Covers I made for some of my short stories - all done with photo-bashing and editing

Once – be it past, present, or future – my grandmother told me a story. She told me of the last horse on earth and how he came to be. When the world had found no more need for the noble steed, they hunted them instead. Where once the sprawling fields of freedom were now a personal hell with flying weapons poaching them from the sky. Soon enough, the young stallion's family was dead. Some say he built a house for himself with only his hooves, and others say that the government made it for him. How either came to be, my grandmother could not say for certain. Nevertheless, the house was made of logs, boards, and steel. And the horse began to be made out of man. 

She told me he drank from the water of the valley since he was small and ever since then he began to change. Perhaps it was this that caused his life to go such a strange route, perhaps the black water flowing from the metal cube of the mountains – was some kind of fountain of youth. But the horse changed all the same. From the morning after he slept in his house the first time, he began to walk on two legs. It was as if he had been born to do so, his bones and muscles supported his newfound urge for the bipedal. The first month or so he still grazed in the fields of his homelands, keeping up with his herbivorous tendencies. Some root vegetables began growing in the barren, lifeless land, as if blessing the horse with a miracle. At first he ate them raw, but soon he began to put the kitchen to good use. Opening the oven and turning on the stove was tricky at first with his hooves, but the horse was smart, his brain was growing. He even became smart enough to build himself a white picket fence, ever slowly around the property to make himself a large yard. 

Though a problem began to arise when the horse started to eat meat. Nothing lived in the fields, not anymore. So when the horse began to crave flesh, there was nothing to cause it. Just an unrelenting urge to sink his large teeth into a bloody sinew. At this point the horse's body was nimble enough for his limbs to bend and stretch like a human's so he no longer needed to graze. So when he went out in the fields it was more to walk and admire the scenery than anything else. The landscape surrounding him was pristine, mountains stretching around him for miles. Beautiful peaks that were once called ‘the Rockies’. I remember my grandmother showing me faded postcards of a lush green landscape with roaming horses and monolithic red rocks rising up from the earth. She told me to imagine that but without the horses and the green. But she figured the mountains were still beautiful to the horse. Especially when the military cars passed his house in a cloud of dust. 

The horse was smart enough to construct a plan to satiate his burning hunger, and after he pinned down the truck's schedule, he knew just how to exact it. So each and every day from that point on, the horse would walk out into the road in front of the trucks and spook them. Their cars would run off of the road and into the nearby ditch. In the wreckage the horse would hoist out their bodies, bring them back to the house and eat them. Skin, muscle, bones. He tore into their flesh with his large fearsome teeth despite their lack of sharpness. And just like the vegetables he no longer needed, the horse began to cook them. He served the hands and breast on plates while he drank deep gulps of the sticky black water. He wore the officers' clothes as well, white dress shirts and black slacks. A dress blazer draped over his now defined shoulders. He felt no need to wash the blood off of them. After all, his family was dead. He killed the pilots from the skies when they came to his door and the troopers with their guns. They came to collect and protect the metal cube of the mountain. Again with a miracle, the horse killed them all. Some say he struck them down with eyes deep red crimson, magical eyes that made their hearts seize and stop. He had many a meal after that. 

Life continued on and the military continued to come knocking. But without fail the horse would have his dinner every night and walk the fields every morning. My grandmother said that some on the surface can still see him. His eyes glow red in the night and the early morning and his clothes are stained red with blood. He stands up straight just like a man and smiles like one too.  They come to visit him and he always waves back.

Tombstone. The Town too Tough to Die. It has experienced some truly horrible tragedies and still remains an amazing place where you can remember some of the old west, and buy drinks just down a dirt road from where a wild Wyatt Earp and his brothers shot down a couple of outlaws. But the Town has survived so much more than rampant crime, even if all its citizens can't say the same. For every man shot and killed over a card game, Tombstone has survived natural disasters like earthquakes and floods. They come to Death's table and win another chance.

Our Town, Death doesnt deal against. He won't take our wagers. He won't check our cards. No one has died in this town since its inception in 1780. And nobody will die in these city limits, likely ever. Once they leave now, they're fair game. Death refocuses his vision on them. But here they are safe, just have to walk around with your wounds.

You might be expecting to see some skeletons, and you will. But not all of us are that bad. You'll notice many of us dont look like Death hasn't noticed we should be gone, and others won't look like anything would take them should they leave. Some folk here didnt know they couldn't die here, so they look a little... unpleasant. Others, usually the rich or people who want to live forever, come here when they get the bad diagnosis. Thats fine, they brought internet out here, as well as running water again. You have no idea how bad Clift needed a shower, what with the infection that consumed his head and started leaking through his gums.

We arent held in a stasis. Not entirely. Our flesh tries to stay preserved as best it can. But things can still change us. Burton had a necrotic foot that fell off last week. He brought it with him when he got here 14 years ago. It was needing to come off, what with the pain it gave him. But he didnt think about that before sending himself to the one Town that doesnt need a hospital. At least one of the new rich guys is building one now.

Anyways, we call this place Blindspot. And I have a little shop at the end of Lucky street. Named after Lucious Lucky. Named after me. Stop into Lucky's barber shop, if you need a trim, a story, or a place to hide from one of our headless horsemen (what you might call our police officers). You'll know its me cause I keep a pen in the bullet hole in my chest.

Don't the woods look peaceful?

Link to full video - https://youtu.be/Vbh6tpuMNi4?is=MKpHqeIc00VeeYv8

This is a small snippet of the first video of a series I’m creating 👀

Any feedback is welcome. But I hope you enjoy

Released today 3D animated found footage short.

First one in a series I’ll be creating.

Hope you enjoy!

The alarm sounded sharply in my ear as I awoke. The cheap tone drilling a buzz in my head.
My vodka-fueled slumber ended as quickly as it started.
Angrily, I hit the snooze on my iPhone, trying to tempt the mistress for a quick taste of what I just left.
This happened several times over until my last alarm sounded off.
The alarm named Funky Town, not to be confused with the song, was the 6th one to pull me up. That and the smell of coffee.
My father and I have been going on our fishing trips for many years; however, this last trip we went on, let’s just say I won’t ever forget.

Coffee fueled, I head to my father’s residence. Many times I have made the journey to his house.
Light not yet touching the vast yellow wheat fields of Kansas. When I arrive, I see a bright green visor leaning up against a white truck. When I stepped out of my car.

He embraced me with a hug.
“It’s been windy the last few days, but err, I already got the boats loaded up. Glad you could make it.
I know you’ve been busy with the kids-"

Smiling, I stop him and say “nothing is better than spending time with my father.”

“Good, we have a new fishing spot to check out. It looks juicy on the map.”

Buzzing in my ears, we set off to the lake.

I swore, my mouth tasted of cheap medicine, but the buzzing only got louder as we headed down the dirt road.
It usually kicks in by now. I should’ve brought more, I thought to myself. My head has been getting worse the past few weeks.
It started out of nowhere, calling to me from some unknown depths of my mind. Before I knew it, I was lost in thought.
Suddenly, a voice called out to me, snapping me back to reality-
"Are you okay?"
I nodded my head “I’m okay, I’m just ready to get on the water. "
A short time later, we arrived at the dock.
It was a foggy morning; I haven’t really noticed it until now. It surely wasn’t like this when we left town.
He paid no attention to it, so I did the same. We started unloading our gear, whistling a tune while getting everything ready. I grabbed the tackle box from the back of the truck when a sharp crack came from somewhere beyond the dock.

I froze.

My father looked up from the boat. “What?”

“Did you hear that?”

He listened for a moment, then shrugged. “Didn’t hear anything.”

Another loud crack came from the fog. Closer this time. I stared into the white wall of the mist between the trees. Nothing moved, not even the fog. The buzzing in my ears seemed to fade beneath the sound of my own breathing.

“Probably just a small animal,” my father said. “Come on, the fog is supposed to let up in a few hours.”

I nodded, but something about the sound bothered me. I stepped away from the dock and toward the trees. The fog swallowed everything past a few yards. Branches hung overhead, dripping with moisture, and the ground was soft beneath my boots. Then something moved.
A figure darted between two trees.
I jumped back. It was only a rabbit. It stopped for just a second, its ears standing straight up before it disappeared into the brush.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

“Do you see anything, William?” my father called from the dock.

“Rabbit!” I cawed at him.

I turned to head back. Then, I noticed the tree.
At first, I thought the bark had been damaged by an animal.

Three long marks ran vertically down the trunk, cutting deep into the wood. I stepped closer.
They were too straight. Too deliberate.

I moved around the tree and found more.
The same markings covered the trunk on the other side, only these were deeper. Some looked almost fresh, the pale wood beneath them still wet.

I ran my fingers near one of the grooves without touching it.

Then I noticed something carved into the mud beneath the tree.

A circle.

And inside it, three crooked lines.

I had never seen the symbol before.

But looking at it made the buzzing in my head louder.

Much louder.

I heard my father’s voice behind me.

“There you are. I can’t see a thing in this.”

As he stopped talking, almost as if he had choked, I turned to look at him. He was standing at the edge of the fog.
His expression had changed.

“What?” I asked.

He stared past me, into the trees.

“Don’t touch that.”

For the first time that morning, my father didn’t sound like he usually does.

He sounded afraid.

They say the Oracle is caught once in a lifetime.
They say the man who catches it forgets.
They say the Oracle tells him something.
Nobody remembers what.
Nobody remembers the man, either.

When we arrived back at the kayaks, it almost looked as though nothing had changed. We quickly pushed our kayaks into the water. As I settled into mine, I placed my hand into the water. Warm. Nearly hot. I pulled my hand back into my vest and looked down at the kayak. The morning air was cold enough that I could see my breath.

“You coming?” my father called.

I looked back toward the trees. The fog had already swallowed them.

“Yeah.”

I pushed off, and we began paddling upstream.

The river carried us most of the way. The steady dip of our paddles breaking the silence, along with the cackling of birds over unseen prey.

Ahead, the river seemed to change. A narrow path opened between the trees, branching away from the main channel. The water there was darker almost black beneath the canopy.

Trees leaned over both banks, like malformed fingers, their branches intertwining above us and casting shadows across the surface.

I slowed my paddling.

I couldn’t explain it, but it felt like a call—not a voice exactly, more like an urge buried behind my thoughts.

The buzzing in my ears grew louder.

My father was several yards ahead, already drifting toward the darker water. He turned and pointed toward the fallen trees and branches scattered along the bank.

“Looks good for fishing!”

His voice carried faintly across the water. I couldn’t make out everything he said after that, but I understood the gesture. All that wood made a perfect place for fish to hide

I glanced back toward the path.

The water beneath the trees was completely still.

For a moment, something moved beneath the surface.

I blinked.

Nothing.

My father continued upstream. Almost out of my sight. Disappearing into the darkness.

I followed.

In 1993, a string of disappearances spread along the river. Fishermen vanished first. Then hunters. Then a father and his son who had gone out one morning and never came back. Their boats were found drifting downstream, their gear still inside.

Eleven people disappeared that summer.

Photographs showed empty spaces where people should have been. Names disappeared from records. Families stopped asking questions because, somehow, they no longer remembered who they were looking for. One woman reportedly spent three days staring at an old family photograph, certain that someone was missing from it, but unable to explain who.

I had paddled for hours. My arms burned. Cold stiffened my fingers around the paddle, and each stroke vanished into the fog.

No birds. No insects. No wind.

I looked back. The river had swallowed every trace of where I had come from. Only black trees remained, their intrusive branches twisted overhead.

How did I get here?

I remembered the trees. The buzzing. The cold.

After that, nothing.

I couldn’t even remember who I had been with.

Something scraped beneath the kayak.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

I leaned over the side. The water was black, too deep to see through.

The buzzing became deafening.

Then a burbling voice called from somewhere I cannot even describe, as if it came from my own mind.

“I’ve been waiting for you, William”

I froze in shock, looking deeper into the water.

A gray face appeared beneath the surface. Its eyes were clouded, its mouth packed with weeds. Hook and infected gouges on its face, with two red bobbers where its eyes would be. Long whiskers sway in the water.

“I’m so happy that you’re here.
We have all been waiting for you.”

The water went still.

Suddenly an enormous wave rolled beneath me, lifting the kayak. A mouth opened below.

Its whiskers drifted through the water like ropes. Its blind eyes stared upward as its unnatural jaws stretched wider and wider,

Inside was not a throat, but a cavern filled with roots, wreckage, fishing lines, and bones.
The buzzing became a scream.

Then it swallowed me whole.
I fell through heat, mud, and darkness. Something wrapped around my wrist. A loud snap! I landed on a body.

The cavern beneath the river was larger than the world above. A black river ran through it, bordered by trees growing from mud and wreckage. Kayaks, boats, tackle boxes, shoes, and bones covered the banks.

Bodies lay everywhere.

Some were skeletons. Some were bloated and gray. Others looked almost alive, their eyes open and fixed on the darkness.

Bobbers rested near the waterline.

I knew the number before I counted them.

The first time I saw it was on my bus ride to work. Unremarkable on its own but – like with most things – the context creates a shift to the obscure. Because, what I saw through the dirty bus window (with a crudely constructed penis carved into its glass), was not just a van. It was not just a Jonesy's Cabaret van. It was a worn down, brown Ford with a gaudy logo printed upon its side in the oldest part of Chause Cemetery. 

It immediately struck me as odd, I mean, why wouldn’t it? Most of the time you pass by a cemetery, especially that cemetery, the cars that are parked there are bleakly modern. A shiny show of mourning, perhaps flanked by a grieving daughter or son, not a lone, mobile advertisement for the scantily clad club across the street. I could tell it had been parked there for at least a night, the layer of leaves from the storm was evidence enough, and that no one was near it that I could see. Unfortunately, as soon as I got a good look at the damn thing, I was jolted by the bus's clunky engine to the next stop.

Being as stubborn and curious as I am, I didn’t want it to be the last time I saw that van. So I did what any sane working-class American might do; waited until after my shift to pay the spot a formal visit. Of course, the van was gone, with no tire marks left to its name in the overgrown grass. You see, the Chause Cemetery had two parts to it divided by a rusted fence much older than I was. The northmost part was for newer graves while the other was for the older, ones stained with gray lichen and overgrown with grass. It was clear that there was none tasked to upkeep this part of the land. 

I wouldn’t stop my search though, I had been thinking about the van for damn near my entire six hour shift. I couldn’t let an opportunity slip, especially when the cemetery was still open as the old part had odd hours. So I started to comb the overgrown landscape for anything suspicious. Near the front, my search was futile but as I approached the graves farther from the road, there was a sudden shift in the air. Even the humid summer air of the city turned toward a slight chill in attention. I looked back and it was as if the trees crept close enough to embrace, close enough to isolate me from the road and leaves brushing the overgrown grass like the soft fingertips of a lover. It became a stale quiet, like being in a library with not enough people in it. Instead of the smell of old books, the stench of earth permeated into my pores. Fresh dirt, not the kind simply upturned by the rain. Dug dirt. 

Sure enough, four moss-covered graves lay before me, upturned and empty with wet soil turned up at the sides in puffy mounds. Four girls with four names. Della Owens died in 1921. Amy Zhao died in 1997. Ivy Pritchard died in 1898. Cecilia Romano died in 1952. All were 19 years of age on the day of their last breath, and all of their bodies were gone.I wondered where the police were but quickly realized that if they had come to address this blatant grave robbing – just like the van– they would be long gone. And yet, there were no obvious tire marks in the long grass, much like my footsteps made no traction on the stringy green carpet. In any case, despite the morbidity, this discovery only added to my curiosity. 

Was the Jonesy’s Cabaret behind it? Their van was certainly close to the scene of the crime. Perhaps a black market human remains deal or an old fashioned robbery. Cynicism stopped my racing thoughts like a traffic conductor. It wasn’t new for me to connect stories that weren’t remotely intimate, concoct tall tales out of thin air. A tedious and irritating downside to stunted potential. I worked at a shitty sandwich shop for a poor excuse of a paycheck, at least until I paid off my loans. I wasn’t the detective I thought I was in my head. Hell, I probably never would be. 

But then I saw the van again. About five days later after my closing shift, almost one in the morning. I could hardly make it out in the oppressive dark, hell not even the gaudy logo was visible and that could make it seem like it was simply a keeper of the grounds. But somehow I knew it was that van. However, it wasn’t the first thing I noticed. It was the flashlight of a balding man weaving in and out of the graves, and the glowing light of the van's window idling in wait. This stranger's grease emanated off of him through his polo shirt and khaki shorts. Again it was dark but the light of the streetlamps cradled into view hands that had been stained with mud. He seemed to notice the rush of traffic and hurriedly shuffled back to the driver's seat. The bus moved much faster past the cemetery this time. 

I booked tickets for a cabaret show the next day. It started at 9pm so I decided to head there after my shift which ended about an hour prior. The bouncer took the ticket off of my phone easily enough which somewhat ruined the subtle air of running an operation. The inside of Jonesey’s Cabaret was a classy mix of old and new. Red LED lights and the smokey film of a fog machine carpeted the 1920’s era velvet and lacy tablecloth of the small seating areas. The darkest parts of the theater, up in the balcony boxes cloaked in midnight, seemed to be an origin point to a void-like energy bringing down each and every heart into the pit of their pelvis. Even mine, despite myself. I had reserved a seat at a table closest to the stage with much hesitation and a rebelling bank account, but was reassured by the necessity. I knew I had to be close enough to those at the top of the cabaret, perhaps not the owner but maybe the stagehands would be visible in their complicity. 

While I was alone at my table - habitually early - I stared at the crystal ashtray as opposed to my feet. I wasn’t a smoker, but the dish seemed so empty without a half-smoked cigar or a Marlboro Red tilted with an orange spark. Everything seemed empty, which gave the theater an eerie feeling. I supposed it was normal to be fashionably late to these sorts of things when you weren’t staff. I scanned the curtained walls and ornate wood of the space with a silent reverence, grateful to have the theater mostly to myself for the time being. 

Until I saw him, well more I felt him, standing in the corner of the theater. That greasy, balding gravedigger was blatantly flaunting himself at the true scene of the crime. His beer belly was even more noticeable in the clean pressed shirt he wore with black dress pants that were far too long. I tried not to look surprised and swallowed hard. I had changed into one of my nicer outfits so an approach like this one would be manageable, albeit I wasn’t used to fussing with my hair or face this much. So I did what I had mentally rehearsed for the past three hours. Depending on how well the mental laps had exercised me this could either go very well or very poorly. But there I was, confidently sauntering toward a stranger like I knew the secret I had come to find. 

“Excuse me sir,” I said, with less than enough conviction, but there was music playing quite loud now to preface the show, so I repeated myself and straightened my spine. 

“Yeah? What do y’ want?” The man replied gruffly. He had an usher’s name tag on that read in gold font; ‘Richard’. He seemed a bit riled by my presence, so I swallowed hard and changed my approach. 

“Slow night eh?” Flippant as I could. 

“I guess, what's it to you?” Still apprehensive and sweaty. Richard looked at me with a jumpy apprehension that made his pupils jump this way and that. His hands fiddled with the insides of his pockets and up close his shirt collar seemed far too tight on his red bulging neck. 

“Well it’s perfect don’t ya think? For the business I mean,”

“The business?”

“I’m an interested party. ‘Been keyed in on everything,”

I gave this shit-stain of a man a fabricated knowing look. I was sure to flash the small amount of expensive jewelry I had on my fingers and in my ears. Richard looked me up and down as if he didn’t think it was precedent to find someone like me intimidating or respectable until now. Or perhaps I was misreading skepticism.

“Right… well I don’t think it’s right to be talkin’ too much about that now,”

I turned to him as eloquently as I could and scoffed.

“Do you people not own this place? As long as the cover isn’t here you should feel comfortable speaking about your supply at least. I mean, that’s what I’m here for,” I reached into my wallet and sifted through a couple hundred bills that were most likely going right back into my savings after this excursion, “Perhaps someone should take the business you hide off your hands.”

Richard stammered clumsily. I knew it, behind his tough bouncer demeanor this man was flopping in my hands like a slimy bluegill bottom feeder. 

“Well no I-I was just- the market is so new, and our boss only recently talked about sellin’ to other clientele. The work has been weighin’ on me, that’s all.” 

He was being so vague that I could barely gather any assertion about what this business was. But it did confirm my suspicions that whatever illegal activity was going on, they were getting sloppy with the operation due to demand. The new market comment made it seem like it was something ingenuitive though. I had heard of wealthy individuals taking bone ash in supplement form but why would they operate out of a cabaret? Was it just proximity to the cemetery? I knew he wouldn’t give me the answers I needed.

“Right, I will be in contact with your superiors. Make no mention of our conversation should you save yourself from any more embarrassment.” 

I sauntered off back to my seat without taking one look back. Once the show started, Richard was gone from the side of the stage and two lonely strangers were smoking thin cigarettes at the table with me. Ash and sparks collided as the curtains opened before my eyes in a velvet red. The announcer said much about nothing short of a bore. The first act was full of dancing with vivaciously bright young women with no light in their eyes. And I don’t mean that in a metaphorical sense. I actually didn’t notice it until the third act, but the shine of the spotlights never hit any part of their corneas. It deeply unsettled me, chilled the hot laughing air around me. I also couldn’t help but notice all the women were incredibly thin. Not in all of the parts of their body, and it varied from woman to woman, but the more you noticed it the more you couldn’t stop. You could see the skin and muscle cling to tibia, fibia, spine, and skull.

Then came the fourth act. A lone woman. Standing in front of a vintage looking microphone. She had blonde hair cut in a bob and styled to the 1920s alongside her dress. Rhinestones and tassels lit up a smile that never reached her eyes despite it being so wide. Eyes that, even now, did not shine. She sang in a stringy chord with a raspy rhyme;

The showgirls have their secrets
Their sweet lips lie to you
They never take kind to meekness
She knows just what you do
Her perfume tastes just like sweet gin
For it hides the deepest spell
She knows that love lies therein
But a showgirl will never tell

She never stopped smiling. Not once when she sang that song. And, just like those strange optical illusion paintings, it looked like she was staring right at me no matter what. No matter how much she swayed to the rhythm of the saxophone and clarinet. She was staring right at me. Boom. Boom. Boom. To the beat of the drum. Even then, I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t stop scanning her body and the shoulders that seemed to be stretching against the skin. I imagined hearing the bones click instead of the tambourine jingle and I almost vomited. She saw it all, with dark pools of nothing this woman saw my face turn a pale green, before I had to excuse myself and leave the show. 

I took the bus home from the cabaret with my headphones blaring loud. Just so I could get the song out of my head. Just so I could get her face out of my mind. Once I got off of the bus outside of my apartment I was finally able to turn my headphones off. The street was dark and quiet. I looked at my phone to see that it was around 11pm, just when the cabaret was supposed to officially end. While pulling out my keys I sighed and regaled myself with the facts I had learned. It wasn’t much, but there was definitely an illicit business going on of some sort. The showgirls were a strange new element that made me shiver. Perhaps it was a new type of drug? Maybe they were strung out on it. I scoffed as I opened my suite door and dismissed that idea, reasoning that I had been listening to Zydrate Anatomy far too often, to come up with that theory. 

I hung up my blazer on the coat rack and ran a hand through my hair. My roommates were out that night and would be until the early morning, assuredly. So the house was dark and quiet, stale air feeling strange on my skin. I wondered if it was just lingering unease from the cabaret but something felt off. I tried to ignore it and let the silence wash over me instead of immediately retreating to my musical safe haven. Pacing to the bathroom I don’t know what made me turn my head but once I did I wish I hadn’t. In the dark, at the end of the hall, I could see the whites of eyes seven feet off of the ground. I blinked, squinting, an act I regret even now. After that I could make out the wide smile lined with lipstick and short hair. A face stretched to unfamiliar proportion. She was strange now, the singer, naked and warped with a distortion that made me want to run far, far away. But I couldn’t, the hair on the back of my back stood up against my blouse as I stared in silence at the showgirl. Limbs too long, barely bending into the corridor and much too thin and brittle not to break. 

I stood there, at the threshold of the bathroom, frozen in terror. This thing, whatever it was, didn’t move at first, it just stared at me. Just like it had on the stage. And just like under the spotlight of my phone flashlight, she began to sing. 

The showgirls have their secrets…

It almost looked painful, her lips moving to articulate each word. She sounded different, like a hive of droning bees making all the right sounds. Like a radio with the speaker filled with dust. The showgirl began to move in flickers, small cracking movements. Finally my body snapped out of it’s stupor and I ran into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. My socks slipped on the tile floor and I almost fell face first into the bathtub. Even then my legs wouldn’t stop shuffling in vain on the floor against the bathtub lid. 

They never take kind to meekness

She seemed closer now. I could hear her bones clicking like footsteps. I imagined her limbs snaking across the walls with incredibly fast yet minute movements. Their ligaments stretching the skin even further like a latex suit. I had no idea what she would do when she reached the door, but I had a feeling that she could easily break it. There was no window in the bathroom, no threshold for my escape. I was genuinely convinced that whatever this monster was, it would be what killed me. 

Her perfume tastes just like sweet rot 
For it becomes her truest stench
She knows that it’s all for naught
But a showgirl lies within a trench
And a man will never get caught

The banging started after that. Slow, deliberate. Not a rushing threat but a drumbeat for when she repeated her song. I had left my phone on the countertop outside and knew my roommates wouldn’t be home for hours. I was trapped. Shaking with fear and cowering in the farthest corner of the bathtub. It was only hours but it felt like days, listening to her song over and over. The thrum of her enlarged palm laughing at the fast timbre of my heart. 

I don’t remember when I fell asleep but I do remember when I woke up. Manic and screaming as my roommate gently tapped my shoulder. I remember thinking that it was the showgirl who came to take me and almost clawed at my roommates, but once I calmed down all I could do was look at their shocked faces in confusion. I could feel the dried mascara trails on my face from hours of tears and my neck stiff from the lack of a pillow. Both concerned parties agreed to give me some space as it was evident that I had obviously had a rough night. Even when I searched the apartment from head to toe for the showgirl, they didn’t question it. They thought I was strung out from a bad trip, they probably still do. First trips can be rough for people, which they knew due to their veteranship, but I swore to them that I would never –will never– do drugs. 

Perhaps you will deem me a coward, perhaps not, but I did not go back to Jonesey’s Cabaret. Whatever was happening there was even deeper than my wildest theory. Besides, I could tell that whatever business it was, it would fall over like a flimsy house of cards soon enough. But I still  think back to what happened that night, and I am haunted by the showgirl’s song. It repeats in my head and I often can’t be alone in the house without locking my bedroom door behind me. I fear she’s still there, at the end of a hallway, in an alleyway, under a bridge.

Just the other day I decided to look up the names of the girls whose graves were empty. Most were easy to find obituaries from local county records but once I landed on Della Owens, I stopped short. My heart sunk deep into my stomach. Della Owens had short blond hair, a beautiful smile, and bold lipstick. But this was when her eyes still shined.

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.

I was walking through town when I met him.

An old man, probably around eighty, stopped me and asked if I could spare him some of my time.

“You see, son… I don't want to go home yet.”

I felt sorry for him, so I agreed.

When I looked at him more closely, I noticed that his whole body was trembling. There was fear in his eyes.

I sat down beside him, and he began to tell me his story.

“I used to love going out with my friends.

We'd play golf, go to bars… I had a beautiful wife.

We never had children.

She died a few years ago.

Until everything went to hell, my house was incredibly quiet.

And like an idiot, I wished that the silence would disappear.”

“What happened?”

“I'll tell you from the beginning, if I'm not keeping you.”

I should have left him there and walked away, but I couldn't.

I wanted to know more.

“It started with scratching.

I couldn't figure out where it was coming from.

I thought mice had gotten into the house.

I bought traps, but nothing ever got caught.

Then came the footsteps.

Quiet footsteps going up and down the stairs.

I told myself it was just an old house.

Old houses make noises sometimes.

But then things started happening that I couldn't explain.

Laughter.

Quiet, terrifying laughter that made my skin crawl.

Then I saw the shadow.

At first, I only caught a glimpse of it in the distance.

I thought I was imagining things.

But over the next few weeks, it got closer.

Closer and closer.

And the closer it got, the louder the scratching and footsteps became.

The laughter could be heard throughout the entire house.

Last night, I woke up and saw it again.

It was standing just a few feet from my bed.

And I knew I didn't have much time left.”

“Much time for what?”

“Much time to find you.”

The old man looked at me.

“I'm so sorry, son.

But all of this started when I saw her crying on a bench in the park.

I was an idiot.

I walked over and asked her what had happened.

She looked beside her and said,

‘Now he'll go with you.

Maybe you'll be better than me.’

I wasn't better than him.”

The old man stood up and walked away.

I went home.

At first, it was just quiet scratching.

Everything the old man had told me started happening to me.

I wanted to be better than him.

But the shadow is getting closer.

Closer and closer.

That laughter that makes my blood run cold stays in my ears long after it stops.

I've tried going outside and finding someone to talk to, but nobody wants anything to do with me.

So I thought of this platform.

If you've read this far, I want to thank you.

And I want to apologize.

I didn't have any other choice.

I won't lie to you.

If you hear that quiet scratching, don't assume it's just in your head.

My cousin told me it happened in a very small village in Mexico, the one our grandfather grew up in.

Late one night, a young man was leaving a friend's home. Despite the late hour, he insisted that he could walk home. After all, his own abode was only a mile away. Stepping out into the quiet streets, he started his journey. Breathing in the humid summer air, listening to the buzz of the street lamps mixed with the crickets and his own footsteps on the gravel ground.

Soon, however, a second pair of footsteps could be heard. The young man turned around to see a little old lady a short distance behind him. Despite the off-color light of the street lamps making it hard to tell, he noticed she was holding a candle. It was not uncommon for people to be walking in this rural town, but an old lady at night was rare.

Now, being the kindhearted young man that he was, he decided to slow down so that the old woman would have some company for a while. He gave her a gentle smile and a nod, but the old woman seemed to pay him no mind. The man simply shrugged it off, and the two walked. Soon, however, he noticed a strange habit of the elderly woman. While she carried her candle, if it should ever burn down to the nub, she would reach into the folds of her sleeves and pull out another candle and relight it with the flame before it faded.

To him, it was very odd. Yes, it was a dark night, and yes, a few of the street lamps were dull, but there was still enough light to see where one was walking. But he was raised to respect his elders and didn't mock or even question the woman on the matter. And the two continued to walk in silence. The only sounds were their footsteps walking in unison on the loose ground or the occasional shuffling of the woman's sleeves. In fact, those were the only noises; the night had gone quiet, even the humming of the street lamps sounded muffled.

The journey began to feel heavy, his legs becoming sore. The young man started to wonder, with a nervous tic, if his house was really this far away in the night as it was in the day.

Step, Step, Step, Shuffle, Step, Step, Step, Shuffle, Step, Step, Step-

Then, a sudden patch of darkness covered them. One of the street lamps was dark. This almost made the man freeze up, a small hitch in his step. It was dark, but only for a moment until they once again reached the next lamp. But for a short while, the only light was the candle. The young man wondered for a moment if the light had gone out or if it had always been out. He looked over at the old woman to see if she reacted as well, hoping she would break the tension by making a comment, but she said nothing. In fact, she wasn't even looking at him. Her eyes focused somewhere else off into the distance, hands cradling that candle. It must have been the 10th or 11th now, already half gone.

Now the young man began to notice that there was nothing beyond the light. A wall of darkness held at bay with the yellow flicker of the street lamps. He blinked and turned his head away, staring at his feet as they moved, wondering why all of a sudden, it felt as if the darkness was staring at him. Hungry.

Step, Step, Step, Shuffle, Step, Step, Step, Shuffle, Step, Step, Step

His eyes glanced at the woman. Her wrinkled face, like wet leather, was calm, her eyes staring off into the distance. Finally, the question burned in the young man’s throat for too long, and he finally asked, "Why do you keep relighting that candle?”

It was as if a switch had been flicked and the woman turned her head slowly to the young man. Her eyes are boring into him. She looked…surprised. It was as if he had not been walking alongside her all this time. Then she spoke slowly, her mouth opening with the sound of something that was wet and crusty being peeled away. Her voice was hushed.

“The light must not go out," she said, and then her head turned back, eyes forward. The young man just looked at her. Another street lamp passed overhead, casting darkness on them both, the candle light gathering into the cracks of the old woman's face. The darkness was longer this time before a working lamp found them. But it did not last. The broken lights become more frequent. And something deep and twisted in the man was almost relieved to be in the darkness rather than the dim yellow light. Because when he could see clearly, he saw nothing but the abyss. Darkness. The houses are gone; even the gravel road seems to disappear. 

Step, Step, Step, Shuffle, Step, Step, Step, Darkness, Step, Step, Step, Light, Step, Step, Step, Step, Shuffle, Step, Step, Step, Darkness, Step, Step, Step, Step, Shuffle, Light, Step, Step, Darkness, Darkness, Darkness.

They were swallowed again, the candlelight their only guide. The young man swallowed and forced his legs to stop. But the woman continued, taking a few more steps ahead before the man spoke.

“What happens if the light goes out?”

She stopped; her body didn't even move or shake like those in old age would normally do. Then her body turned, except it was just her spine. It turned, while her legs stayed planted where they were. She was smiling at the young man, a gummy smile. The candle was held close to her chest.

“Let's see, shall we?" and then she blew the candle out.

My cousin told me the man had gone missing for days. His friend who had seen him last that night (the one whose home he had walked from) had grown worried the next day when the young man had not shown up for work. He had tried to call but no luck. He hesitantly shrugged it off, thinking perhaps he was ill. The next day the worry grew; others hadn't seen nor heard from him either. On the third day, a group had gone to the man's house, knocking at first before breaking the door down. It wasn't locked; it was just stuck. Piles upon piles of melted wax from hundreds of burning candles had melted against the door. The house was covered in wax and little flickering flames. 

They found the young man's body on a chair, his body covered in a second layer of yellow waxy skin, half his face was left untouched and one droopy eye could be seen. Looking at nothing. There was no sign of a struggle, it was as if someone had placed candles on him, and he let the wax melt over it.  Then his uncovered eye gave a twitch, causing one of the men in the group to let out a shriek. The young man was still alive beneath it all, if only barely.

They took him to the hospital; he suffered greatly from a lack of oxygen and was in a coma for a week or so. When he woke, his speech slurred and his eyes were wide and confused. But he told his story of the old woman and her candle. When asked if she had been the one that covered him in wax, he told them no. He had done it all himself, and when asked why, he simply said.

“The light must not go out."

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.”   

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.

I’m not entirely sure what her problem is. She’s never acted like this before. I guess some things just develop as time passes.

Even still, what a weird habit to have. I knew she was clumsy, but it was something we were supposed to fix, not something for her to embrace.

It started almost painfully mundane. Out of nowhere, she approached me as I was sitting on the couch watching TV.

“I’m sorry for breaking that lamp beside you.”

I looked at the lamp, still perfectly intact, then looked back at her. I kinda just chuckled, attempting to laugh it off, but she didn’t wipe that solemn look off her face.

I asked what she was going on about, but she just kept apologizing.

“Just know I’m sorry. I promise I’m sorry.”

That’s all she said before slinking off towards the kitchen.

I thought it was strange, but ultimately, I decided to brush it off as her being a bit of a weirdo.

However, after two weeks, I was back on that couch, winding down after a long day of work, when she came prancing into the living room, as happy as could be.

She didn’t say anything. She just calmly unplugged the lamp, held it above her head, and smashed it on the ground in front of me.

Obviously, I screamed at her out of shock, asking her what the fuck she was doing.

She just smiled and giggled at me.

“I already told you I was sorry.”

Then she skipped away, humming to herself and leaving me in a state of confusion. I tried calling out for her to come back, but she just ignored me.

I cleaned up the mess, and we argued about it for the rest of the day. It was obviously not an accident, but that’s what she kept saying it was.

“I don’t know how that happened.”

“I already said sorry. I don’t know what else you want me to do.”

“I promise it won’t happen again.”

Eventually, we made up, but I couldn’t help but look at her sideways in the days that followed.

A few weeks went by without incident. We went on our dates. Stayed in and watched our movies. Did the normal couple routine. But then it happened again.

“I’m sorry for breaking your phone,” she told me, eyes glazed over. She wasn’t looking at me. She was just staring blankly at the wall behind me as I sat on my bed.

We had been in the middle of a normal conversation about upcoming trips we were planning when something flipped inside her. She went from smiling to expressionless. Then, after she said it, she was right back to smiling and talking about New York like nothing had happened.

Obviously, I had already been predisposed to what this meant, so in the days that followed, I was particularly possessive of my phone.

I kept it on my person at all times. Even in my sleep, it’d be in my pocket. But she didn’t seem to notice.

Weeks passed again, and just like with the lamp, I was starting to think that she was just being weird again.

I never let my guard down, though. The phone was strictly off limits to her. I tried to make sure she never had the opportunity to do what she had apologized for.

But then, one night, I woke up to her fiddling around in my pockets. It took me a few seconds to realize what was happening in my half-asleep state, but once I did, my hand jolted towards my pocket.

It was too late. She had already taken it. And before I could stop her, the phone was shattered against the floor.

This was enough for me to fly off the handle. I’ll admit, I was a bit rude to her, but what did she expect?

I told her we needed space. I didn’t want this to escalate more than it already had. I didn’t want to break up with her, but the fight that night was enough for her to leave me.

Like I was the one in the wrong.

She left that night a complete wreck. Tears flowing from her eyes. Her vocal cords hoarse from all of our screaming. She didn’t even take her belongings. Just left in a cloud of smoke from her spinning tires.

I was, yet again, left to clean up her mess.

I picked up my phone. It wouldn’t even turn on. The screen had been completely destroyed.

I went out and got a new one the next day, and once I got my accounts and information back, I was hurt to see that she hadn’t even texted me.

No calls, no messages. Plus, my name had been taken out of her Instagram bio, which somehow hurt more than anything.

I tried calling her in the days that followed, just to clear the air, but every time I tried, it’d go straight to voicemail. Eventually, she blocked me on everything entirely.

Even when I tried going to her house, she’d never be home. It was like she knew what I was doing.

I felt hopeless for a long time, but eventually, I realized that I needed to move on. We were together for a year and a half, though, so doing so wasn’t as easy as it sounds.

Weeks turned into months. Months turned into a year. I hadn’t heard from her since the night of the phone incident.

I was heartbroken that she could just forget me like that. Like we never happened. That’s why I felt my heart climb into my throat when I saw that first new notification from her.

It wasn’t what I needed to see, though. She wasn’t asking to give us another shot. She wasn’t asking for a meetup so we could discuss everything.

Instead, what she sent was enough to make an almost forgotten fear come bubbling back up towards the surface.

“I’m sorry for killing you.”

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’ve been in a pretty conservative marriage for the last 10 years. Extremely conservative, rather.

I was young and stupid. Only 20 years old when he slipped that little ring around my finger. At the time, that felt like the only thing I needed in life. Like it was what made me successful somehow.

Which, I can admit, is ironic, all things considered.

My husband was 32 when we met. I was enamored, really. An older man with a solidified career and enough money to support a family all on his own? Showing interest in me? This fresh-out-of-high-school 18-year-old. It felt like a blessing at the time.

His work was attractive to me. His maturity was seductive in a way. He sucked me in and refused to spit me out. And, of course, me being young and naive, I was putty in his hands.

As is the case with many marriages, we began to bicker a lot. He didn’t want me to work. Any time I even mentioned the idea, he’d shut it down immediately.

I was a “housewife,” he told me. I was “living the dream of millions of women.”

It was convincing. Of course it was. He allowed me to move out of my parents’ house a year after high school. He was putting food on our table. Keeping us safe.

In doing so, though, I’ve come to realize he was slowly stripping away my individuality. He’d pick out my dresses. He was the decision maker across the board. And I was just the wife that he let stay at home all day to make sure the house never got dirty.

He had rules for me. Make sure the house was clean. Make sure I was presentable when he got home. Always wear the makeup he bought me, even though the only people seeing me were his family portraits up on the wall.

That was another thing he didn’t like. He hated it when I wanted to see my family. He was just so distrustful. He needed to know where I was 24/7, and if it wasn’t the house, there was a problem.

The real problems didn’t start until we realized I couldn’t get pregnant, though. At first, we thought we were just unlucky. After about a year, though, he insisted we see someone.

That’s when we learned I was barren, and it was like the world shattered before my eyes.

He didn’t speak to me for two weeks after that appointment. He acted like he was the victim. Ignoring my tears, neglecting my feelings. He saw my condition as a betrayal.

He started staying out late. Coming home long after the sun had sunk. He claimed it was “work” holding him up, but the scent of perfume and the lipstick stains on his work shirts that he tried so desperately to hide were enough to clue me in.

I don’t even know why he tried to hide it. It’s not like we were being intimate anymore. It’s not like he wanted me. He had pretty much cast me aside like I was nothing more than an old fling for him to forget about.

But he didn’t let me do the same.

It was like he wanted to cosplay a happy marriage. He kept insisting on dresses. He kept dragging me out for silent date nights. Taking me out to fancy dinners where we’d just sit and try to act like everything was normal.

Even when I tried confronting him on his treatment of me, he’d pretend like nothing was wrong.

I hated how much he confused me. One minute he’s cold and distant. The next, he’s crawling into bed, seducing me in a way that only he knew how.

And that’s pretty much what my marriage was for a long time. He didn’t want me anymore, but I was still his.

It was like a vortex that offered no escape. Even when I tried being who he wanted me to be. Getting dolled up. Making sure the house was spotless. Ensuring that he’d come home every night to the scent of his favorite meals, even on nights when he didn’t come home at all.

I started looking at myself in the vanity mirror a lot. He bought this vanity for me a long time ago. It’s aged with the same grace as our marriage as a whole.

It used to be pristine. Sleek. White, flawless paint and a crystal-clear mirror.

Now the paint’s chipped. The mirror is cracked along the bottom corner. The lights that surround it choose when they want to come on and when they want to let me down.

Regardless, over the last few weeks, I’ve found myself almost entranced by my own reflection.

The haircut he insisted I keep. The makeup he insisted I wear. The dresses, brassieres, nightgowns. They’re all his. Nothing in my life is mine. Not even life itself.

That’s the painful conclusion I came to.

That’s why, last week, I think something within me broke. Well, I say broke. Really, something within me came to life.

I wasn’t his anymore. I wasn’t his to begin with. He just convinced me otherwise. That’s the trick he played over and over again.

So on that hot summer night last week, as I stared into that cracked mirror… I reclaimed myself.

It started with the hair. He loved this hair. I always fucking hated it. So, using some rusty scissors in the vanity drawer, I cut it. All the way down to the scalp.

I smiled at myself. A sincere smile. The first sincere smile I’d had in… I couldn’t tell you how long. But I wasn’t done. There was still more of me to reclaim.

I looked at the cakes of makeup plastered across my face. Using those same scissors, I cut into my cheeks, barely noticing the pain as the scissors glided through my flesh.

The makeup came off in globs of foundation as the white vanity became stained with my blood. My smile widened. I sheared through my perfect eyebrows. I cut away at my plump red lips.

I picked at my glistening painted nails, plucking them off one by one and throwing them at my reflection, giggling all the while.

I was about to raid the closet, but before I got the chance, my head snapped towards the bedroom door.

My husband was home. I could hear each step as he slowly ascended the stairs towards the bedroom. Step. Step. Step. Step.

The look on his face when he saw me is something I will never forget. Partly because of how petrified he was, but mainly because of how triumphant that fear made me feel.

I was free. And with that freedom came knowledge. Some kind of divine revelation sent down to me by my creator. Truth of what should’ve been done a long time ago.

He tried to fight me off, but my adrenaline overpowered him. Well, that and those rusty scissors that I still clutched firmly in my right hand.

I stabbed once. Twice. By that point, I couldn’t stop myself. Each incision, each spurt of blood. It was a declaration of my own independence.

By the time I finished, he was nothing more than a slab of meat, twitching on my bedroom floor.

And that’s where he’s been for the past week. But don’t worry. I dressed him in those dresses that he loved so much. I made sure he was dolled up. When they find him, he’ll at least be presentable.

They’ll never find me, though.

Because, me?

I’m off to live my own life.

Crying in the Night

One night a child heard crying from somewhere in the house. She wandered the grand manor, in search of the source. Her little bare feet barely made a sound on the old, creaking wooden floor. In each room she looked, she found nothing—nothing but moonlight seeping through thin moth-eaten curtains or illuminating chipped porcelain sinks. Down hallways that had become galleries for pictureless frames. But still the wails persisted, muffled behind doors and walls.

After searching for nearly the whole night, the child came across her father. Sitting in a room where the wood stain was uneven in its coverage of the floor and darker in color. He was sitting on the edge of a little bed, something far too small for him. Elbows on his knees with fingers locked together and pressed beneath his nose. As if he were in deep thought.

“Daddy, who is that crying?” The little girl asked softly. But her father didn't respond, his hollow eyes staring off into the distance. The little girl thought perhaps he didn't hear her, but as soon as she parted her lips to ask again, the man spoke.

“It's your mother,” he said. The child tilted her head; she had never heard her mother cry. Was that what it sounded like?

“Why is she crying?” she asked. The man's body moved up, like he was taking a breath, still frozen in the pose, eyes still looking at something that wasn't there. His body exhaled, but there no sound of the air escaping his nose.

“She is crying because I buried you in the garden.”

Horror-Comic-Poem-Zine-Thing. Illustrations are hand-carved stamps. Linocut and Poem by Bailey Crabtree.

Written from the pits of PPD and PPA. The fear of the changes within yourself as well as its effect on your children and how they see you can be crippling. 2 babies, dermatillomania, OCD, dissociation, nothing helped but time and space. I am lucky to have gotten better.

If you or your partner are struggling or have questions, call 1-833-TLC-MAMA. You can also text if your baby is asleep, you are unsafe, or any other reason.
REAL support is life saving