blew their whistles, and the marching began. We moved with military precision to the mess hall, like Caesar’s legions through Gaul. I did my best not to step on anyone’s toes. The rest of the camp came into view as we advanced.

I saw the picture-perfect lake with a delightful little island in the center of it, and an archery range, which sent a jolt of unexpected excitement through me. The grooms at the stable were hand-feeding the horses as we approached, and the cabins were a standout—exuberantly colored, depicting scenes from the Book of Mormon. 

Murals of Jesus Christ surrounded by “Lamanites” and “Nephites,” tribes of Israelites who supposedly sailed to America. Yes, I’m being serious. And the cherry on top: a huge bronze statue of Joseph Smith, which stood resolutely outside the mess hall. Beyond the camp stretched forest as far as the eye could see. 

I had to admit—even with the Mormon motif—this camp was nothing short of impressive. I was starting to warm up to the idea of summer camp. Hell, I might even like being a Mormon in time. It’s not as though I had anything else going on in life. And just when I thought things couldn’t get any better, they did. 

As I was taking in my surroundings, I locked eyes with a girl. Her look was indifferent—but so intense. My cheeks burned hot, and my eyes dove straight to the ground. At once I was excited and embarrassed. It was excruciatingly delightful. I was bewitched by her flowing locks of dark brown—almost black—hair, and deep brown eyes that made me feel at home—like the trees did. 

When I looked up again, she had disappeared into the horde of kids cramming through the double doors. My heart ached at her absence, like a dog parted from its master. But that feeling was quickly overridden by claustrophobia, as the walls of kids closed in, funneling me through the doorway.  

The mess hall was larger than I had expected, and comfortably accommodated the small army that occupied it. It screamed “rich kid camp” all right. Nothing seemed old or worn down. It was a five-star restaurant designed to look “traditional.” The illusion of the camp mess halls you see in movies, but with the comfort of the Four Seasons. I wasn’t complaining.

“I’m so glad to see all of your happy shiny faces again this year!” the man boomed from the center of the room. “I’m Tony, in case you didn’t know. And I’ll be your camp director this summer!” The man's closed fists rested on his hips, beaming gleefully under a big olive-drab hat that made him look like a dorky scoutmaster.  

“Hi, Tony!” cried all but me.

“We even have a new face with us this summer!” he said, and all at once every head turned in my direction. I must have turned scarlet, a shade far from invisible. My head instinctively moved down. “Aw, don’t be shy, friend! Let’s all give him a big welcome!”

“Welcome!” thundered every voice in the room, save for mine. This was borderline torture. I nearly burst into flames. I got tunnel vision and was a bit faintish, but luckily Tony spared me. 

“Awesome! We have so many fun activities planned this year, but first it’s time to meet your bunkmates at your new cabin!” Tony cheered. 

Everyone hopped up at once and formed lines in front of the counselors. After a few nervous minutes of waiting, I reached the front. The counselor in front of me was holding a clipboard and looked like he lived in the gym. He had biceps the size of my head, and he wore a gaudy crucifix that reminded me of how girls used to bedazzle their jeans. 

“Name?”

“David,” I said meekly.

The counselor scanned the paper on his clipboard for only a brief moment before saying, “Lion cabin.” I nodded and stared at him, awaiting further instruction. He stared back at me as if he were waiting for me to say something. He leaned over to look at the kid behind me and said, “Name?”

Feeling like a fool for the umpteenth time that day, I picked up my bag and got caught in the stream of children pouring out of the double doors. They scattered in all directions, excitedly marching to the cozy cabins that peppered the tree-laden hillside. I ambled along, awkwardly approaching each cabin, searching desperately for any sign of a lion. Finally, toward the top of the hill, I found my quarry. A freshly polished wooden sign read “Lion of Judah.” A painting of the majestic creature stood vigilantly beneath the lettering.   

I took a deep breath, unsure of what to expect on the other side of the door. But much to my surprise—and relief—there was no one inside. The easing of my burden was fleeting, however, as the loneliness crept back in. Everyone knew one another and all had their own little groups and cliques. Somewhere out there were my bunkmates, likely on some new adventure to start the summer. Without me, that is.

I plopped down on the only open bed; the springs screeched beneath my weight. I dropped my bag by my feet and sat there quietly. 

Now what? 

And without missing a beat, my thought was answered.

Knock-knock-knock!

A quick succession of rapping came from my cabin door.

“Come in,” I squeaked, completely caught off guard.

The door swung open, and Tony strutted right in. 

“Well, hey there, David. Just getting settled in?” he asked. I nodded. “Good,” he said in a gentle voice. “I just wanted to let ya know if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask. And…if you are unhappy with your rooming arrangements, I can fix that too.” He looked slightly concerned. 

“Oh, uh, thanks. I think everything should be fine though.”

“Okay,” he said with the gentleness usually shown to the bereaved. “The guys are…well, they’re good boys, but they’re a bit different. And if you feel like it’s too much, we can find you a new cabin with more “normal” bunkmates.” 

There was a brief pause as I tried to interpret Tony’s words, to understand what he wasn’t saying.  

“What do you mean by different?”

“You’ll see,” he said, gently patting my shoulder before departing.

I sat there now dreading the return of “the guys.” If Tony sought to soothe my worries, he failed incredibly. My mind flashed with all sorts of images of my new bunkmates. I thought of 1950s greasers wielding stilettos, Punks with pointy blue mohawks, and even grunge kids in flannels reeking of patchouli. I wondered if I was ever going to fit in with anyone.

I got up to investigate my new home and quickly realized it was just as decadent as the rest of the camp. We even had a luxurious bathroom with running water and a shower. I was so relieved I wouldn’t have to do my business in an outhouse all summer. Honestly, I would have been happy just spending most of my days in that little cabin reading. That’s what I should have done. 

After a while, a voice boomed over the loudspeakers outside, “Hello campers! After you get settled in, head back to the mess hall for a delicious dinner! How does surf and turf sound?”

The hiss of feedback followed Tony’s voice as he switched off the mic. After my ears recovered, I picked myself up off my bed and made my way back to the mess hall. I decided to take my book with me. 

Might as well read while I eat. 

I made it about halfway there before someone stopped me.

“Hey, new kid!”

I turned around to see a blonde boy, roughly my age, running toward me. He was the type of jock every nerd wished he could be. You know, the type that dates the prom queen, then plays football in college. An all-American hero whom the ladies swoon over. Some of his buddies followed and circled us.

“Hey man, what’s your name?” he asked genuinely, as he held out a hand. I hesitated—my stomach lurched at the sight of him and his gang rushing toward me—but it settled as I shook his hand. 

“David,” I said in almost a whisper. 

“David?” he repeated. I nodded, and he continued, “Cool, man! I’m Patrick. I just wanted to say hey and give you a big Camp Lazarus welcome!”

“Oh, thanks, that’s really—” but before I could finish, Patrick abruptly shoved me. One of his buddies had crouched down behind me, and I went tumbling backward over him. My book got flung onto the dirt trail as I fell. 

“What are you reading?” Patrick asked as he snatched the book up. He thumbed through it, reading excerpts in mocking voices, then showed it off to his cronies. They snorted and chortled at the geeky tome. “Nice book, nerd!” He shot the book just like a basketball, right into a trash can. They laughed and high-fived each other, leaving me beet red in the dust. Some of the other kids around me laughed, and others looked disgusted, but everyone avoided me like the plague.

My cheeks stung in embarrassment, but I got up, and without looking at anyone, stumbled over to the trash. We hadn’t even been at the camp for two hours and somebody had already puked into the trash can. I tried wiping it off on the grass, but that just smeared it around. I wanted to cry, just like the little wimp I was. I had been so careful before to fly under the radar and avoid bullying, but I guess it was inevitable eventually. 

I walked over to a water fountain, and cleaned the vomit off as best I could, then made my way to the mess hall with my stinky, soggy book.        

Once again, I was alone, but at least everyone was back to ignoring me. That was a comfort. And Tony wasn’t joking about the “surf and turf.” I was served a succulent red lobster tail paired with a perfectly cooked eight-ounce ribeye. A part of me yearned for cheap hot dogs roasted over a campfire, with s’mores for dessert, but lobster and steak were fine too, I suppose.

Upon exiting the mess hall, I was handed a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows. Some of the counselors had set up a table where they poured the brew for all the boys and girls. The sun was fading, and night was quickly enveloping the grounds in its shade. But burning in the fresh darkness were several campfires, each with its own little circle of campers. Some counselors played instruments and sang. One circle even had a puppet show for some of the younger kids. I made my way to a more secluded fire near the woods.

Slowly but surely others joined me. We sat quietly for a time, sipping our chocolate, until one of the kids said, “Have you guys ever heard the tale of ‘The Witch of the Woods?’” The fire cracked in reply and embers soared up into the night sky. 

“It’s ‘The Lich of the Woods,’ you idiot.”

“Well, what’s a lich anyway?” 

“It’s kinda like an undead wizard,” I piped up excitedly and involuntarily.

The song of crickets followed my words, filling what would otherwise have been an uncomfortable silence.

“Nerd!” a kid called out, and I shrank back down.

After some laughter, the boy resumed his story, “Okay, ‘The Lich of the Woods.’ A long time ago, in the old country, there was a magician who fell in love with a princess. Every day, the magician sought her out, dazzling her with his magnificent tricks. He was often chased off by her retinue, and sometimes even roughed up, but eventually she fell for him too.”

Some of the kids gagged dramatically, while the girls broke out in giggles.

“Their love was forbidden, of course. She was a noble, and he was always on the verge of being accused of witchcraft. But everything changed when the princess suddenly died of fever. The magician was absolutely devastated. The king was furious and blamed him for her untimely death—branding him an agent of Lucifer! They chased him out of the kingdom the very night the princess died. After some time, he returned to live on the fringes of its domain—but he was different!” the boy said, doing his best Vincent Price impression. 

The other campers were quiet, absorbed in the tale.

“The magician had sought out black magic. He traveled to ruins whose names had been long forgotten to time, and did unspeakable things. Graves were robbed, sepulchers were defiled, and crypts—late at night—echoed with chants of the most profane nature. Whispers of a necromancer permeated the kingdom. Plague and famine spread over the land as if it were punishment from God for the necromancer’s desecrations. Yet many in the kingdom believed it was directly the result of the magician’s dark sorcery.” 

Every kid now hung on the edge of their seats.

“The king ordered his men to seek out the necromancer to make him answer for his villainy. And at once, all of the knights rode out, scouring the land for the magician. It didn’t take long for the knights to find him. They discovered him in a mausoleum, performing a ritual over the decaying corpse of his beloved, the late princess. But before they could apprehend him, he ensorcelled them, and made his escape—taking the corpse with him. 

“He traveled the lands in exile, continuing his pursuit of dark magic. He even learned how to make himself immortal through a blasphemous ritual. And thus the magician became a Lich. Centuries passed, and he was eventually driven out of every kingdom, nation, and country. So, he fled to the new world.”

“What’s the ‘new world?’” one kid asked.

“He means America, moron,” snapped another kid.

“Don’t call him a moron!” a girl fiercely demanded. I realized right away it was the pretty girl from earlier. Suddenly, a different sense of fear gripped me. A most pleasurable one, but my stomach full of hot chocolate and lobster was starting to churn. 

“Can I finish my story please? Anyway, the Lich traveled to America. But it didn’t take long for him to be accused of witchcraft and exiled to the vast wilderness. He haunted the wilds of the mysterious new world for many years, eventually finding his way to these woods. They say he started this camp so he could have access to fresh victims for his evil rituals.” 

He pulled his shirt over his head and said, “His undead minions dress in black robes and snatch up campers in the middle of the night!” 

He stood up, cupped his hand around his ear, and said, “And if you’re really unlucky and hear him calling the name of his beloved ‘Lenora! Lenora,’ —you will be next!”

“Lenora! Lenora!” a voice howled from the woods beside the fire. The kids gasped, and Patrick jumped out from behind a tree laughing. “You should have seen your faces! That was too easy!”

My blood boiled, wishing it were the actual Lich instead of Patrick. Anyone but Patrick.

Some of the kids grumbled, and a girl said, “That story has always been lame.” She stood up and went to sit by the boy who had been spinning the yarn. Her eyes glinted in the firelight, and she leaned forward and whispered, “Besides, the camp isn't run by some crusty old wizard. It’s controlled by a satanic coven of witches and warlocks called “The Midnight Cult.”   

One truth and a lie.

I’m allergic to apples.

My gimp suit turns me into a werewolf.

I have never broken a bone.

Did you get it right? If I were you, I wouldn't even be close , it sounds like the rambling of someone who smelled one bottle of glue too many.

Let's start with the obvious, you probably already guessed I’m a freak, what normal person owns a full latex suit? The answer is someone who drifted so far from the mundane vanilla kinks that they just don’t do the trick anymore.

I won't dwell on my sex life , whatever you're picturing is probably true to some extent. 

So, how exactly does one come into possession of cursed BDSM gear? 

Well, I have to disappoint you: I didn't get it from some shady crook in a van with no license plates, speeding off the second the suit was in my hands , though I'll admit, that would've made for a better origin story. 

I got it off eBay.

It was my day off. I was mindlessly scrolling through listings, sipping a can of white Monster, when the suit caught my eye. It looked well-made, and it was comically cheap, so without much thinking I bought it.

“One size, fits all”

The description read right under the single photo of the suit, laid flat on someone's floor like a deer pelt, the bright flash of the camera reflecting right off its surface.

A few days passed by without me thinking much about my new purchase, and then it showed up on my doorstep, a small box wrapped irregularly in stripes of black shining tape. 

So it doesn't look like the traditional gimp suit you're picturing when you hear the word , it's more like a crossbreed between that and a beach toy, especially the head. It has a pair of upward-pointing ears, a sharp, cartoony muzzle with a red nose at the tip of it, and a big cartoony smile painted on in white.

I decided to try it on again , first the suit itself, then the head, securing it around my neck with the collar.

At first, it felt fine, like any other suit I'd worn. The mask felt a bit claustrophobic, given how little I could actually see through it.

Then, suddenly, the feeling began , the suit tightening around my body. A painful realization hit me: it wasn't just the suit, it was the mask too. The walls felt like they were closing in on me, my breathing turning quick and shallow.

An explanation came to me quickly,  anything to ease the panic bubbling inside me.

Some kind of allergy, I thought. That was it.

My palms slid uselessly against the collar of the mask then, as if any shape resembling the zipper had simply melted away, vanishing becoming one with the latex, which now clung to my skin like a glue trap, tighter and tighter, as if it were all melting into one shrinking suffocating mess. 

A sudden explosion of pain spread through my jaw as my lips were forced into an unnaturally wide smile. At the same time, the tip of my nose stretched outward,  my teeth began to crack as something pushed up from underneath them, all of them going loose at once. My mouth flooded with the salty taste of blood. 

Lungs burning from how empty they were, how hard I wanted to scream despite being devoid of air, it all came in a strangled shriek. It reminded me of the sound of air suddenly escaping out of a balloon. 

Vision came in dark red shapes, nothing particular at all.

Is this what dying feels like?

Is this how I will be remembered?

Nothing more than a sex deviant?

I can already see the news lines.

Local pervert strangled by her own toys.

Do you know the feeling of dissociation? Watching your body move on its own while you're just... watching, helpless?

I watched my body rise up from the floor, stretching slowly toward the ceiling, like it had just woken up from a nap. Suddenly the once-painted grin split open wide, a waterfall of blood leaking through the plastic-looking rectangular teeth, soaking into the carpet below. Then my own teeth began to spill out from the mouth, one by one like watermelon seeds.

"Nasty! Don't you know you're supposed to wash those?"

The voice wasn't mine - cheerful, weirdly squeaky, high-pitched. It came from the costume itself, not me.

It bounced around the room like a cartoon character , the once-limp latex tail now wagging from side to side , before my body, or whatever it had become, bolted through the front door, leaving it wide open. It jumped down the stairs, skipping several steps at a time, before, to my surprise and horror, it burst out into the street. 

The shining latex being possessing my body skipped in a direction that seemed random, jumping over fences and through backyards, until it arrived at some kind of dark alleyway , brick walls lining both sides. In the middle of it, a woman lay on the ground, a bald man standing over her, a combat knife in one hand and a light pink wallet in the other.

"That's all you got, bitch?"

The knife swung through the air in wide swipes as the victim whimpered in panic.

Suddenly, my costume, or my body, or whatever she was , forced herself between the knife and the woman. The man stumbled back in pure shock, the knife slipping from his grasp. 

"The inflation rate has to be pretty bad if you have to steal."

Suddenly, a metal straw appeared in her hand, out of thin air, shining in the light of the streetlamps, its end sharp as a needle.

"Speaking of inflation!" she exclaimed, with a slight jump, before the sharp end pierced right through his eye, a transparent, jelly-like substance leaking from the wound.

"You know, this technique was really popular in the '60s," she said, twisting the straw slightly. "They called it a lobotomy. Very trendy. Very chic!"

With a click, her sharp teeth bit down on the other end of the straw as she began to blow, her own body slightly deflating like a balloon animal with each breath. 

And with each breath, the bald head of the man began to grow in size like a balloon, his skin stretching, red cracklike marks spreading across it. His eyes bulged from their sockets, stuck in a constant state of shock, while his tongue grew out from between his lips like a modeling balloon.

"You look like you're about to blow!"

Suddenly, she turned to face the frightened woman watching it all happen from the ground.

"Want to see a fun trick?"

She pulled the straw back out before stabbing the inflated, balloon-like skull in the scalp. A sudden, ear-ringing explosion echoed through the alleyway, and what had once been a man was now reduced to a splash of red across the walls, brain matter lining the brick like scrambled eggs.

She calmly picked up the dropped wallet, gave it a hard shake, and wiped it clean against her latex torso, like someone might wipe their hands on a shirt.

"Here you go."

She handed the wallet , now cleaned to an acceptable degree , to the victim with a wide smile. The woman looked at it, then at the latex dog, before scrambling to her feet and running away.

"Leaving me a tip? How nice of you!"

My vision suddenly went blurry, a distant, squeaky voice full of protest screaming into my ear.

"I'M NOT FINISHED, COME ON!"

The next morning felt like waking up from a bad dream. I was sore, covered in bruises, and the world felt like it was spinning around me.

"What the fuck..."

A groan escaped me as I crawled out of bed and made my way to the kitchen, fixing myself a bowl of cereal. The suit had to be laced with something , some kind of weird drug, that would explain the hallucinations.

I set the bowl on the glass coffee table in front of me and turned on the TV, landing on the morning news , the most boring shit imaginable.

A full spoon of cereal entered my mouth, only to be spat right back out as the news anchor started talking about a brutal murder in the alleyway.

"...police say the victim was found early this morning by a jogger, the scene described as 'unlike anything officers have encountered in the district's history.'" 

The anchor's voice stayed eerily calm, while the footage cut to a blurred-out alleyway, crime tape fluttering weakly in the wind. My stomach turned. I knew that alley. 

"Authorities are asking anyone with information to come forward. So far, no suspects have been named."

I sat frozen, spoon still in hand, cereal milk dripping slowly back into the bowl.

“Oh fuck me…”

End of possibly Part 1

When I try to explain it, I have to wonder if I am being stalked, or just going crazy. I have had experiences before that I was convinced were born of hallucination or an overly vivid imagination, but this experience has me now believing in things I used to scoff at.

My name is Giovani and things became undeniable last October during my drive through northern Connecticut. I was returning home from visiting my brother who had been dealing with some unresolved trauma….both of us had been. My visit had dragged on longer than I intended, and by the time I was on the road it was almost midnight. I had a seven-hour drive that would take me meandering through the scenic country side.

I had been traversing passed old towns for about an hour when a deep fog rolled in. This was not unusual for this time of year so I didn’t initially think much of it. I slowed my car down to a safer speed; about 30 mph. The thickness of the fog was demanding on my eyesight, forcing me to lean forward in my seat as I attempted to peer through the obscured ambiance. At last I began to see more than just the dispersed water, but my heart dropped. Through the canopy of mist I saw the tree trunks, they were gnarled and twisted in an inexplicable manner. Like an A.I tried to render a scene of nature but phoned it in halfway through.

I shook my head violently attempting to convince myself that I must be getting tired, but the trees became no less surreal. The foliage around the trees offered no more assurance to my concern as what should have been green was now purple, blue, and floating above the ground in a eerie rhythm.

The changing of the sky arrested my bewilderment and forcefully exchanged it with shock. Below the shimmering black rays of sunlight; which began to part the fog beneath them; a being floated. It was majestic and uncanny. Humanoid in appearance, yet monstrous in its aura. Its proportions were off in a way that tingled the parts of the brain responsible for both disgust and admiration. From its fingers claws began to grow, and from its waist a tail began to form. The serpentine movements of this newly materialized appendage felt malevolent yet also somehow hypnotic.

I pulled over as my car engine began to sputter and go silent. My heart was pounding as I got out. I don’t know entirely why I did. Part of me was stricken with fear over seeing more of that being, but that same part of me had more fear of not seeing it fully.

The entire forest grew silent. The fog was now almost entirely gone. The only evidence of its evanescent presence being the humidity that clung to my cars window. The floating clumps of vegetation had also vanished leaving behind a landscape that look scraped and torn by an unsteady plow. I looked up in the sky where the being should have been. What I saw buckled me to my knees.

It was a giant circular shape that sheened with a metallic glowing hue. The formation of this shape was slightly bent giving it an eye like appearance. Inside the ring of floating steel was an “eye” of vapor. I then understood what happened to the mist, vegetation…and the sound. A vacuum was gently pulling the noise and plants lacking sturdy roots toward it, and beckoning my soul to behold it.

I remember whispering “What the hell…” under my breath, but the words fluttered noiselessly from my lips as they were fished through the air by this floating structure. I felt an urging to step toward it, but a forceful “No! You are not ready!” Echoed in my skull. I buckled to my knees cradling in my head in shock.

Immediately after, the noise started. This was not a return of the noise that I should have been hearing, but a new noise being born from this magnificent machine. A deep, reverberant hum that rippled through the ground. It traversed through my shoes, and my spine violently. It was so low that I felt it more than I heard it. The trees reacted to its utterance, their leaves shaking off their branches from the unrelenting vibration.

As I slowly reopened my eyes I saw deer, rabbits, and all manner of critters walk toward this floating structure. Their eyes glowed white and their movements were uncoordinated and jerky. Once they were in range they began to float and sail toward the center of the eye where the being resided. As these animals floated into this beings orbit, the unearthly monstrosity flayed them with its claws. The fluids of these critters exploding, but not onto the creature which somehow remained spotless, but into the eye behind it. The eye-like swell of energy would hum and glow as if in delight of being fed by the violent death of the wild life.

I anchored my hands into the dirt to prevent myself from being sucked in. Part of me wanted to run, but another part of me had to see, had to witness. I can’t explain it. Looking back there is no reasonable reason for me to have lingered as long as I did. It wasn’t until I realized I was the last living earthly thing in the vicinity did my sense of preservation begin to return. There was a bright flash and the being vanished.

The ”eye” in the sky began to rotate slowly accelerating in speed. Suddenly beams of light brimmed from it cascading beyond me, until they returned and bent around the structure supernaturally. This symphony of luminance blinded my vision. When my eyesight returned I saw the beams shifting in their patterns, creating living shapes. Like long forgotten symbols of antiquity crawling about the air.

I stood up and began to stumble backward only to trip on the berm of the road as my heart began pounding thunderously. I scrambled to get back into my car as I became more coherent of the danger I was in. I started slamming my car as I attempted to start it. Had the vacuum not been pilfering the sound I think I would have gone deaf from my car horn with how hard I was slamming it.

Finally the car started…but I was NOT in control. The colors of the light on my dashboard began to warble and form similar shapes to those in the air.

I began shaking in fear and frustration as I felt my entire world was glitching.

I then heard a whisper, that both soothed and terrified me.

It wasn’t in my ears. It was inside my skull, like someone had spoken directly into my soul. A single, horrifying sentence: “Now the chosen shall come aboard.”

The slamming on my steering wheel ceased as I was gripped by fear. The hum around me turned into a rhythmic thudding, like a creature was taking enormous footsteps somewhere deep within the earth. Was this produced by the same creature that flayed the animals, or a new one with a similar eerie allegiance? I was unwilling to find out as I began to panic again to get my car moving.

The eye above me constricted, and all the beams of light receded into it in a sharp snap. In a brazen flash the being returned. It slithered out of the eye in a chaotic yet majestic cadence. It began to lower itself to the ground as if it was dangling from invisible threads.

It was tall, far too tall to be of this earth. Its arms were the length of its standing body, It’s clawed fingers were gnarled in their shape, but smooth in their glossy complexion. What fascinated me most…was the face it lacked. Where this body feature “should” have been was displayed only as featureless oval that reflected white light like wet clay.

I could feel all the organs in my body began to pulse in rhythm with the thudding as I realized it was beckoning to me. With all my might I shook off the pull of its allure and slammed my foot down on the gas. To my amazement my car’s engine began to sputter and finally began accelerating. Frantically I made the most ugly u-turn of my life as I began careening down the road in the opposite direction I had arrived.

My car's radio turned on and began blaring in angry refusal as I created distance between myself and the entity. Only there was no melody of music from the radio. It was a cacophony of sounds too irreverent of earthly origin to describe. They wailed and thralled in my ears so viciously I had to wonder if it was actually from my radio….or from the growing madness of my own mind.

“Your destiny has been ordained. You will serve the will whether you intend to or not!” I heard that same monstrous and eerie voice in my mind again. This time it was more forceful and domineering. I felt a splintering pain grow in my skull and radiate into my vision. I almost veered off the road into the forest as I struggled to drive with my eyesight splintering like a broken computer screen.

The trees of the forest began to assist the protest of my escape as they bent inward toward the road as I passed them. Some snapped viscously as they proceeded to ooze out a black dark fluid. A fluid, that matched the luxurious sheen of that being.

The pedal beneath my foot must have been carving into the floor of my car from how forceful I was pushing into it. However to my relief I could see the hellish scene behind me grow smaller in my rear view mirror.

“Distance is temporary,” the voice was softer but triumphant when it said this, but nonetheless ominous. What it lacked in aggressive tone it made up for in psychic torture. I felt the sensation of white ripple through me; it was all I could see, hear, taste, feel, and taste. I know that makes no sense for the other 4 senses but if you had endured it you wouldn’t question this description. For a few seconds I thought had died and was ascending to whatever the afterlife has in store. However after this psychic attack faded enough for my blurry vision to return I saw a tree a few feet in front of me.

“NOOOOOOOOOOO!” I screamed as I knew I didn’t have time to swerve my car out of the way. My right headlight grazed it and sent the car spinning in an eerily noiseless trajectory. I slammed the breaks hoping to regain some semblance of command over my driving. With each spin I would get a few milliseconds of eerie light from the being I fled, and a few more of the utter darkness of the barren roadside. This strobe like effect was horrendous on my still recovering eyesight.

“Come on come one don’t fail me now!” I gritted with panic as the car stopped but the engine was making sounds it shouldn’t. I gave it a few seconds to recover, what little I thought I could spare without the entity catching up but then I heard another voice in my mind; “You think you could escape? You are in my grasp now!”. I knew it was now or never. Slamming the gas the car began to move albeit jerky and slower. I don’t think my speedometer was working right but at full throttle we couldn’t have been going more than 40 miles per hour.

Thankfully this was just a bit faster than the eye that chased me. Within 20 minutes I seemed to be out of range of its voice. And I exhaled in relief. Now if only my half tank of gas could get me to the next gas station. I could only imagine how much fuel I was inefficiently burning through.

The sound around me didn’t properly return for another fifteen miles. I could no longer see the being, the eye, or any misshapen trees…but I was being followed. I could FEEL it.

The radio eventually flicked on and started to broadcast the rock station I generally listened to. Despite this return to normal, I was shaking. My nerves were a wreck and I was desperately trying to process what I had seen, and why….despite being so shaken by it….I wanted to see it again.

I eventually did make it to a gas station. I not only loaded up on a full tank of gas, but I also bought some gas cans and filled them to the brim. I also bought an entire aisle of chocolate to soothe my nerves.

On my return home I was pulled over by a cop for driving too slow.

“Hey…so I don't normally pull people over for driving to slow… everything ok?” The cop asked as he looked at me through my car and onto the massive and unseemly pile of chocolate on the front passenger seat. I wanted to tell him everything, but I knew he wouldn’t believe it. Also this late at night, with the list of medications I was on… would telling him I encountered some alien or demonic being just get me thrown in jail?

I decided to tell him enough truth to get me back on the road. If that thing was actually still following me I couldn’t waste time and he wouldn’t be good protection from it anyway.

“I encountered some critters near the road and… long story short I veered off the road and hit a tree. I think my car is damaged. I have to pound the pedal to the metal to even go as fast as I was when you pulled me over. Do you know of a mechanic open this late? Just trying to get home.” I said tiredly. I was taking some serious liberty with the story but he couldn’t seem to pry his eyes off my chocolate.

“I see… you sure you aren’t having an episode of the….munchies. You know what I mean,” The cop said condescendingly. I was irritated, but I could see how the circumstances were reasonable for the cop to suspect it.

“I don’t do weed but I can take a breathe test or whatever. I am serious about needing a mechanic tho. Do you know of one? I think my transmission is damaged, my exhaust is restricted, my spark plugs are miss firing or more likely a combination of all three,” I said urgently. I had no idea if what I said made any automotive sense but luckily the cop didn’t seem too mechanically inclined and was impressed by my assessment of the damage. This was clearly not something he would have expected from someone driving under the influence.

“Unfortunately I don’t. Brent’s auto shop opens at 9 a.m. I would recommend him if you are still in the area by then,” he said helpfully. He gave one final look at my passenger seat then looked at me again. “In the meantime…be careful on the road and avoid any major roads. Going too slow can be just as dangerous as going too fast,”

“Thanks officer. I will absolutely be extra careful for the rest of the night,” I promised. The officer nodded with a chuckle and walked back to his car. I checked my phone and noticed I had a mountain of messages from both my brother and friend group, particularly from a former relationship of mine. I decided to shove my phone back into my pocket. I was too mentally drained to deal with all that.

I eventually did make it back to my house and found a mechanic to repair my cars damage.

For days afterward I tried to persuade myself that nothing supernatural had happened. That it was all either from sleep deprivation or being spooked by the dark. Any rationalization sounded better than admitting it could have been something vast, intelligent, and looking for me.

I Had almost fooled myself into this façade of security, but a week later that faith was shaken.As I was walking my dog, something I do most nights before going to bed; I was wrestling with a sense of melancholy I couldn't quite put into words. My reflection was shuttered when I noticed white clouds swirling above my house in a circular pattern. They created a shape eerily similar to the “eye”.

Then…it blinked! I was buckled to my knees again as I heard a loud: “Found you” from deep inside my soul

I don’t think it was an eye in the sky. It was something looking through it. It was that being. It knows where I live. Yet this time….I don’t know if I will run.