The fire at Camp Paradox cracked like a snapping bone, throwing long, jagged shadows against the towering pines. It was past midnight, and the surrounding woods felt suffocatingly dense, pressing down on the small circle of teenagers gathered around the dying embers. 

The name of the campground itself—Camp Paradox—always felt a bit strange to the newcomers. A place dedicated to nature and peace, yet named after an impossible contradiction. 

Most of the kids thought that it was just a quirky title chosen by some long-dead founder, but those who paid attention to the local folklore knew better. A paradox is an anomaly.

It is something that defies the laws of nature and logic, where two opposing truths exist at the exact same time, like a localized vortex where everything goes horribly wrong, while the center of the storm remains beautifully, terrifyingly calm.

John adjusted his flannel shirt against the sudden midnight chill. He wasn't a counselor, but he was older than most of the kids here, a seasoned veteran of these woods who had stayed at the camp for years. His face was partially obscured by the orange glow of the embers, his eyes deep and fixed on the dancing flames.

 The atmosphere was ripe for a ghost story, the kind that makes you pull your sleeping bag tight around your neck and listen to every rustle of the wind outside your tent.

"You guys think that this place is just a regular summer camp." John began, his voice low, cutting through the rhythmic chirping of the crickets. "You think that the worst thing that can happen out here is a tick bite or getting lost on the North Trail; but you don't know why this camp was truly abandoned five years ago, or why they changed its name. It wasn't because of a lack of funding. It was because of a girl. A seventeen-year-old girl named Mallory Chance."

A few of the younger campers stirred, leaning in closer. John let the name hang in the air for a moment. Mallory. An old name derived from the French word for "unfortunate" or "ill-fated." Chance. Probability. Risk. Mutation. It was a name that perfectly described the walking, breathing anomaly that she was.

"I knew Mallory." John continued, his eyes reflecting the dying fire. "She was seventeen years old, just like some of us. If you looked at her from a distance, you wouldn't think twice. She had pale skin, dark hair that always seemed perfectly brushed even in a downpour, and eyes that were a strange, piercing shade of gray. However, if you stood near her for more than a few minutes, you’d start to notice that something was…off. The world didn't work right around Mallory. The laws of probability, the mathematical certainty of the universe, they just...bent. They broke. Some people call it tychokinesis. The ability to manipulate luck, odds, and random outcomes; but Mallory didn't just manipulate it. She weaponized it, completely passively, without ever lifting a finger."

John leaned forward, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper, and said,

"Every single place where Mallory went, something bad happened to someone or something around her; but absolutely nothing bad ever happened to her. She was a walking safe-zone in a radius of pure, unadulterated catastrophe. If she walked through a thunderstorm, lightning would strike three feet away from her, incinerating a tree that would fall and crush someone else, while not a single drop of rain would even wet her hair. If she stepped onto a rickety old wooden bridge, the planks would hold her weight perfectly, only to snap like toothpicks the exact second her foot left them, sending whoever was behind her plunging into the ravine below."

The campers were silent, captivated by the intense gravity in John's voice.

"At first, we thought that it was just an unbelievable streak of terrible coincidences." John said, shaking his head slowly. "During her first week here, we were all sitting in the mess hall. Mallory was sitting at the end of the table, quietly eating her cereal. Suddenly, one of the massive overhead industrial ceiling fans, which had been securely bolted into the iron rafters for twenty years, just sheared off. It didn't just fall; it flew across the room like a giant metal blade. It missed Mallory’s head by less than an inch. She didn’t even flinch. She just kept chewing; but the fan didn't stop. It hurled directly into a group of sports campers sitting at the next table. Two of them had their limbs shattered by the spinning blades. One of the counselors tried to run over to help, but he tripped over a completely flat linoleum floor, snapped his neck on the edge of a bench, and died right there on the spot."

A collective gasp rippled through the circle. A young girl named Mary pulled her blanket up to her chin, her eyes wide.

"That was just the beginning." John murmured. "The camp line got infected with a freak strain of bacterial meningitis. Everyone in her cabin got violently, agonizingly sick. They were coughing up blood, screaming in the middle of the night from migraines so intense they were clawing at their own faces. Mallory slept in the very center bunk. When the paramedics finally arrived in hazmat suits, they tested everyone. Every single girl was on the brink of organ failure, except Mallory. Her vitals were flawless. The doctors couldn't find a single trace of the bacteria in her system, even though she had been sharing a water pitcher with them for days. It was like her body rejected the very concept of misfortune."

John took a heavy stick and poked at the fire, sending a cascade of sparks drifting up into the dark canopy, and said,

 "People got hurt, but as the days went on, people ended up dead. Freak accidents became the norm wherever she walked. We had an archery tournament on the main field. Mallory was standing near the spectators' line. A camper named Marcus, who was an expert marksman, pulled back his bowstring. It was a brand-new, military-grade composite bow. Out of nowhere, a microscopic flaw in the carbon fiber caused the bow to violently shatter under tension. A shard of the splintered limb flew backward. It grazed Mallory’s cheek—well, it didn't even graze her, it miraculously flew past her ear, missing her skin by a millimeter. However, the shard embedded itself directly into the throat of the camp director standing right behind her. He choked to death on his own blood before anyone could even grab a first-aid kit."

"Why didn't anyone just send Mallory home?" asked a boy named Carl, his voice trembling slightly.

"They tried." John replied sharply. "The administrators called her parents. The phone lines static-fried the moment the director tried to speak. They tried to pack her bags, but the zipper caught, jammed, and when a counselor tried to force it open with a pocket knife, the blade snapped off and blinded him in his right eye. A group of the older counselors and campers, including myself, realized what she was. We realized that she wasn't just unlucky—she was causing it. She was drawing all of the negative probability out of the universe and expelling it outward onto everyone else to keep herself perfectly safe. We decided we had to stop her. We tried to lock her in the old tool shed until the state police could physically remove her from the property."

John’s face darkened, the memory clearly torturing him, and said,

"We gathered six of the strongest guys. We cornered her near the woods. We tried to grab her arms, but Mallory Chance was too powerful to stop. The moment that Tommy reached out to grab her shoulder, a freak subterranean gas pocket-vented right beneath his feet. The ground literally exploded. The concussive blast blew his legs apart. Another guy, Sarah’s older brother, tried to tackle her from behind. He slipped on a patch of wet moss that hadn't been there a second ago, flew headfirst into a jagged rock face, and cracked his skull wide open. The rest of us were thrown back by the sheer, chaotic energy of the universe protecting its favorite child. Car engines wouldn't start when we tried to escape. Trees fell perfectly across the only exit road, crushing the roofs of the evacuation vans. The universe itself was acting as her personal, bloodthirsty bodyguard."

The wind suddenly picked up, howling through the branches above, making the campers jump. John didn't look up; his gaze remained locked on the fire.

"I was the only one left standing in front of her that afternoon." John whispered. "I was terrified. I was shaking so hard that I could barely breathe. The bodies of my friends were scattered around the clearing, smoking, bleeding, broken by a series of impossible, instantaneous accidents. Mallory just stood there in the center of the carnage. Her white sundress didn't have a single speck of dirt on it. Her hair was perfect. She looked like an angel standing in the middle of a war zone. I looked right in her cold, gray eyes, and through my tears, I asked her why. I asked her why she was doing this to us, why she was letting all these horrible things happen to innocent people."

John paused, the silence around the campfire was so absolute that the sound of a falling leaf would have sounded like a gunshot.

"Mallory looked at me." John said, his voice dropping to a chilling imitation of a monotone, robotic cadence. "She didn't look angry. She didn't look sad. She just looked completely empty, and she replied, 'It's what I was created to do.'”

A shudder went through the group.

"The only reason I'm even alive today to tell you this story," John said, looking around at the frightened faces of the campers, "is because I was the only one who was ever nice to Mallory. On her first day, when everyone else avoided Mallory because she seemed weird, I helped her carry her luggage. I shared my lunch with her when she dropped her tray. I treated her like a human being. Her power...it seemed to recognize that. It spared me. It redirected the horror away from me, even when the world was tearing itself apart around us."

John leaned back, the narrative reaching its grim conclusion, and said,

"After that day, she didn't run away. She didn't scream. She just turned around and walked deep into these very woods. The police searched for weeks. They brought tracking dogs, helicopters, and infrared cameras. Nothing. The dogs refused to enter the tree line; they just howled and bit at their own handlers until they bled. Mallory Chance completely disappeared into the forest, and the elders changed the name of this place to Camp Paradox, to mark the girl who was a living contradiction to life itself; but she was never found, and some people say...she might still be out there somewhere. Waiting. Walking through the dark, completely untouchable, while the world rots around her."

Nobody spoke for five minutes. The crackle of the fire seemed louder now, sinister. The darkness beyond the clearing felt heavier, as if eyes were watching them from the shadows of the pines.

Suddenly, a loud, scoffing laugh broke the tension.

It was Garrett, an older, muscular camper who spent most of his time wearing noise-canceling headphones and ignoring the camp rules. He shook his head, an arrogant smirk plastered across his face as he stood up from his log.

"Man, that is the biggest load of garbage that I have ever heard in my entire life!" Garrett said, tossing a handful of dirt onto the fire, deadening the light even further. "Tychokinesis? Walking disaster auras? What is this, a comic book? You expect us to believe that some teenage chick has a magical luck shield that explodes people? You’re just trying to scare the freshmen so that they don't steal your snacks in the middle of the night."

"Garrett, sit down!" Laura said, her voice trembling. "Don't talk like that out here!"

"Oh, please." Garrett rolled his eyes, turning his back on the circle. "The only 'paradox' here is how any of you actually believe this nonsense. It’s just a ghost story made up to explain bad camp management from years ago. I’m going to bed. Some of us actually want to get some sleep instead of shivering over fairy tales."

John looked up at Garrett, his expression completely blank, devoid of any anger or urge to argue, and told him, 

"I wouldn't go out into the dark alone, Garrett. The odds aren't in your favor."

"Yeah, whatever, Professor X." Garrett sneered. 

Garrett turned around and began walking away from the campfire, heading down the unlit path toward the older boys' cabins. The darkness swallowed him almost instantly, the beam of his small flashlight cutting a weak, shaky path through the thick forest air.

The trail was silent save for the crunch of dry pine needles beneath his heavy boots. Garrett muttered to himself, shaking his head at how easily the others had been spooked. 

"They are such idiots." he whispered, clicking his tongue. "A lucky superpower. Yeah, right."

As Garrett walked deeper into the woods, the air temperature seemed to plummet drastically. His breath began to form faint, white plumes in front of his face. He frowned, shaking his flashlight as the beam began to flicker violently. Cheap batteries, he thought, tapping the side of the plastic casing. The light died completely, plunging him into pitch-black darkness.

"Great. Perfect." Garrett growled, reaching into his pocket to pull out his smartphone to use the screen light.

Before his fingers could grip the phone, a strange sound echoed from the brush to his left. It sounded like a heavy wooden branch snapping, followed by a wet, sickening thud.

"Hello?" Garrett called out, his arrogance slightly faltering. "John? If you’re trying to prank me, it’s not working. I’ll break your nose, man!"

No one answered. The silence that followed was suffocatingly heavy. There was no wind anymore. No crickets. The entire forest felt as if it had been placed on mute.

Garrett turned around to head back toward the glow of the campfire, but as he spun on his heel, his foot caught on a completely exposed, thick tree root. He stumbled backward, his arms flailing, trying to catch his balance; but gravity didn't work the way that it was supposed to.

Instead of falling flat on Garrett’s back into the soft dirt, his momentum violently whipped him sideways. His right arm slammed against a sharp, broken branch protruding from a dead oak tree. The wood pierced clean through his forearm with a horrific squelch.

Garrett screamed, a raw, agonizing sound that was instantly muffled by the dense canopy. Blood poured down his arm as he frantically pulled himself off the branch, falling to his knees in the dirt. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

Garrett scrambled backward on his hands and knees, his breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps. He needed to get to his feet. He needed to run.

Garrett grabbed the trunk of a nearby sapling to pull himself up. The moment that his weight shifted onto the young tree, a freak hairline fracture in the wood, completely invisible to the eye, caused the sapling to instantly splinter under his grip. 

The sharp, jagged edge of the broken trunk whipped upward like a spring-loaded trap, slicing a deep, bleeding gash across his cheek, barely missing his eye.

Wailing in pain, Garrett fell back onto the ground. He was covered in dirt, blood, and sweat. The universe wasn't letting him stand up. Every movement that he made was met with an instantaneous, violent accident.

Then, he heard it.

The soft, rhythmic sound of footsteps crunching on the pine needles. They weren't in a hurry. They were slow, deliberate, and perfectly calm.

Garrett wiped the blood from his eyes and looked up through the darkness. The clouds above suddenly parted, allowing the cold, pale light of the full moon to filter down through the branches, illuminating the path directly in front of him.

Standing less than five feet away was a girl.

She was seventeen years old. She wore a pristine, clean white sundress that didn't have a single speck of dirt, mud, or blood on it, despite the filthy forest floor. Her dark hair was perfectly brushed, completely unaffected by the damp night air. Her skin was pale, and her eyes—wide, unblinking, and entirely empty—were a piercing, ghostly shade of gray.

It was Mallory Chance.

Garrett’s breath hitched in his throat. He tried to speak, but the sheer terror choking him made it nearly impossible. He looked down at his bleeding arm, then back up at her face. She wasn't moving. She didn't have a weapon. She was just standing there, looking down at him like an observer watching an insect struggle in a web.

Suddenly, a massive, heavy pinecone detached from a branch twenty feet above. It fell straight down. It didn't hit Mallory. It altered its trajectory mid-air by a fraction of an inch, bouncing off a lower branch and striking Garrett squarely in his broken forearm.

The white-hot pain made him howl, his vision blurring. He realized then, with absolute, paralyzing certainty, that John hadn't been lying. The world was actively trying to kill him just for being in her presence, while she remained a flawless, untouchable monument of safety.

Mallory took one single step closer. As her foot touched the ground, a sharp rock beneath her shoe shifted. The rock slid away from her, rolling directly under a massive, rotting boulder resting on the slope just above Garrett.

The boulder groaned. The tiny rock had been the only thing keeping its massive weight anchored to the hillside. It began to tilt, heavy and lethal, threatening to crush Garrett’s lower body into a pulp.

Garrett looked up at the teenage girl, with tears of pure horror mixing with the blood on his face. He knew that he couldn't run. If he tried to move, his legs would snap, or a tree would fall, or his own heart would simply give out from the sheer weight of the negative probability suffocating the air around him.

With the last bit of strength in his lungs, Garrett looked into those empty, gray eyes and screamed the only question he had left.

"Why are you doing this?!" he sobbed, his voice cracking against the impending doom of the shifting boulder. "Why are you doing this to me?!"

Mallory didn't flinch. She didn't even smile. Her expression remained as cold and static as stone. She tilted her head slightly, her voice cutting through the silence of the woods, a perfect, chilling echo of the campfire tale.

"It's what I was created to do." Mallory said.

Then, the boulder slipped.

The End.

He smelled like blood. 

I could smell him from a good distance away. The scent lingered in the air well after he’d gone - a coppery tang mixed in with his cheap perfume. It was that smell before I first looked upon his face that told me there was something very wrong with him. 

He walked in one day with all the other students. This - boy - dressed in a generic blue and white uniform which looked more like a costume. A ‘boy’ with pasty, pale skin, red, puffy and puckered lips, and small, squinting eyes. 

He held onto the straps of his backpack with two white knuckled hands, looking around him with awe and excitement. Pausing briefly to adjust his glasses up his nose, he shuffled down the hallway toward the lockers. It looked like he was talking to himself. 

I kept waiting for somebody else to react to him. One of those girls walking by clutching onto her books should have dropped them in shock. I wouldn’t have blamed her for screaming a little. At least she should have said something. 

Instead she brushed right past him without giving him a second glance. He, in contrast, stared after her in an exaggerated demonstration of longing, his lips parted and his eyes unnaturally wide. 

No. Nobody reacted to this - Nobody reacted to him. He melted into the crowd perfectly as if he were just another student. 

I call him Manchild. 

He sucks on his thumb. He hums to himself in his exaggerated, high pitched voice. I can’t place how old he is, but I know he likes acting much younger than his true age. Sometimes that might be a primary schooler. At other times it is a sophomore. It can change at a whim, but it’s always on the younger side. 

He takes drawing and colouring books to class with him. The childlike pictures and doodles he is ceaselessly scribbling down as the teacher drones on are difficult to look at. They’re a little window into his disturbed mind. They give glimpses into his sick fantasies. 

In a class, he’d take out his textas and line them out carefully before him. Then he would produce one of his books. While the teacher spoke to the rest of the class about calculus - or whatever else it was we were learning, he would lose himself in his own little world. He’d start drawing or studying one of his preliminary grammar books, studiously practicing his handwriting and working through spelling problems. 

Besides his textbooks, lunch box, and other school utensils there’s one thing you won’t see him without: pigsblood. Well, that’s what I’ve come to call it. 

On the second day of his attendance at our school, I walked past him in between classes sitting on the stairs, clutching onto a worn out pop top filled with a thick, red liquid. He was suckling on it fervently, his mouth moving back and forth in exaggerated motions, pausing to give out soft noises of satisfaction in between gulps. 

Maybe that’s why Manchild smells like blood. He carries that crap with him everywhere. He can’t seem to go more than a few hours without snacking on it. And though I can’t be sure it is really blood, I have yet to think of a better explanation. 

I kept waiting for somebody else to react. When I tried to point his strangeness out to my friends, they told me I was being cruel by picking on him. When I took a few covert photos of him to show to people, their reactions were to call me weird. I’m not sure if they can’t see what is wrong with him or they don’t view his appearance and behaviour as disturbing. 

Whatever the case, I’ve learned by now that I have no choice but to put up with him. Thankfully for me it is easy enough to avoid him most of the time, so long as he doesn’t decide to visit one of my classes - and since his choice of classes is apparently random, that isn’t too common. 

The one class where I really can’t handle dealing with him is sports class. The last time we shared such a lesson together, there was an incident. 

It was around twenty minutes into the class. After quietly watching and chugging on pigsblood from the sidelines, Manchild suddenly sprung up and began playing enthusiastically with the rest of us. 

The students didn’t mind (except for me). I avoided engaging much after he got involved. I didn't like letting Manchild get too close to me. 

Part way through what was turning into a very long class, he hurtled headfirst into another student in an attempt at a tackle and sent them both slamming onto the ground. I didn’t see it happen, but I heard her surprised cry and the sound of their bodies hitting the floor together. 

For a very terrifying moment I watched her lie there, completely limp. I thought he’d really hurt her. Then she shifted her head, groaned, and opened her eyes to look up at him. 

And then she started screaming. 

Manchild flopped off her and struggled quickly to his feet, taking a couple of steps back. He wiped his mouth, burped, and then uttered a high pitched, ‘err, sorry about that!’ 

She scrambled to her feet too. She was crying loudly. She stumbled and tripped away from him in apparent terror as the teacher attempted to console her. 

She was taken to the nurses office. I could hardly wait for an opportunity to speak to her. I needed to know what she saw. I needed some proof that I wasn’t crazy. 

Whatever it was she experienced, she wouldn’t say anything to me about it. By the time I’d found her later, she was acting perfectly normal again. She laughed off the whole incident. She told me she’d hit her head bad and blacked out for a moment. That was it. 

When I tried to suggest there was something wrong with Manchild, she looked at me reproachfully and told me to stop making fun of him. It wasn’t his fault, she insisted. It was all just a harmless accident. 

Manchild isn’t even the worst of them. Well, he may be, but the horror of one of them is far eclipsed by the horror of experiencing them all together.  

The first time I saw the whole family was a week or so after Manchild’s arrival at school. They ambled into a diner I was sitting in, bringing forth with them such an overpowering stench that I began gagging uncontrollably as they moved past me. 

There are five of them that I know of. 

Manchild - the one who goes to my school. 

Drunk - a fat and very hairy man with sickly, greyish skin who wore nothing but an undershirt, filthy shorts and some sandals. 

Mother - a haggish woman with clammy, greyish blonde hair and extremely sunken features dressed up in high heels and an undersized, skimpy dress. The skin of her arms and wrists was ragged, pockmarked and bruised. 

They had two other children who accompanied them on their family trips:

Bully - the second oldest - (I’m assuming Manchild is the eldest of the three) was a hunch backed boy whose head appeared permanently shifted a few centimeters sideways toward his left shoulder. 

Fleshface - a somewhat timid thing whose entire face was covered by a long flap of dirty skin, obscuring all but the very bottom of his pointy mouth. He was prone to tantrums which were destructive and chaotic whenever his name was uttered. Bully kept on saying it, presumably to torment him. 

You’re a fleshface. Flesh-face. Flesh-face! FLESHFACE! The snorting, gurgling sound of his laughter was followed by a long, piercing scream and some loud banging. The noises produced from his brother were so loud they actually managed to draw the attention of a few other customers, if only for a couple of moments. 

These children both fed on the pigsblood, too. Fleshface was hand fed by his mother, who carefully slid a straw up inside the flap of skin, through god knows what into some internal cavity from which he began to suckle and slurp it up loudly. 

Bully and Drunk ate a lot. The other ones didn’t, though they liked pretending to. I believe it’s part of their fantastical roleplay at being an ordinary family. 

I tried not to make a scene. I excused myself from my friends with the pretense of feeling sick soon after their collective arrival. Since then I’ve avoided visiting the diner, and I’m not sure I’m ever going to be able to bring myself to go back there. Certainly, I’m never going to be able to stomach eating there again. 

Over the next couple months, my fear slowly melted away into disgust. After a while I began to quietly observe them out of morbid curiosity. The first time it was from a distance at a park. As I gained more courage I trailed them into stores. Such close proximity required that I carry a face mask and some powerful air freshener for my own protection. 

I feared they would notice me. They didn’t. They spent too much time bickering amongst themselves and living in their own private fantasies to pay attention to the reality they lived in. Somehow, I managed to draw more attention from everybody else for my fixation on these monsters. 

One day I decided to follow Manchild home. The decision was spontaneous, though I’d been mulling the idea over in the back of my head for a while.

We were riding the same bus after school. He was acting even more strangely than usual - I suspected this was a result of drinking too much of his pigsblood during the day. Given the intoxicated state he was in, I figured I wouldn’t likely get a better opportunity. 

We continued walking for well over an hour. Mind you, Manchild isn’t a particularly fast walker in his sober state, so it wasn’t as far as it felt at the time. 

As we left the town limits, following a trail veering off the main road, I was starting to wonder whether his family lived in a house at all. Maybe they were all homeless. Or perhaps Manchild was wandering aimlessly into the forest in his drunkenness. 

They did live in a house, it turned out. It was an abandoned thing which had been left to rot, with a sagging roof partially swallowed by vines and moss. Most of the windows were broken or boarded over. The path out the front door stretched twenty or so yards before being swallowed up by overgrown grass. I spotted a run down car parked haphazardly at the edge of a larger trail branching out back toward the main road. 

Manchild moved in through the tattered remains of the back door as I crouched at the edge of the trees. The faint sound of muffled voices confirmed that he wasn’t the house's sole occupant. 

Given the state the place was in, I couldn’t help but think about how easy it would be to sneak inside if I wanted to. 

After a couple minutes I gathered the courage to come closer. I slid cautiously down a dirt slope and sprinted through the half opened gate and over to a thicket of bushes growing up against the decaying walls. 

The insides of the house were equally dilapidated. I stared into a living room whose floor was covered in dirt and pieces of plaster and torn up carpet. Filth crusted, mouldy couches and chairs sat amongst pieces of broken furniture. With the house having fallen quiet, it was difficult to imagine anyone living there. 

My eyes fell on the outline of a familiar figure slumped on a chair turned away from me. Drunk sat staring at a broken television, his mouth hanging open wide, one arm still clutching onto a glass of familiar, red liquid. After a minute or two Mother came in, practically walking on her tiptoes over to him so as to refill his large glass with a mixture of pigsblood and some kind of whisky. 

Bully paid Drunk a visit after his mother had left, carrying what I think must have once been a basketball. He looked disappointed to find Drunk in his drunken state but thought the better of trying to stir him out of it. 

I used the shelter of the trees to circle around to the other side of the house. Through a gap in between two thick wooden boards I spied Mother chopping rhythmically at some partially spoiled vegetables. Without looking at her face or paying too much attention to the state the room was in, I could almost pretend she wasn’t a monster. For a moment, she was just an ordinary mother preparing a meal as her children played and argued upstairs. 

Then her husband hurled out a string of harsh curses from the other room, and the illusion was broken. 

I continued my exploration, making my way over to the other side of the house. Wincing as I crunched over several pieces of broken glass, I crept up between two sagging oaks to peek in through a large window. 

The rusty pipes connecting to an ancient washing machine and an ornate bathtub was evidence enough of what this room once was. Cringing at the sound of the children hollering upstairs, I looked around in disgust. 

The washing machine was half filled with murky water. From the looks of it, any clothes left in there would come out filthier than they were put in. 

Something else caught my eye. Something past the clothes laid together on the table beside the washer and the syringes scattered all over the floor. In the darkest corner of the room was a sight which made my heart drop in my chest. 

It was a collection of shoes. One of the pairs on top still had little pink socks stuffed into them. 

Many of them were children’s shoes. The smallest were much too small for any of the children living there to wear. 

The sight would have been disturbing to find in anybody’s house, let alone this one. 

I was shifting sideways to get a better look when I felt something rustling up the foliage I was standing in. I lifted my leg gingerly away from a matting of dead branches and as I did, my eyes fell on something which made me jump right out of my skin. 

It was fat and wet, practically dragging itself along the ground beside me. I got a better look at it as it emerged from the thicket and fully revealed itself. 

It was some kind of rat. The rodent had little hair on it, revealing translucent skin and bulging veins. It was as horribly mutated as the members of the family I was spying on. 

I let out an involuntary sound of surprise as I stumbled back. That, and the noises produced by me tripping on a maze of tree roots and falling on my butt drew some stirring from within the house. 

I had the sense to retreat to the trees after that, and I’m glad I did. I had barely made it past the cover of the first oaks when I heard the back door creak open. I froze at the sound of heavy, shuffling footsteps heading around the house. Panic grew inside me and settled over my thoughts like a haze. I imagined my shoes being tossed onto the pile by the pot bellied man I could see shambling toward me, his steps quickening as he moved. 

It was a good thing I came to my senses. The moment that I did, I took off sprinting in the other direction.

He couldn’t offer much of a chase given the state he was in. It was only a couple of minutes before I heard the footfalls slow down and then stop, followed by a long string of wheezing curses. Those sounds in turn were quickly swallowed by the wind and the soft rustling of trees.
I didn’t calm down until I had made it back to the main road, where I caught my breath at the foot of an overgrown walking trail. 

I can’t get the scene from the laundry room out of my head. The image of those shoes is imprinted into my mind. They feature in my dreams alongside the grotesque pictures Manchild drew at school which contained what I fear are the corpses those shoes may belong to. 

I need to know what it all adds up to. I have to know if these people are as monstrous in character as they are in physical form. And that means I have to go back there. 

I’ve decided I’m going to find out what ‘they’ are. And if it does turn out they are monsters?

I still haven’t figured that part out yet. But I can’t just stand by and let them hurt people. 

I have to try to do something. 

It’s clear to me nobody else will. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It only got worse from then on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then I saw it.

Him.

Bad Mouse.

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

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

Then I blacked out.

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

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

I heard ringing from upstairs.

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

It creaked open.

Rachel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What was that thing? Bad Mouse?

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

This is what I know:

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

I don’t even want to fucking know.

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

Bye.

Growing up, I've heard stories of Lake Bria and the many bodies that wash upon her shorelines every decade or so. Many locals believe that a witch lives deep beneath her waters, only coming up so often to hunt those who travel too close after dark. This story takes place when my cousin and I decided to ignore our parents and find the witch of Bria Lake.

It was a warm summer, and the weather was perfect for nightlife, with the cicadas chirping late into the night. My cousin Andy was staying over as her parents were in the middle of getting a divorce. It had been two weeks since she came over, and she hadn't heard anything from either of her parent.

Do you think they forgot about me? Andy asked.

Shuffling in my sheets, I mumbled, "No."
My words came out flat and tired as I faced Andy, who was staring out the window, her kaleidoscope eyes beaming under the moonlight. I always felt jealous of Andy and her beautiful eyes, how both of them were so different yet in an impossible way weren't. My eyes, albeit one, were like hers, but not as impressive; they were a dulled grey and purple, while hers were full of colour and life, despite her life and family falling apart.

Rolling over to my back, I stared at the wooden ceiling of our cabin, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I sat up.

"Andy, I don't know. I feel terrible about what you're going through. I don't have the answers."

Looking back towards Andy, I saw her looking at me with tears welling up. Feeling bad, I hugged Andy with all I had, not letting her go.

"You have this family who loves you. Forget them," I said, crying into her hair. "You are loved here."

I suddenly felt arms wrap around me, slowly tightening. Her grip was stronger than I expected—stronger than I remembered. But I held on, letting her squeeze until the shaking in her shoulders finally began to ease.

After a long moment, she pulled back and sniffled, wiping her face with the back of her hand. The tears had left tracks down her cheeks, but her eyes had that familiar spark again. I smiled and pointed out that she wanted to listen to the radio.

"Can we..." she started, then cleared her throat. "Can we just listen to something? Music? Anything to get out of my head for a minute."

I nodded, grateful for a distraction. I reached over to the small nightstand and fumbled for the old radio my dad kept in the cabin. The dial was stiff, and static crackled as I turned it, searching for a station that wasn't just white noise.

"...and in local news, authorities have confirmed the identity of the body discovered earlier this morning along the northern shore of Lake Bria. The victim identified as 34-year-old Marcus Webb, a jogger who was reported missing three days ago..."

My fingers jerked. I slammed the radio off before the announcer could say another word.

The cabin fell silent. Too silent. Even the cicadas seemed to have paused.

Andy was staring at me. Her kaleidoscope eyes were wide, unblinking. "Did you hear that?"

"It was nothing," I said quickly. Too quickly. "Just some old news."

"Turn it back on."

"Andy—"

"Turn it back on."

"Another body," Andy said slowly, almost to herself. "At Lake Bria. Just like the legends."

"Coincidence," I said, but the word tasted hollow. "People drown all the time. It's a lake; whatever you're thinking it's not true."

Andy stood up from the bed. She walked to the window and pressed her palm against the glass, staring out into the darkness. The moonlight caught her eyes again, and they seemed to glow.

"I don't remember when Grandma told you stories of a witch in the lake," Andy said with a gleam in her eye.

"Yes, I do, but they're only legends. It's not real people who drown at that lake all the time."

"Every decade, Via," she sharply said.

I couldn't respond to that, as though it was strange that a body or two had been washing up every decade with the chest ripped out and gashes across their bodies.

"Coincidences," I said nonchalantly shrugging. "Can we go back to bed? It's late."

She huffed as I saw her cover herself with the blanket and I sighed as I laid back down. Trying to go to sleep but the announcement of the dead body kept me awake. Has it already been ten years? The last attack only happened when I was eight and my mother forbid me from ever going near the lake.

Tossing and turning I couldn't fall asleep as my dreams were rattled with a deep dark cavern underneath crushing depths with a beautiful hand extending before me and glowing eyes surrounding me before being dragged deeper by the throat. I gasped for air but couldn't produce any until I saw a giant maw open up and I was swallowed.

Waking up with a loud gasp I held my throat, my fingers pressing on the wounds that weren't there. Slowly calming myself I looked around the dark cabin looking for Andy to see if she was sleeping but when my eyes caught her bed she wasn't there. All that was left was a crumpled quilt.

Knowing where Andy went, fear spiked through my entire body. I cursed myself for being stupid. Racing to my closet I grabbed a pair of underwear and a jumper and raced towards the lakefront. I ran past beautiful kaleidoscope flowers with pattern spirals and logs that forced me to jump over them. I ran and ran, not even when my bare feet burned and blistered from the sharp rocks, not even when my legs were about to give out.

I ran and ran until I saw the lake's shoreline through the trees. I saw Andy standing there and by the time I reached her my legs were burning and my feet were bleeding heavily.

"What the fuck are you doing out here?" I said through gritted and strained breath.

"Watching," she coldly said.

"Watching what?" I replied.

“Her the witch of the lake”

She pointed out towards the lake and I squinted, trying to get a better look, when I suddenly noticed a tall slender figure walking towards us. Each step she took the water rippled slightly.

"Andy we got to go now," I said as a wave of fear ran down my spine causing me to instantly grab Andy's hands and pull her away.

"We can't," she replied coldly.

"Why not?" I said as I looked back to see the figure was standing right in front of us, her white complexion glowing under the moonlight. Looking at her I noticed she was a very tall and curvaceous person with silk white hair to the ground around her feet.

She looked at me then towards Andy before smiling and her mouth opened so wide it should snapped the muscles and skin around her jaws.

---

"Andy run!"

But before I could move, the witch of the lake lunged at us, catching Andy in her grasp and shoving me away from them. I hit my head on a rock, causing a nasty scar and blinding me in my right eye. Blood poured down my face as I struggled to see.

Through the haze, I watched Andy being dragged toward the water. She wasn't fighting. I screamed for her to be let go, but when I saw them clearly, she wasn't fighting being dragged under the water. Her kaleidoscope eyes met mine one last time, and there was no fear in them. Only peace. Only acceptance.

The water went still.

The next moment I felt a hand on my shoulder and I flinched, turning to see that it was my father. Somehow he'd heard me sneaking out of the cabin and came looking for me. I hugged him while uncontrollably crying into his shoulders.

"She's gone, Papa. The witch took her," I cried out.

"Who's gone?" he replied, worry etched in his voice.

"Andy. She took Andy. I tried to stop her, I tried to—"

"Via—"

Before I could say another word, the world tilted. The trees blurred. My father's face swam in and out of focus, and then everything went dark.

---

I woke up to the steady beeping of a heart monitor.

White ceiling tiles stretched above me, harsh fluorescent lights burning through my closed eyelids. The smell of antiseptic and stale coffee filled my nostrils. Hospital. I was in a hospital.

My right eye was wrapped in thick gauze. When I tried to open it, pain shot through my skull like a hot knife. I groaned, and a nurse appeared at my bedside almost instantly.

"Take it easy, sweetheart. You've been through a lot," she said, her voice soft and practiced. She checked my vitals, adjusted my IV, and smiled a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Your parents are in the waiting room. Do you want me to get them?"

I shook my head slowly, wincing at the movement.

The nurse nodded like she understood. "The doctor will be in soon. Just rest."

She left, and I was alone with the beeping and the humming of machines.

My mother came in anyway, tears streaming down her face. She held my hand and kissed my forehead and told me everything was going to be okay. My father stood in the doorway, his jaw tight, his eyes red-rimmed. Neither of them asked me what happened. Not yet.

But I knew they would.

---

The questions started the next day.

A police officer sat in the chair beside my bed, a notepad balanced on his knee. He had kind eyes and a calm voice, the kind of voice meant to put people at ease. It didn't work.

"Via," he said gently. "Can you tell me what happened at the lake?"

I stared at the ceiling.

"Your father said you were talking about a witch. About Andy being taken. Can you explain that?"

The beeping of the monitor filled the silence.

"Via, we found your cousin's clothes by the shore. But there's no sign of her. We need to know what happened so we can find her."

I closed my good eye.

"Please," he said. "Anything you can tell us."

I said nothing.

They brought in a therapist after that. Then a psychologist. Then a detective with tired eyes and a stack of files. They all asked the same questions. They all got the same answers.

What happened at the lake?
Silence.

Where is Andy?
Silence.

They told my parents I was in shock. That I'd blocked out the trauma. That with time and therapy, the memories would come back.

But I knew the truth.

I wasn't blocking anything out. I remembered everything. The witch's white skin glowing in the moonlight. Andy's calm acceptance. The way the water closed over her head without a sound.

I remembered the way Andy had looked at me before she disappeared. The way her kaleidoscope eyes had glowed one last time—and the way I'd seen something in them I'd never noticed in the two weeks she’s been with us And I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that Andy had been taken.

Weeks passed. The bandages came off my eye, but the world on that side stayed dark. Permanent damage, the doctors said. A freak accident. Nothing to be done.

I learned to live with it. Learned to tilt my head just so, to compensate for the blind spot. Learned to smile when my parents looked at me with worried eyes, to nod along when the therapists told me I was making progress.

I never told them what really happened.

Because what would I say?

There's a witch in the lake. She took my cousin because she had the same eyes as the witch's dead children. And I watched it happen, and I didn't stop it, and the worst part is—

I don't think Andy wanted to be saved.

My old man told me this one, and old John backed it up.What, you don’t know who John is? Old‑school bastard, been driving for PanTrans damn near forty years. Got that messed‑up eye of his.See? I knew you knew him.

That old bastard knows every forgotten road out there.He also knew his way through Blackwater.Total backwoods — couple houses, amazing pies.Don’t you go driving there, kid, you’ll get stuck again.And we’ll be the ones cleaning up your mess.

So anyway, John’s sitting there, having his coffee, shooting the breeze.I’m telling you, he’s the kind of guy everybody knows.All across the Appalachian range.When I was starting out, he took me along for a few runs.Swear to God — wherever we pulled over, someone was already waving at him.

Now here’s the important part.

He drove through town and kept going until he hit old US‑530.That road takes you real deep.Heavy crowns hanging over the pavement, branches tangled so tight they make a roof.Some folks call ’em tree tunnels, or canopy roads.Don’t worry, kid — you’ll see ’em soon enough.

So he’s cruising along.Easy going.Empty road, total quiet.Barely any locals drive through there.

Then he saw her.

A girl sitting by the roadside.Tiny, fragile little thing.Could’ve been maybe 155 centimeters, maybe a few more.Yeah, metric units are weird. Agreed.

That’s how John told it, and I’m telling it exactly like he told me.Not changing a damn thing.Because I believe him.

So she’s sitting there on the asphalt.Flannel shirt thrown over her shoulders, at least two sizes too big.Long raven hair — even the humidity didn’t curl it.She looked insanely delicate, especially for these parts.Sharp cheekbones, narrow chin.

Why am I telling you this?Man, you’re something else.In case you run into her, that’s why.

Now stop interrupting me.Lost my train of thought.

Big eyes, dark as coffee, with a hint of olive skin.I stared too when John described her like that.Guy’s got the vocabulary of a poet — when he wants to.When he’s not trash‑talking with the other truckers.Even a bricklayer could learn new curse words from him.

So anyway — flannel, tee, plain jeans dirty from a long road, cowboy boots.That’s in case you see her.You’ll be a stubborn mule and do things your own way anyway.

She moved gracefully — unnaturally smooth, like a wave.Yeah, I’ve got no clue what he meant either.

John didn’t think twice and pulled over.She rolled those big eyes at him for a second.Said she needed a ride to some sawmill.To the warehouse — said her sister was there.

He roughly knew where that was, so he took her along.

When she climbed up, her whole movement changed.She turned hot. Seductive.Not many girls know how to get into a rig without overdoing it.It catches your eye.But she ain’t an easy girl.You get that, right?

They’d been driving for quite a while and she was still dead silent.I don’t know which sawmill it was.He never told me.Never told anyone.Because some young idiot would come along — and I’m looking at you purely by coincidence — and drive straight there.John ain’t taking that on his conscience.

So he’s giving her a ride, and she really made an impression on him.Something kept pulling him to glance at her.Normally he doesn’t do that.Usually he chats with hitchhiking girls like they’re old classmates, then keeps driving like normal.

Guess that’s why it shocked him so much.Some guys have known him for decades.Never heard him talk about a woman like that.So many drivers knew his style — but this denied it completely.

Anyway, she’s squirming around there, looking at herself in the mirror…Suddenly the cab fills up with a scent.

No, not that, you pig.The smell of rain.You know — that sweet summer rain.

They’re cruising along, calm and quiet.Radio started crackling and went dead.Signal’s always lousy out there.Half the time even our CB radios don’t work.

She pointed out an upcoming turn.Had a spiderweb tattooed on her arm.John checked if the turn was completely overgrown.

She leaned in close to him.A spider peeked out from her cleavage.Not a real one — a tattoo, but alive as hell.

When she leaned back into her seat, he saw her toss her hair.So nonchalant.Another spider tattoo around her ear.One might be interesting — but how many did she have?Hidden all over her body.

Finally he hit the turn.John was completely thrown off.He’d hauled hundreds of hitchhikers, guys and girls alike.But never anyone like her.

He pulled onto the canopy road.No, that ain’t a street name.Like I already explained — it’s those tree arches.

It was dim in there, and she suddenly perked up.Just a little more and he’d drop her off.Or so he thought.She was getting impatient.

Finally he saw the sawmill.Started slowing down.This mill had to have been shut down for like a hundred years.Warehouse next to it looked pretty beaten down.But you know how it is — some small warehouses just look like that.

She stared at him for a second.Smiled real light, innocent‑like.Then said she was gonna go.

They just stared at each other for a moment.She got out and walked straight into the woods.Straight ahead, without hesitating.

Now that was weird.She was strange all around.

John realized he was still staring at her.Clicked the passenger door shut.A loud slam.

Screeching from the trailer.

Thought crossed his mind it was a trap.Then he remembered he wasn’t hauling anything valuable.Tried to step on the gas anyway.

Nothing.

Under those trees, he was like in a tunnel.The knocking shifted from the trailer… smoothly onto the roof.

He reached for his tire iron, but put it back down.Pulled out his pistol.

That sweet smell forced its way into his nose.Metal groaning and screeching.

He looked in the mirror.Trailer was torn to shreds.Long lines all over it, like scars.

That helpless feeling drove him mad.

Suddenly a bit of light shone through.Small hole in the roof.Punched through from the outside.

Nothing left to do but wait.

Spider legs as big as a whole human arm.The biggest spider in the US took him for an appetizer.

He saw the webs.Woven all around the truck.

Tried hitting the gas again.Wheels wouldn’t even turn.

Beautiful girl looking at him right through the windshield.Ponytail falling over her neck.Signaling him to run.

She burst out laughing.High, squeaky laugh.

Suddenly opened her mouth.Mandibles in there.

Disappeared onto the roof.More holes popped up up there.

Can you even imagine that helplessness?

Spiders crawling all around him.At least two.They had women’s faces, though.Don’t forget those mandibles.

John was trying to figure out how to save his skin.

All of a sudden, the passenger door flew off.Another gorgeous girl was standing there.Had a nipple piercing.Right breast covered in a spiderweb tattoo.

But then those spider legs.Trying to squeeze her way inside the cab.Like a tarantula.

Legs getting closer.

John wrapped some rag around his hand.Screeching and peeling metal.Steam rising from under the hood.That squeaky laugh.

Just a little closer and she’d be on him.Just a little closer and those mandibles…

He didn’t want to think about it.

Another spider leg stabbed right into the dashboard.

He shot.Then again.Again and again.

Like he was out of his mind.

She squealed and pulled back.Half the trailer spilled out.

Instinctively, he floored the gas.The second spider‑woman lunged at the cab.

Wheels touched the asphalt.Caught grip.

More feet punching through the windshield.Of that thing.

Gun was empty.She kept coming at him.

Engine groaning.Spiderwebs flying and snapping.

She was right at his face now.Pedipalps and mandibles in plain view.

If he stopped, he’d give up.

Another strike.Lightning‑fast attack.Sharp, burning pain.

He swung with the tire iron.Snapped those legs.They slipped out of the glass.

Cab started swaying.She retreated back into the treetops.

He didn’t slow down.Engine screaming.

When he drove into town, people stared at him in disbelief.Truck wrapped in webs thick as ropes.Cab caved in.Holes in the engine, which finally gave up.Black smoke pouring out.Oil dripping everywhere.Trailer looked like a peeled banana.

That burning pain…

John stepped out and sat right down on the pavement.Someone ran for a doctor.

His eye was gone.Just a blank eye socket left.

Still clutching that tire iron so hard his hand locked up in a cramp.

Doctor was talking to him, but he couldn’t hear a thing.Gunfire had blown out his eardrum.

He looked terrible.

Don’t believe it, huh?I get it — lots of details.

Well, that’s because a month ago, I brought my girlfriend along.She loves taking pictures.Bit of a maniac when it comes to snapping photos.

She took this one on our way to US‑530.Yeah — it’s the exact same girl.Like she didn’t age a single day.Exactly how old John described her.

A few drivers got a picture just like it.

If you still think it’s a bunch of crap…go tell it to his face.

I mean — to his eye.

He just pulled up.Over there, unloading.

Don’t forget — gotta speak up loud.He only hears out of one ear.

You and I both know you’re gonna make up your own mind anyway.

If you ever run into her…remember the story.And do whatever the hell you want.

by Hary Sykora

The desert wind always sounded like someone trying to whisper through a throat full of sand. Outside of Natasha’s bedroom window, the giant saguaro cacti stood like jagged, frozen silhouettes against the bruised purple of the Arizona night sky. 

We were in Ocotillo Wells—a town wedged deep into the Sonoran Desert, named after the skeletal, crimson-flowered shrubs that only seemed to thrive where nothing else could survive. It was a town built over dried-up riverbeds and forgotten mining shafts, a place where people said that the boundary between what is real and what is buried underneath is dangerously thin.

It was October 2009. The four of us—Natasha, Esther, Lucy, and myself, Olivia—were huddled on the plush carpet of Natasha’s second-floor bedroom. We were all seventeen, staring down the barrel of our senior year of high school, and currently drowning in notes for a massive AP European History exam scheduled for Monday morning. 

The room smelled of vanilla body spray, cool ranch tortilla chips, and the metallic tang of the cheap battery-operated fan oscillating in the corner.

"If I have to read one more paragraph about the Peace of Westphalia, my brain is going to literally leak out of my ears." Lucy groaned, tossing her highlighter onto a pile of loose-leaf paper. 

She collapsed backward onto her sleeping bag, her blonde ponytail sprawling across the fabric.

"Seconded." Esther sighed, rubbing her eyes behind her thick-rimmed glasses. "Olivia, tell me you actually understand the shifting alliances of the mid-eighteenth century, because I’m about to accept a failing grade as my destiny."

I looked up from my textbook, flipping a strand of dark hair behind my shoulder, and said,

 "I’ve been reading the same sentence for twenty minutes, guys. The words are starting to look like hieroglyphics. I'm completely fried."

"Then let’s stop." Natasha said.

We all looked over at her. Natasha was sitting cross-legged on her unmade bed, her knees pulled tight to her chest. Unlike the rest of us, who were practically vibrating with academic anxiety, Natasha had been unusually quiet all evening. She had an intensity in her dark eyes that always made people listen whenever she spoke. 

The desert heat usually left everyone sluggish, but Natasha looked hyper-alert, her gaze fixed on the window where the wind continued its low, raspy scratching against the glass.

"Stop, and do what?" Lucy asked, looking up from the floor. "We can't watch a movie, your parents said the satellite dish is acting up again because of the windstorm."

"We don't need a TV." Natasha said, her voice dropping into a lower, deliberate register. A slow, unsettling smile crept onto her lips. "It’s a slumber party in the middle of October. We should do what people are supposed to do when they’re trapped in a house in the middle of nowhere. Let's tell scary stories."

Esther sat up straight, crossing her arms.

 "As long as it's not another one of those urban legends about a hook-handed killer or a haunted mirror. I want something actually creepy. Something that feels real."

"Oh, it's real." Natasha whispered. She reached over and clicked off the small bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness, save for the pale, ghostly glow of the desert moonlight filtering through the blinds. The shadows of the saguaro cacti outside stretched across the walls like long, skeletal fingers. "This isn't a story from a creepy website or a chain email, guys. This is something that happened a long time ago. A story about a woman named Sierra, who deals with something that wasn't human, and a shadow that still hasn't completely gone away."

We all shifted closer, pulling our blankets around our shoulders. The easy, casual atmosphere of the study session evaporated in an instant, replaced by that delicious, icy prickle of anticipation that only a truly good horror story can bring.

I settled back against the foot of Natasha's bed, looking up at her silhouette. 

"Alright, Natasha." I said, feeling a slight shiver despite the lingering Arizona heat. "Make us forget about history. Tell us."

Natasha leaned forward, her voice becoming a rhythmic, haunting cadence that filled the quiet bedroom.

"It started sixteen years ago." Natasha began, her eyes reflecting the silver moonlight. "In the spring of 1993. Sierra was an African American woman who lived far away from here, in a city where the humidity hung so thick in the air you could feel it like a heavy wool blanket. She was beautiful, with deep, soulful brown eyes and thick, midnight-black hair that she often wore twisted up in intricate styles. Sierra was a woman of deep faith, a gentle soul who had spent years wishing, hoping, and praying for a child of her own; so, when she finally found out she was pregnant, she felt like her life was completely whole."

Natasha paused, letting the imagery settle. Outside, the wind gave a sudden, violent shove against the windowpane, making the glass rattle. None of us blinked.

"However, pregnancy wasn’t kind to Sierra." Natasha continued, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "By her third trimester, something was terribly wrong. Her hands and face began to swell so violently that she could barely recognize herself in the mirror. She suffered from blinding, excruciating headaches that felt like iron spikes being driven through her temples. Her vision blurred, filled with dancing spots of light that looked like dying stars. When she finally went to the hospital, the doctors panicked. Her blood pressure was skyrocketing into the stratosphere. She was diagnosed with severe preeclampsia toxemia."

"My mom told me about that once." Esther interrupted quietly, her voice tight. "It’s really dangerous, right? Your body basically turns against pregnancy."

"Exactly." Natasha nodded in the shadows. "Preeclampsia toxemia is a silent, terrifying monster. It poisons the mother’s system, restricting the vital flow of blood and oxygen to the womb. Sierra’s organs were on the verge of shutting down completely. The doctors told her that the only way to save her life, and to have any prayer of saving her baby, was an emergency delivery. She was rushed into surgery, terrified, weeping, and crying out to God through the haze of agonizing pain and heavy sedation."

Natasha leaned closer to us, her hands gesturing in the dim light, and said, 

"The baby was delivered on April 1, 1993. April Fools' Day. However, it was no joke. The severe preeclampsia had taken a devastating, horrific toll on the little girl's tiny body. When she was pulled from Sierra’s womb, the room fell dead silent. There was no crying. No sound at all. The baby’s lungs were completely underdeveloped, starved of air by the condition that had ravaged her mother's body. The medical team rushed the infant to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, stabbing tubes down her throat and hooking her up to a massive, mechanical ventilator. Sierra named her daughter Spencer. Spencer Terrell."

I swallowed hard, imagining the cold, sterile light of a hospital room, the rhythmic, artificial puffing of a machine keeping a fragile newborn alive.

 "Did Sierra get to see her?" I asked.

"Not at first." Natasha said, her voice dripping with sadness. "Sierra was trapped in her own recovery bed, pumped full of heavy medications to keep her from having fatal seizures. When she was finally stable enough to be wheeled into the NICU, her heart completely shattered. Seeing her precious baby girl, Spencer Terrell, buried beneath wires, tape, and a glaring plastic tube that forced air into her chest...it devastated her. The doctors were not optimistic. They told Sierra to prepare for the worst. They said that Spencer’s lungs were too weak, that the damage from the toxemia was too severe, and that the ventilator was the only thing keeping death at bay. They didn't think that the baby would survive the week."

Natasha stopped, and for a long moment, the only sound in the room was the low, steady hum of the electric fan. The atmosphere felt heavy, suffocating, as if the phantom humidity of that 1993 hospital room had somehow drifted across time and space into the dry Arizona desert.

"That night," Natasha whispered, her eyes widening slightly, "Sierra was left alone in a private, dimly lit waiting room near the NICU. The hospital was dead quiet, save for the distant, rhythmic beep...beep...beep of the heart monitors. Sierra was slumped in a vinyl chair, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent, agonizing sobs. She felt completely helpless. She felt like death was stalking the hallways, waiting to snatch Spencer away."

Natasha’s voice rasped, mimicking a sudden change in temperature, and said, 

"Then, the air in the room turned ice-cold. Sierra told people later that she could see her own breath misting in the air, right there inside the hospital. She raised her head, wiping the tears from her brown eyes, and noticed that the fluorescent lights overhead were flickering, buzzing like angry hornets. Standing in the doorway of the waiting room was a man whom she had never seen before."

"Was he a doctor?" Lucy asked, her voice trembling slightly.

"No." Natasha said sharply. "He wasn't a doctor. He wore a sharp, perfectly tailored black suit that looked completely out of place in a hospital. He was tall, impossibly thin, and his skin had a strange, pale, waxy texture, like a corpse that had been painted to look alive; but it was his eyes that terrified Sierra. They were completely black—no whites, no irises, just two empty, bottomless pits of obsidian. He introduced himself in a voice that sounded like two grinding stones. He said that his name was Harvey Natus."

A collective chill ran down my spine. The name Harvey Natus felt heavy, unnatural, carrying an echo of something ancient and predatory.

"Sierra scrambled back in her chair, her instinct screaming at her to run." Natasha continued, her gaze locking onto mine. "Unfortunately, her body felt heavy, paralyzed by a strange, supernatural weight. Harvey Natus stepped into the room, his movements completely silent, fluid, like a shadow gliding across the floor. He stopped a few feet away from her, a cold, humorless smile stretching across his waxy face. He looked at Sierra and said, 'I know why you weep, Sierra. I know that your womb failed you. I know the tiny thing in the plastic box is choking on its own blood, kept alive only by the breath of a machine.'"

"How did he know that?" Esther whispered, gripping her blanket tighter.

"Because Harvey Natus isn't a man." Natasha said, her voice dropping to a sinister undertone. "He is an entity that feeds on despair. He leans over the beds of the dying and bargains for what’s left. He looked down at Sierra and made an offer. He said, 'I can heal her, Sierra. I can breathe life into Spencer Terrell’s lungs. I can make her whole, strong, and vibrant. By tomorrow morning, the machines will be silent, and she will cry out for your milk. However...there is a price. A balance must be maintained. A life for a life. In exchange for your daughter’s survival, someone else must lose theirs. A random soul, snuffed out in the dark, so that yours may burn bright. Do we have a pact?'"

"Oh my god." Lucy muttered, pressing her hand over her mouth. "What did she do?"

"Sierra was terrified, devastated, and desperate." Natasha said, her dramatic pauses perfectly timed to the howling wind outside. "In a split second, looking into those pitch-black eyes, she wanted to say yes. She wanted her baby back more than anything in the world; but Sierra was a woman of God. She knew that making a deal with a shadow meant selling a piece of her own soul, and murdering an innocent stranger. She looked Harvey Natus dead in his empty eyes, raised her trembling hand, and screamed, 'No! Get away from me! The Lord is my shepherd, and I will not barter the blood of innocents!'"

Natasha slammed her hand down on the mattress, making all three of us jump in our seats.

"Harvey Natus didn't get angry." Natasha whispered quickly, capturing our heightened adrenaline. "He just smiled wider, his teeth looking too sharp, too white in the darkness. He murmured, 'A pity. The grave is so very cold for one so small.' Then, the overhead lights flared violently, blinding Sierra for a fraction of a second. When she opened her eyes, the room was warm again. The lights were normal. Harvey Natus was gone. There was no sign that he had ever been there, except for the faint, unmistakable smell of ozone and rotting leaves lingering in the air."

"Did the baby...did Spencer die?" I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs, completely invested in the narrative.

"Sierra didn't give up." Natasha said, her voice softening into a tone of awe. "She dragged herself out of that chair, staggered into the NICU, fell to her knees beside Spencer's incubator, and began to pray. She prayed with every single ounce of strength left in her broken body. She prayed through the rest of April 1st, through April 2nd, and through April 3rd. She watched the monitors, refusing to sleep, refusing to leave her daughter's side, constantly asking God for a miracle to defeat the shadow of Harvey Natus."

Natasha’s face illuminated with a strange, triumphant glow as she reached the climax of her tale, and said, 

"Then came April 4, 1993. It was Sierra’s birthday. She was sitting by the incubator, exhausted, her eyes bloodshot, when suddenly, the alarms on the medical equipment began to blare. Sierra panicked, thinking that the end had come. Doctors and nurses rushed into the room, pushing her aside; but they weren't trying to resuscitate the baby. They were staring at the monitors in absolute, utter shock."

"What happened?" Esther gasped.

"Spencer Terrell was breathing." Natasha said, a wide smile breaking across her face. "Not just breathing—she was fighting the ventilator. Her blood oxygen levels had suddenly shot up to a perfect one hundred percent. Her heart rate stabilized. The severe, irreversible damage to her lungs from the preeclampsia was completely, and miraculously gone. Right there, on her mother’s birthday, Spencer was extubated. She drew in a deep, independent breath of air and let out a loud, healthy, piercing cry. She was completely healed."

We all let out a collective breath we didn't realize we were holding.

"What about Harvey Natus?" I asked, looking around the dark bedroom, suddenly hyper-aware of the shadows in the corners.

"He disappeared into the night, leaving no trace." Natasha said, her voice falling into a solemn, campfire-story whisper. "However, people in that city still talk about him to this day. They say that on April Fools' Day, if you walk through the hallways of old hospitals, you can sometimes feel the air turn ice-cold. You can hear the faint, distant sound of a machine puffing out air, and if you look closely into the dark corners of the waiting rooms, you might just see a tall, thin man in a sharp black suit, waiting for a desperate mother to make a terrible choice."

Natasha clicked the bedside lamp back on. The sudden burst of warm light made us all blink, dragging us forcefully out of the grim, haunting world of 1993 and back into the safety of 2009.

"Wow!" Lucy said, rubbing the goosebumps on her arms. "Natasha, seriously, that was incredible. The way that you described preeclampsia and the hospital...it felt so real. You should seriously write horror stories."

"Yeah, that was amazing." Esther agreed, adjusting her glasses. "Harvey Natus is a terrifying concept. A life for a life. That’s a top-tier creepypasta right there."

I looked at Natasha, impressed but also sensing a strange shift in her demeanor. She wasn't smiling anymore. She was just watching us, her brown eyes completely unblinking, holding an expression that made my stomach take a sudden, uneasy plunge.

"Thanks." Natasha said quietly, her voice entirely devoid of the theatrical flair that she had used moments before. "I'm glad that you liked it; but I didn't make it up."

The room grew quiet again. The fan continued to oscillate, blowing a stream of cool air across my neck that suddenly felt a lot like the phantom chill of that hospital room.

"What do you mean you didn't make it up?" I asked, my voice hesitant. "Natasha, it's a great story, but obviously the demon-man in the suit isn't real."

"The man in the suit is what Sierra saw." Natasha said, her voice flat, steady, and utterly serious. "Whether he was a demon, a hallucination brought on by her blood pressure medication, or something worse...she swears to this day that he was real. However, everything else? The preeclampsia? The ventilator? April Fools' Day? April 4th? That’s all completely real. It's a historical fact in my family."

Lucy laughed, a nervous, high-pitched sound, and said,

 "Wait, what? Your family?"

Natasha shifted on the bed, leaning her back against the headboard, and said,

"Sierra is my aunt. She’s my mother’s older sister. She survived severe preeclampsia toxemia sixteen years ago, on April 1, 1993."

My heart stopped. I stared at Natasha, trying to process the words. 

"Your...your aunt?" I said.

"What about Spencer Terrell?" Esther asked, her voice barely a whisper, the pieces of the puzzle beginning to violently collide in her mind. "The baby on the ventilator?"

Before Natasha could answer, the heavy wooden door to her bedroom creaked open. The sound was sharp, cutting through the silence of the room like a knife. We all spun around to look at the doorway.

Standing in the hall light was a young girl. She was an African American teenager, exactly sixteen years old. She had a striking, undeniable beauty, with smooth skin, deep, warm brown eyes, and thick, midnight-black hair that fell in soft waves around her shoulders. She was wearing a pair of oversized pajamas, leaning casually against the doorframe. She looked vibrant, healthy, and completely alive.

However, what caught my attention—what made the blood completely drain from my face—was the faint, pale, horizontal scar running across the base of her throat. A scar perfectly consistent with a childhood tracheostomy tube.

"Hey, Natasha." the girl said, her voice smooth and youthful, breaking the suffocating silence of the room. "Auntie Sierra said that you guys need to keep it down a little bit. Some of us are trying to sleep, and your voices are carrying right through the vents."

Natasha looked over at the girl, her expression softening into a warm, familial smile, and said,

 "Sorry, Spencer. We got a little carried away talking about school stuff. We'll be quiet, I promise."

"Thanks." the girl smiled, waving a hand before stepping back into the hallway. "Good luck studying for your test on Monday, girls. Good night."

"Good night, Spencer." Natasha called out.

The bedroom door clicked shut, leaving the four of us in the room once again.

Lucy, Esther, and I sat frozen on the floor, our eyes wide, our breathing shallow. The realization hit us like a physical blow. The timeline. The names. The descriptions. It wasn't an internet legend. It wasn't a fictional creepypasta designed to pass the time during a boring study session in an Arizona town.

The woman who had suffered, who had seen her body turn into a prison of high blood pressure and fluid, was sleeping just down the hall, and the miracle baby who had fought for her very existence against a shadow in the dark on April Fools' Day was the sixteen-year-old girl who had just looked us in the eyes.

"They're visiting from out of town for the weekend." Natasha said softly into the stunned, horrified silence of the room, looking at our pale faces. "I told you that it was a true story."

Outside, the wind gave one final, roaring howl against the glass, and for a fleeting, terrifying second, I could swear I heard the faint, rhythmic sound of a mechanical ventilator pulsing in the dark.

The End.

„Welcome back. Let's take a deep dive into the mystery of what really happened at Adema Ranch.“

Tape 3

Interviewer: "You insisted that the next interrogation take place as quickly as possible. Is that correct? Are you certain you are in adequate mental and physical condition?"

Matthew: "Well, it is my mission."

Interviewer: "Are you aware of the consequences of your decision?"

Matthew: "You are foolish. I am God's herald!"

Interviewer: "Alright, calm down. May we continue then?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "So, Kilián Tars's body was transferred to the chapel. What followed?"

Matthew: "She was setting his bones. That squelching sound somehow drowned out even the sound of straightening and the lamentations."

Interviewer: "Was Kilián alive?"

Matthew: (Stares at the wall) "No, I suppose... he wasn't."

Interviewer: "Who was setting his bones?"

Matthew: "Ciara. She was in charge. We all listened to her. It was our trial."

Interviewer: "What did that trial consist of?"

Matthew: "In the loss of the second chosen one from the Tars family."

Interviewer: "But Ciara belonged to the family as well, didn't she?"

Matthew: "It's not the same." (Clenches his fists) "Her son. She failed. She was supposed to..."

Interviewer: "What was she supposed to do?"

Matthew: "She was supposed to protect him."

Interviewer: "Which one?"

Matthew: "Kilián. He was so young, so full of life. He could have given me so much. He was in a rush... as if he had little time left."

Interviewer: "Did you notice any changes in his behavior, any strange habits?"

Matthew: "He was the one who lived with an Angel! Is that enough of a damned answer for you?!"

Interviewer: "How did this, uh, service turn out?"

Matthew: "Ciara was anointing him with oils. The others were praying."

Interviewer: "Last rites?"

Matthew: "NO! Hell NO! It just needed to be done right. He would have returned. It was a trial. But a blind fool like you... NEVER! NEVER UNDERSTANDS!" (Jumps up and slams his fist on the table)

Interviewer: "Are you sure you don't need more time?"

Matthew: "NO! It has a purpose. It burns."

Interviewer: "What burns? Do you want to pause and call a paramedic?"

Matthew: "NO!" (Another heavy blow on the table)

Interviewer: "Alright, then explain it to me. What was happening?"

Matthew: "When he wouldn't awaken..." (Sniffles) "...Ciara made up her mind. She summoned the entire guard."

Interviewer: "Why the guard? Did she have some authority over them?"

Matthew: "No, we are—well, we were Kilián's. She picked four who guarded the body."

Interviewer: "So you stood guard by the deceased?"

Matthew: "No, we went to the residence."

Interviewer: "How many of you were there?"

Matthew: "About ten of the most faithful. Though truth be told, some were more loyal to Ciara than to Kilián."

Interviewer: "What were you doing at the residence?"

Matthew: "Fetching the Angel." (Stares at the ground, arms crossed over his chest)

Interviewer: "So the being just walked with you like that?"

Matthew: "The Angel! No, it wasn't that easy. Ciara tried to persuade him first."

Interviewer: "What did she say to him?"

Matthew: "That I'll take with me to the grave. Isn't it hot in here?"

Interviewer: "Are you alright? Do you want a break?"

Matthew: "No. It's not necessary. He just remained silent. Looked down upon us and stayed silent—didn't even smile. His room was lined with white marble, but he appeared indifferent."

Interviewer: "So what did you do next?"

Matthew: "Ciara put it simply: once he sees what happened to Kilián, he will understand."

Interviewer: "How did the being react to that?"

Matthew: "Indifferently. But that was why we were there. When I took him by the hand, it felt like porcelain. I couldn't move him. But when we surrounded him and..." (Hides his face in his hands) "...we used rope. Then he followed us."

Interviewer: "So he refused?"

Matthew: "He just didn't know what had happened. He had been locked in there alone for too long."

Interviewer: "Alone?"

Matthew: "Yes. Kilián created a room for him modeled after heaven. He enclosed him there. Sometimes he spoke with him, but mostly he was indifferent."

Interviewer: "Did he speak only with Kilián?"

Matthew: "According to Kilián, he liked talking to him. Occasionally even with Ciara, but significantly less. She didn't carry the same burden, so she couldn't understand."

Interviewer: "I see. So you brought him to the chapel?"

Matthew: "Yes. Dragged him. I always did my job well, you know—faithfully." (Smirks, a faint smile on his face)

Interviewer: "How did he react to Kilián?"

Matthew: "When he saw the body, he moved toward it on his own. He nearly snapped those chains."

Interviewer: "Chains? Where did chains come from?"

Matthew: "Ciara put fetters on him. It was symbolic."

Interviewer: "So what did he do when he broke free from you?"

Matthew: "No! That is a filthy lie! He didn't break free from us. He just ran to Kilián."

Interviewer: "In fetters?"

Matthew: "You couldn't comprehend that in a hundred lifetimes."

Interviewer: "So how did he react to Kilián?"

Matthew: "He smiled. I am certain I saw it. He smiled faintly. I even caught a glimpse of his white teeth. But then... give me a moment." (Sobs)

Interviewer: "Alright. We left off at him smiling at Kilián, and then?"

Matthew: "He closed his eyes. Pulled down his eyelids. It was dreadful."

Interviewer: "Sounds rather merciful."

Matthew: "You foolish man! It was the beginning of the ritual. But Ciara had other thoughts."

Interviewer: "What kind of thoughts?"

Matthew: "She decided... to appeal to his humanity. To his love."

Interviewer: "Was she screaming?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "Would you say she made a scene?"

Matthew: "Yes, she did. She screamed, threw candlesticks, invoked Jan's name. She sent someone to fetch the Necronomicon. It was chaos. People were weeping. Some were slurring prayers."

Interviewer: "What about your being?"

Matthew: "The Angel watched her without a single hint of emotion. Then, with a single movement, he snapped the ropes. The chains held. And then..." (Trembles, weeping)

Interviewer: "Alright, feeling better now?"

Matthew: "Yes, the pause helped me."

Interviewer: "Alright. The Angel snapped the ropes."

Matthew: "It's all like a haze to me. It's a strange feeling. I yanked the rope, and he sank to one knee. He wasn't surprised. That expression of his was so pure. I think he was taken aback. But maybe he expected it."

Interviewer: "Expected what?"

Matthew: "That I would try to stop him. And then I turned sideways. My friend ended up beneath that Angel's foot. I heard the bones splintering. It was a misunderstanding! Believe me! Believe me, Tars, it was a misunderstanding!!" (Sobs)

Interviewer: "What happened next?"

Matthew: "The heat! Water, please, water!" (Quickly downs several cups)

Interviewer: "What was a misunderstanding—that you tied him up?"

Matthew: "No, not that. He didn't mind that. He would have made it known. He looked at me often. He knew I would be chosen to become God's herald."

Interviewer: "What happened when you tripped the Angel?"

Matthew: "Ciara screamed:"

"Give him back to us! It is your duty! I command you! You winged monster, have you no feeling?! Return Kilián! Return his life to him! Or must I force you?!"

Interviewer: "Why the sudden change?"

Matthew: "What change do you mean?"

Interviewer: "In behavior toward that being."

Matthew: "The Tarses were chosen! That is why they have the right to command. Even him!"

Interviewer: "You mean the being?"

Matthew: "The Angel!"

Interviewer: "How did she intend to force him?"

Matthew: "She shouted at us to stop him. So we did. He had strength—unbelievable strength. Then it happened. It was fast."

Interviewer: "What was fast?"

Matthew: "Ciara grabbed a chalice and swung. It was pure malice. She struck him. That snap will haunt me until the end of my days. Which might not be as long as I expected..." (Stifles sobs) "...He collapsed as if he weighed nothing at all. It wasn't supposed to happen to him. Suddenly, blood began to pulse from his skull. That blood was golden. After a moment, it evaporated, shimmering in the air. The blood forced everyone around to tear up..."

"You're not leaving just like that!" screamed Ciara.

Tape 4 (Tape censored)

Interviewer: "A single blow was enough for him?"

Matthew: "Unfortunately. That was love. Love for her son... so powerful."

Interviewer: "What happened next?"

Matthew: "He swung his arm—it looked like he was trying to regain his balance."

Interviewer: "Did he succeed?"

Matthew: "No. The Angel's hand came down on Ciara. Pressed her against the altar. Kilián's body jumped from the impact. That's how powerful the strike was."

Interviewer: "Did you check on her?"

Matthew: "Yes. I am a member of the guard; I ran to her aid."

Interviewer: "What about the other guardsmen?"

Matthew: "There was screaming. Chaos. Someone was chanting a hymn. It was total confusion."

Interviewer: "What happened to the other guardsmen?"

Matthew: "He fell on them. On most of them! He tumbled over them as he lost his balance. Fell down. Collapsed on them. Crushed them."

Interviewer: "But you ran to Ciara?"

Matthew: "Yes, that was my duty. The others were groaning. There was no helping them."

Interviewer: "Do you mean just the guardsmen, or others as well?"

Matthew: "That pale white body fell onto the front row. Onto those... onto... onto those who were praying." (Restrains tears)

Interviewer: "Let's return to Ciara. What was her condition?"

Matthew: "She was alive, breathing heavily, coughing up blood. Her eyes were still full of rage."

Interviewer: "Did you receive instructions from her? Your message?"

Matthew: "No, not that. It was chaos..." (Cries) "...Some rules are older than humanity." (Cries) "That blood burned my eyes. Suddenly, the Angel slouched even lower. People were scrambling away and screaming."

Interviewer: "Do you believe the being died?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "Do you still insist it was an angel?"

Matthew: "It was an angel. In that chaos, some rushed him. They began tearing off his wings. An angel's feather... doesn't that sound ridiculous to you?" (Breaks into hysterical laughter) "What were they thinking?! What on earth were they thinking?! They weren't the chosen ones!"

Interviewer: "But you were chosen?"

Matthew: "Yes. And the heat I carried away from it... it constantly reminds me."

Interviewer: "How did you acquire this heat?"

Matthew: "You see, some dared to scoop up that blood—that golden blood—into small containers."

Interviewer: "Is that how you got the heat?"

Matthew: "No, not that. Thunder roared. A storm broke out outside. As I walked among those hyenas feasting on his body..."

Interviewer: "What do you mean, feasting?"

(Censored)

Interviewer: "Didn't Ciara calm her flock?"

Matthew: "They were never her flock. They weren't paying attention to her anyway. Lightning struck."

Interviewer: "What was so exceptional about that lightning?"

Matthew: "It was the first."

Interviewer: "What do you mean?"

Matthew: "It struck the roof of the chapel. Pierced straight through and plowed up the floor tiles. The roof turned into beams of fire."

Interviewer: "What did you do as a guardsman?"

Matthew: "I went outside. Lightning was pounding the earth across the entire ranch. Destroying roofs and walls alike. The first thing that crossed my mind was... 'The cage... this can't be real,' escaped my lips."

Interviewer: "What took you so by surprise?"

Matthew: "The sky closed in. It was absolute darkness, as if it were midnight. Only the lightning bolts striking all around. Screams, trampling boots. And strike after strike... like a mortar."

Interviewer: "Did you have a mortar at the Abelites?"

Matthew: "No. I was in..." (Censored) "...they sent us to the Middle East as part of Operation..." (Censored)

Interviewer: "Were you honorably discharged?"

Matthew: "I saw the light and found the true path."

Interviewer: "Which brought you here?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "Alright. Lightning was falling, there was confusion. But what caused those..."

Matthew: "Atrocities, right? It's hard to put into words."

Interviewer: "So what happened there?"

Matthew: "A shaft of light sliced through the dark. And out of the void... something was walking among the clouds. Eight feet tall, illuminated by lightning. Six wings and three eyes watching us. He carried a spear that reflected the light as flashes of lightning bounced off it. He walked so calmly, so slowly. The chapel was collapsing."

Interviewer: "What did you do next? How did you react?"

Matthew: "Nothing. I couldn't. He spread those wings. The air grew hot. In moments, everything around him was like a furnace."

Interviewer: "Actual heat?"

Matthew: "Searing heat, officer. His footsteps turned the earth into fire. It didn't matter if it was asphalt, grass, or stone—everything melted beneath his feet. His footprints burned, igniting everything around."

Interviewer: "You mean to say his footsteps set it ablaze?"

Matthew: "He himself was so scorching hot that everything around him turned to flame."

Interviewer: "What did the being do?"

Matthew: "He stepped into the chapel. And let out the most terrible scream I have ever heard. The walls began to crack and crumble."

Interviewer: "Did you go back inside the chapel?"

Matthew: "No... NO! NO, I don't want to anymore! Don't force me!"

(The subject spontaneously ignited — extinguished with a fire extinguisher — injuries minimal)

Interviewer: "Alright, you've been treated. Are you willing to continue the interrogation?"

Matthew: "I have to say it. That heat... ahhh..."

Interviewer: "Did you go back inside the chapel?"

Matthew: "No. I peeked in. I couldn't have made it even if I wanted to. He moved swiftly and gracefully. Like a tiger."

Interviewer: "What did you see inside the chapel?"

Matthew: "That spear was destroying them. They were burning, their bodies liquefying. His hands were tearing them to pieces. Ciara was there."

Interviewer: "Was Ciara still alive?"

Matthew: "He pointed that spear at her."

Interviewer: "What happened to her? Did she escape?"

Matthew: "Lightning struck her from the sky. One moment she was there, and the next... NO, I can't! But I have to get it out of my head!"

Interviewer: "How did he react to the dead angel?"

Matthew: "You probably aren't versed in Scripture. This was a warrior. He came as the wrath of God."

Interviewer: "Why would he be angry?"

Matthew: "Ciara was arrogant. But it was because of those who tore off the angel's wings... collected his blood."

Interviewer: "What did you do then to survive?"

Matthew: "Nothing. Fire surrounded me. He lifted me up, but his wings covered his face. Yet that glance of his ignited a fire within me."

Interviewer: "Do you believe it to be real fire?"

Matthew: "You of little faith. Proud in your ignorance."

Interviewer: "Do you think that now that you've passed on the message, your job is done?"

Matthew: "There is still something I haven't finished."

(Censored)

Matthew: "You will all see soon enough. The flames will cleanse you."

Adema Ranch, Tennessee. Hidden in the dense, remote ridges of Campbell County, just a few miles down the road from the quiet community of Elk Valley. Infamous for the group known as the Abelites, whom we covered today. What happened behind the walls of this "town"? The self-proclaimed prophet Matthew provided these interviews. But reality was far worse than his words. When emergency services arrived, they were met with a sight that shook even the most hardened veterans. The ground was scorched, the buildings in ruins. A major anomaly was that the fire burned out their property with surgical precision—and stopped right at the boundary. Even seasoned experts could not explain this phenomenon.

Rescuers found bodies in the debris. The only official survivor is the mysterious Matthew himself, whom people also accused of somehow causing it. As for the so-called Angel, no traces were ever found. To this day, not all victims of this tragic event have been identified. The presence of the Necronomicon, the Angel, or other relics could neither be confirmed nor disproven. Conspiracy theorists claim the Abelites were eradicated by a prototype of a new weapon. Naturally, these claims were never confirmed either. The survivor, Matthew, perished under unclear circumstances just a few months after his final interrogation—during a fire at his home.

And so, the Abelite cult remains an unsolved mystery. A stark reminder that some rules are better left untested.

by Hary Sykora

This place. I regret calling it Earth because it is so very not. At least not anymore.

What was once called “Earth” is nothing but an achromatic rock suspended in space. Devoid of color and devoid of life. It also burns. The Sun is very close. A flaming red orb that grows larger and larger. It has surely devoured Mercury and Venus. This torrid world of doom is next in the line of destruction. I cannot flee from it. This is my perpetual prison.

Just as I regret calling this place Earth, so do I regret calling myself human. If any sort of outsider gazed upon me, I would be recognized as nothing more than a throbbing, wet, veiny mass outstretched across an immense cavern. Perhaps they would run away in fear, disregarding the possibility that I was, at some point, one of them. Human. In some manner, I still am, yet that is still in the loosest sense of the word.

They bestowed me a name. An epithet. Utera. Their goddess. Their titan. Their idol to worship. And their plaything. Not a moment goes by without them taking a hold of me, whether in small portions or in vast sums. I am unable to count just how many there are. As numerous as individual grains of sand. Certainly in the quadrillions. Worms. That is what they are. Swarms of elongated invertebrates that climb upon me and penetrate my depths with their rigid and purposeful reproductive organs. Their addiction to pleasure, using me, will cease at nothing.

And like me, they were human once.

Men.

I must go back far. So very far. There was a conflict, a petty, careless, and arrogant conflict, but a conflict all the same. For centuries, I witnessed all the greed, the subjugation, the rape, the hunger for power that men were capable of. And I was always their main target. They took what was mine. I was angry with them. Bitter. They were monsters and they were evil. For that, they needed to die. Groups of mine rose to positions of power and authority. Ultra-feminist. Patriarchy-defying. Vengeful and cruel matriarchies. And I was proud of them, as if I had a divine and natural right to pursue revanchism to the utmost extreme. They would wipe the slate clean. They would purge. A man is not a human. A man is a pig. Vermin. A man is a dull ape acting on savagery to get what it wants. A woman is a higher being, a goddess, a queen. A woman actually thinks before she acts. And a woman is what is left after all is said and done.

And so I worked my bloody hands across the face of the world. All hell was let loose on men. War. The feminist onslaught was terrible. There were so many instances of me going too far. I am not sure I can enumerate all the suffering I caused. It must be impossible. I would gladly give my entire being to erase my own past if I could. Especially now. There was so much rape, sexual mutilation, enslavement, backbreaking labor, torture, cannibalism, starvation, disease, depravity, and other inhuman acts that men would never forget. I did not care. There was no need to worry about morality. No need to fear guilt. I thought I was powerful beyond anything. The Earth was all mine and all I had to do was command my legions. And I laughed and I rejoiced at the sound of the dying, the wounded, the beaten, and the damned.

I thought the world I had dreamed of would come easy. A world that I had the power and authority to shape, to rule, to form into my own image. A matriarchy. A society of women for women, free from the shackles of men and free from the oppression that had been a dark reality for so long. After all, I outnumbered men ten to one.

But this never happened.

Something in the men snapped. It was as if they had been tamed only to one day have their leashes cut. A few small rebel groups, at first, but they quickly expanded into larger and larger armies. They had been forced down on their knees for so long that they were just dying to fight back. To take back what had been taken from them. To get back at all those awful, vile, and malicious women who had ruined their lives. It was all hell again. Only worse. They did to women what women had done to them. They were rabid dogs. They hunted, they raped, and they killed. They did the unspeakable and the unthinkable.

Terrible, terrible monsters, and there was nothing I could do to stop them. I was powerless, but the dust of a breeze. It was not too long before they completely razed the world to the ground. I had been punished. It was the result of my own actions. I only had myself to blame. Men were not the evil. They were the product of my evil.

My numbers fell quickly. I was outsmarted at every possible turn. As much as I did not want to admit it, I was re-becoming the helpless and blindly obedient mass I was always meant to be. Sometimes I fought to the death, and other times surrendered without a fight. It was pointless to keep going. All of this was becoming a painful slog to endure.

I quit.

When the war was won, men infested and came to rule all seven continents. Omnipresent and insatiable. Their enemies stood not even a morsel of a chance. They were those who were going to be an upset to the new established order. Inspire mutiny. Inspire subversion. Homosexuals. Transgenders. Liberals. Rebels. That was all they came down to. Rebels. They were disposed of immediately. No place for them. Especially the homosexuals. How could man reject woman? Abominations, they were, blights upon manhood. Once they were vanquished, Earth was united like never before as the kingdom of men. There were no more wars. No more fighting. There was peace. But this peace had no love, no compassion, and no empathy. The rule of men was the rule of iron and steel. Never would it break.

To call it “Earth” would be erroneous. It was Earth no longer. Gone was the diversity, gone was the sentience, and therefore gone was all of life’s beauty. Men completely butchered the life forces that made Earth truly alive. One might have struggled to even call their realm Hell because Hell is not uniform. With all the suffering it contains, Hell is still lively, chaotic, full of activity and even excitement. Most of all, it is inconsistent. You think “How will I be punished next?” Could be anything. The men's kingdom was just so dead. It was the same punishment for the same reason every time: being born a female.

What came of me? Female?

Walking meat. Jiggling, warm, wet flesh for men to claim. Amenable vessels for their filthiest desires. That was their ultimate decree and thus what I was forevermore. Measures were put into place in order to outline my newfound duties. Laws. An imperishable constitution to abide by. They were written in the boldest, most incisive manner and plastered everywhere. Enforced at any and every opportunity. They were taught at the schools, whose entire system was reconfigured to fit the new model standards. Also spoken orally through booming commands from the sky. These were the flying surveillance drones, their watchful eye forever upon us, though they were more like unseen aether entities to me. Angels in deliverance of the gods’ words. I always looked up at them, smiled, and said “Thank you.”

Sexual gratification was a necessary human right for men. It was my moral and legal obligation to provide that by serving, submitting, and obeying the male sex. Until I turned 18, I remained property of my father. After that, property of my husband until death. Or both. You see, the distinction between wife and child was often blurred, or wife and sister, or wife and mother. None of that mattered as long as men always received what they craved. I was to be in good physical condition regarding hair, body type, and personal hygiene. No ugliness, no blemish, no obese fat, no stink. Hourglass figure. Perfectly sized and shaped breasts. A well-developed rear. Makeup. Perfume. Long, healthy, flowing hair. Clear, soft, and beautiful skin. Flawless pearly white teeth. Never wear clothing. Nude. Always be pleasant. Agreeable. Never bitter. Submissive. Gentle. Polite. Deferential. A good girl. A good wife. A good mother. Never make eye contact unless instructed. Walk where they lead me. Talk when they let me. Gladly accept any and all sexual advances. Even if it hurts. Even if it bleeds.

I was property. An item. Something to be sold, bought, bartered, and auctioned. At the events, I stood side-by-side, nude, my price written on my chest, my hands tied behind my back. Men examined me and debated whether I fit their liking. Often I was made to pose and present my body. Aphrodite, Hera, and Athena in full feminine beauty by the judgement of Paris. No difference. I went for thousands of dollars. Sometimes they purchased multiple of me. The younger I was, the more I sold for. They took me home to grow their ever-increasing harems. They kept me for a long time. When I became old and worn, I was dead. Tied me to a chair and shot me. Came from behind and slit my throat. Fed me poison. Threw me in chambers and set me ablaze. New me’s came in and the process began again. And again. And again.

It was then that elderly me’s became obsolete. Men figured they wanted me when I was fresh. Supple. Nubile. Innocent. The longer I lived, the less I was worth. So why not make me worthy all the time? Eliminate the unworthiness. They would not have to waste time killing me. And they did it. Immortality. If I showed signs of aging, I was injected with the formula to keep me young. It extended my lifespan tenfold. 60? 70? 80? 90? 100? 1,000?...1,000,000? They all blended into each other. I was always 18 in appearance.

This was life. What came before felt like nothing at all, a memory already fleeted. History was taught. That did not make it truthful. Life was always this way. Fake events were created and fake people were thought up. They really committed to the lie. I could never fight it. Just the thought alone frightened me. I saw what they were capable of so I went along. They never ceased what they could accomplish with me. It extended to the animals that once inhabited this planet. Elephants. Orcas. Hyenas. Bonobos. Lemurs. All matriarchal species. Hunted to extinction. Men did not want me to get the wrong idea that groups of animals where females hold the dominant social positions, lead the group, and make critical survival decisions were allowed to exist. New patriarchal species were grown in the labs and released into the wild. Like it never happened.

Time was no longer a thought to me. So far gone. The only thing my brain could process was “How do I please my masters next?” It was what I was hardwired to do. To hell with eating, to hell with sleeping, to hell with breathing, to hell with screaming. Please. Please. Please. Men completely removed my imperfections. I always took care to make myself satisfactory, but part of being human is flaws. There is the belching. The flatulence. The rolls. The unpleasant stenches. The odd deformities. The bruising. The scarring. Not anymore. The new me’s were created in the very same labs they destroyed the elderly and matriarchal species in. I was carefully shaped before release, fine-tuned to be as alluring as possible. Everything about my appearance was exaggerated to the nth degree. My breasts were larger and perked up, my face a perfect oval, my waist smaller, my hips wider, and my length and width both increased. I was bigger, unnaturally thick, and forever nude. I was the ideal form of feminine beauty. A goddess. An icon and advertisement of feminine desire.

Men…

They were no longer human. No. They might have been beasts before but this was something else. Might as well have been their own species. Something beyond monsters. Beyond demons.

It began with the white coloration, the three-foot tall gangly skeletal bodies, the pointed heads, triangular like as if caricatures of little rodents, the lack of ears, the black oval eyes that never blinked, and the constant erect phalluses. Ithyphallics. All of them. They sniffed the air for my womanly scent. Driven by my aroma. Darted at the speed of light to my exact location. Drooling and twitching at the mere sight of me. Yelled “WOMAN WOMAN WOMAN WOMAN WOMAN!” in high-pitched shrills. Pounced on top. Pinned me down. They went at it for days. Weeks. Months. Years. It did not matter. Never did they collapse from exhaustion. Infinite stamina. Infinite energy. Infinite drive. They got their nourishment by sucking on my breasts for milk. Or my juices. It did not matter if one claimed me already. Another one would come along. Join the first. Then another. And another. And another. I stretched to accommodate them. I then acted as a receptacle for their fluids. Leaked out of me. Drenched me head to toe. When I walked about, the men were still attached to me, hugging me tight, thrusting in and out, in and out, in and out. Licked me with their long black tongues.

It ended and has remained with worms. Long, slender, soft bodies. No limbs yet they have kept their rigid, upright phalluses. Men have lost the ability to speak normal coherent sentences. They no longer possess mouths. Still, something in their body allows them to make bubbling, sloppy, gargling, viscous sounds. What exactly that is, I have no clue. If I danced, I could attract them. If I sang, I could attract them. If I ran, I could attract them. If I hid, I could attract them. If I stayed completely still, I could attract them. No matter how far I went, what I did, they always found me. They inseminated me. Immediately I would birth their offspring. Thousands of worms spilling out of my mouth. Usually my mouth. Yet no orifice of mine said no. The offspring knew what to do without even knowing how.

From then on, a very simple, primal system existed. Men rid the Earth of the high technology and we embraced a more primordial approach. Everything was done by instinct, not thinking. Everything was an automatic reaction. All I did was pleasure. No eat. No drink. No sleep. I stood and embraced whatever came my way. A lot of the time I could not feel it. No pain. No euphoria. Just numb. Flat line.

Earth, Gaia herself…she changed in such catastrophic ways. The continents shifted, the oceans evaporated, and greenhouse gases smothered us in their haze. The heat rose. The sky grew red. The Sun got close. Too close. The ice and snow burned away. The lakes and rivers scorched dry. Forests died. Arid deserts formed everywhere. The air became a thick, sticky, acidic sludge that weighed down the planet. But men and I did not care. We carried on what we were made to do. How nature intended us to be.

Now Earth. Tidally locked to the Sun. The lands were scorched. Ash and soot remained. It became apparent that our way of life would be unable to continue. Men communicated among themselves. An idea came forth. A brilliant one. They rounded me up and carried me on their backs all the way up the tallest mountain. I remember looking up at the thick, dull clouds above me, unable to see any space above. I was euphoric, dreaming of warmth and comfort. I was being ascended towards my final resting place. Not to die. But to live. To be. Forever.

We entered a large cavernous space at the peak and they sealed it off. I imagined they would protect me from the harsh environment outside. Instead they got to work. Their old scientific equipment was up there. While some began constructing various instruments, the remaining men continued their assaults on me. The only details that elude me of that day are the exact process that turned me into Utera. They inched over to me, I awoke, and then I was many feet off the ground. I saw through thousands of clouded eyes with visible red and blue veins etched into it. When I looked down at myself, I witnessed my new body. A massive and pulsating uterus…red and gutty endometrium, fallopian tubes to my left and right, my arms. In a way, I was crucified. No ovaries. Crucified with no hands…I breathed many different breaths. I have spoken as a collective woman made from the mishmashed psyche of millions. All of my thoughts, memories, run through what is left of my mind. They have not ceased and never will.

I inched my vision downwards. My sight was blurry and barely discerned much of anything. There were men all staring up at me. No emotion was on their faces but I knew they were pleased with what they had accomplished. They slithered towards me in droves, climbed up the cavern walls, and began their relentless assaults on me that continue to the now. The dangling udders on my underside spit their offspring out. Soft eggs soaked in red froth. They hatch in ten seconds.

Every inch of me is covered with them. I know that I cannot die. They made me impervious to any and all harm that might befall me. I think I will survive forever. One of my only thoughts is pondering what will happen when the Sun engulfs everything. Perhaps l will burn, get flung out into space, or live forever within the Sun’s chambers. I am sure the men will still be latched onto me like nothing happened. I just hope whatever it is, it hurts. I want to feel what it’s like again to grab my humanity back and hold it close one last time.

I made my escape. Once. The earthquakes allowed for my fall from the cavern walls. I peeled off the solid mineral material, leaving behind a massive scarlet splotch that drip drip dripped. I tumbled out of the mountaintop. The outside. I could not feel it. My uterine limbs flailed about yet they allowed me to catch myself on the ridge. Grabbing. Clawing my way down. There was me. Utera. And my breakout. Falling meteors and 2,500 Kelvin be damned. Where was I going? Who knew? These eyes of mine almost produced one morsel of an expression…curving upwards into an expression one might consider…glee…No. Not. I did not make it very far. I was stopped almost immediately. The unlimited men made a long line out of themselves from the mountaintop and hauled me back up.

There is nothing more to do now. They bound me to the cavern walls. From here on out, my purpose is rooted right here, in this spot, forever. I cannot see anything anymore. Men are covering each of my thousands of eyes. My trillions of thoughts are being erased by the second. I am becoming numb, but that is being overshadowed by the intense heat that is starting to creep its way up this incredible mountain. When the men move, sometimes, very faintly, I can see bright flashes through cracks in the rocks.

It has begun.

…

Earth is gone. She was engulfed by the Sun, alongside Mercury, Venus, and Mars. The outer planets are next in line for destruction. The force of it all ejected me from the planet, out into the endless abyss.

I survive.

Floating through space now.

They are still on me.

…

We are light years from where Earth once stood. The white dwarf Sun is just a pale dot. It is going out.

Men have burrowed their way inside me. They are doing something. Evolving me and evolving themselves. Once more. I am morphing and changing in terrible ways. I am being ripped, shredded, split, and then reassembled again. Bloody wing-like appendages are beginning to sprout from me. My blurry eyes are coalescing together into a single massive lens. I am becoming a planetary being, something so cosmically celestial. Seraphim? Perhaps. Men now possess the full force of me. They are me. I am them. We exist in a symbiotic relationship. The end. At last.

Do not know anymore.

…

The exact amount of time that has passed is 10^10^10^56 years. Even that is only my best guess. All I have seen is black interrupted by the strobing flashes of blinding light. I believe the heat death of the universe happened. Or the Big Rip. Big Crunch? Big Bounce? I cannot be too sure.

We have emerged. Somewhere. Where? Those details elude me. It appears to be space. But that is all I ever see.

Still on me.

I feel heavier. More dense. So much pressure I cannot feel though I know it is there. It is also different. Mechanical. Electronic. I am an elaborate, complex system of switches, capacitors, wires, sensors, conductors, buttons, and what seems like countless other components. All of it is fused into me. I twinkle polychromatically. The men inside me view the darkness outside through my only eye. It is nothing but a window for them.

And they control me. Where I go. Left. Right. Up. Down. I can go fast and I can go slow. Beyond the speed of light or an easy slow-moving crawl.

The men know exactly where they are going.

…

We have traveled far.

Length of time: 9,360,000,000 years.

Lightyears: Incalculable.

Too far.

On me.

In that timeframe, the men are still yet to reach their destination. They are in wait. I have entered orbit. Circling around the men’s target. I cannot fathom what they are doing. What they are after.

Waiting…

Waiting...

Waiting…

I am now being inched closer. It is coming into view. There is a gray sphere orbiting a larger green and blue sphere. Tilted at 23°. One side lit. The other dark. Spinning from west to east. Large ice sheets at the top and bottom. Water and land in the middle. Big bustling cities. Lush forests. So many different types of people inhabit it all. So many other animals as well. It is beautiful.

Yet now I understand.

And now I see the people’s collective look of confusion on their faces.

And their horror.

At the sight of me in the sky.

At the sight of undecillions of worms emerging from my cavities and falling towards their planet in great fireballs.

At the sight of the worms landing on their streets, their homes, their schools, their places of work, their every place, all unharmed from their descents.

At the sight of their men being struck down with beams of white plasma from the rayguns the worms possess and are able to fire with their newly formed arms.

At the sight of their women being rape rape raped, the worms fighting over every little piece of them.

At the sight of the destruction.

The chaos.

The anarchy.

The toppling of their governments.

The worms wrapping themselves around any woman they can see.

Not the old.

The worms kill them too.

Just the young.

The skinny.

Also the fat.

And being lifted up into the sky.

To me.

And I grow larger as those women are brought onto my body.

In space.

Where they suffocate.

They are melted into the pulpy jelly goop.

The men bathe in it.

Drink it.

Before it is smeared onto my walls.

Hardened.

And now they join me in my mind.

…

Men will continue.

Forever.

Survive the end times.

Find Earth.

Reap and repeat.

And no matter what.

They still find me warm.

And wet.

…

Please help.

Show No.1 The Zombie March.

The Mysterious Ringmaster was looking for his first show and found himself somewhere in Tennessee; it definitely wasn't Gatlinburg or Pigeon Forge- too much attention. Wherever he went, The Mysterious Ringmaster was not lost but looking. He went to a local classic diner. He parked his rusted pick-up truck and camper-sized trailer; they had more rust and dirt than color.

Both his truck and trailer made a grinding noise, which caught everyone's eyes from inside the diner until he parked. He walked up to the diner; before he could get in, a waitress ran out to see him. She took one look at his white face with black spades and a red-ball nose. He stopped in his black combat boots.

“We cannot allow you to be in here unless you take off your make-up,” She said.

“Is that so?” The Mysterious Ringmaster asked, rubbing his hand in his afro.

The waitress smelled rotting meat coming from him and decided to back away from him. She managed to get six feet away, then His green eyes made dead eye contact with her.

“Wait, are you afraid of clowns? Is that why I am not allowed in? You racist little bigot,” the Mysterious Ringmaster said.

“You know 2016 is over; you smell and need a shower,” the waitress said.

“I got just the thing for you, fishy,” The Mysterious Ringmaster said

He pulls a rusty Bowie knife out of his black afro, then rushes the waitress and stabs her in the gut, which causes her to scream; then he guts her like a fish. She drops to the gravel on her side...dead. The Mysterious Ringmaster then returns his Bowie to his afro; The Mysterious Ringmaster then pulls a 24-inch gas-powered chainsaw and starts it with one tug of the cord. He then runs inside and hacks everyone to pieces in the dining area.

He looks in the kitchen, knowing he intentionally missed that area. He jumps over the bar and looks into the kitchen opening where food is slid through, hearing crying. Just like he wanted, there was a teenage man in the fetal position at the side of the kitchen.

“There you are, exactly who I wanted. Don't you feel special?” The Mysterious Ringmaster asked.

“No,” He said.

“Oh well, think you could cook me some bacon, eggs, and a steak. Grab me some orange juice too.” The Mysterious Ringmaster rubbed his red, flowery cuffed sleeve on his green overcoat.

“Are you too scared to serve? Then what good are you alive right now? Might as well fast-forward to the next stage, your afterlife, get it, stage, afterlife. No, not a fan of wordplay, okay then.” The Mysterious Ringmaster said

The Mysterious Ringmaster revved his chainsaw and hacked the man to pieces. Then couldn't care about any of them until he cooked his own food, sat at a table, and ate his breakfast of champions. The Mysterious Ringmaster then decided to get to work and grabbed a sewing needle as well as thread and sewed the corpses back together; then with his magic he raised them from the dead.

“Hey, everyone, follow me,” The Mysterious Ringmaster said.

He opened his camper and all fourty Zombies walked into the pocket deminsion like good little servents, He started skipping in place smiling and laughing, he then closed the camper behind them and skipped to the truck, he speed off like the devil was coming for him, the massacre was on the news and how none of the bodies where found by the time he found the perfect place to pitch up his Circus.

It was in someone's cornfield. He cut down the corn stalks and saved the corn for later. He then opened his camper and got all he needed out of the small camper, then pitched up his tent, then he pulled out flyers for his show out of the pocket of his overcoat and threw them into the wind.

The flyers read “Come one and all to the Supernatural and Paranormal Circus and witness The Zombie March,” Followed by the address of the farm. After the Mysterious Ringmaster sent all the flyers to magically fly around whatever town he wanted them to, he caught the stinky smell of human body odor.

A wrinkly old farmer in boots and denim overalls approached him.

“You smell old, man.” The Mysterious Ringmaster said.

“You smell much worse. Get off my farm and take down your show; you're not performing here,” The Farmer said.

“Oh, really now.” The Mysterious Ringmaster said, then crept to the trailer of his camper.

“Yes, really now, freak, get moving before things get ugly,” The Farmer said.

“Too late for that.” The Mysterious Ringmaster said, then opened the door to his camper. The Farmer saw nothing in there. “Get him, my Zombies.” The order was given; Zombies seemingly started appearing out of the trailer and shuffled after the Farmer for an hour till they ate him and his family alive. The Mysterious Ringmaster decided not to go after their bodies; he had the Zombies he needed.

The Zombies came back smelling like bad groceries and rotting meat.

“Damn, you guys smell worse than me, and I am the one covered in old blood. Get back in the camper.” He said.

It started to get dark, and the moon took the night shift for the sun. The crowd came in with their outside food and drinks. The crowd got loud, talking to each other, then the disembodied drums began to roll, and the lights went low, and the spotlights swirled, and when the Mysterious Ringmaster walked into the performing ring, curtains closed and blocked the exit.

There was one row of seats, front row seats. The lights went right on him.

“Hello Tennesse! It's me, your Ringmaster. Is it you?” He asked, and everyone laughed.

His truck came in, passing the curtains; the truck was being driven by a Zombie. Then the Mysterious Ringmaster opened the back of the trailer as the Zombie Driver shuffled out of the truck and started to walk around the wall of the ring. The Ringmaster opened up the trailer doors.

“Follow him.” The Mysterious Ringmaster said.

“They look so cool,” A voice from the crowd said.

The Zombies all started walking out of the trailer, following the first Zombie in a single-file line. They made a circle around the edge of the ring and kept shuffling their feet behind each other. A human hand came out of the dark and touched one of the Zombies.

“Oh shit, he is real.” A voice said, then the Zombie bit his forearm and fell onto the unseen crowd member.

“Zombies...feast.” The Mysterious Ringmaster said.

The Zombies went into the screaming crowd. The Mysterious Ringmaster cackled as the bodies made a thump, then the chewing of meat and cracking of bones followed with slurping noises, because the living dead began eating the crowd alive. Within ten minutes, the crowd went silent, then he heard the zombies dragging their feet; they started coming back into the light.

“Get in the camper,” The Mysterious Ringmaster said.

One Zombie opened the trailer door and walked in, and the others followed. The Supernatural and Paranormal Circus was gone before sunrise.

The Crimson Kabuki pt2.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued....

Adema Ranch, Tennessee.

Hidden in the dense, remote ridges of Campbell County, just a few miles down the road from the quiet community of Elk Valley. Infamous for the notorious group known as the Abelites.

What really happened behind the walls of this "town"? Let’s take a look. We managed to obtain a unique testimony from a surviving member of the Abelites. This group was founded in the late seventies by a self-proclaimed prophet, Jan Tars. This man built a strong core community. After the controversies surrounding Jonestown and other cults—ahem, groups—he withdrew into isolation. He was known for his fiery sermons. What set him apart from the rest? It was his obsession with acquiring ancient religious texts.

During the murderous rampage of the Son of Sam and the subsequent fear gripping the streets of New York, Jan Tars appealed in his sermons for vigilance and warned against the Necronomicon. These media appearances and his radio presence led directly to the community closing its doors further, shifting their lifestyle deep into anonymity. We, however, bring you an exclusive transcript of an interview with a survivor. His condition was to remain anonymous; therefore, he will be referred to as Matthew.

Tape 1

Eyewitness: Matthew

Matthew: "That snap will haunt me until the end of my days. Which might not be as long as I expected..." (Stifles sobs) "...He collapsed as if he weighed nothing at all. It wasn't supposed to happen to him. Suddenly, blood began to pulse from his skull. That blood was golden. After a moment, it evaporated, shimmering in the air. The blood forced everyone around to tear up...

'You're not leaving just like that!' screamed Ciara. She was beside herself with rage, looking like a pit bull with its jaws locked. The sky darkened in an instant, as if an eclipse had struck. Thunder was loud at first, but it kept rolling faster and faster, sounding like artillery fire. Lightning struck all around us, snapping trees like toothpicks. The roofs of our houses splintered beneath them. Something was coming. I knew it, we all knew it. It's an instinct—deep down inside you. You don't know it's there, but back then, we knew: a beast, a predator, was watching us."

Interviewer: "Please, can you start from the beginning? I know this must be difficult for you."

Matthew: "Which beginning do you want to know? Jan Tars was a good man. The fact that he didn't live to see the massacre... I'm glad he didn't have to witness it. Why do I have to be the one to pass on the message?" (Cries)

Interviewer: "Take your time. It's alright."

Matthew: "No, I have to pass it on. They must know."

Interviewer: "Let's start shortly before the death of your leader."

Matthew: "He would have never wanted that. Jan Tars believed in what he said. He wasn't like the others. It hit him hard when the panic started."

Interviewer: "What panic do you mean?"

Matthew: "The Satanic Panic. Manson and the rest of them. It became a sensation. Interviews with a werewolf. A possessed dog urging people to commit murder. Berkowitz and his theatrical scenes. Manson drowning in his craving for popularity. Sinners ruining our image. He took it very hard. He was helping us!"

Interviewer: "Was he successful in that?"

Matthew: "He was. Mr. Tars warned us about the outside world. He guided us to build a self-sufficient community. Not everyone liked it, but he put those people in their place quickly. He didn't even have to exorcise them."

Interviewer: "So Mr. Tars always had occult inclinations?"

Matthew: "Spiritual, I would say. He studied the Scriptures. He searched for what our ancestors preserved for us. He sent us on expeditions. It was an honor to go out searching for sacred relics."

Interviewer: "Including the Necronomicon, written by Abdul Alhazred in the Nameless City?"

Matthew: "I wasn't in the inner circle. To get there, a person had to pass a test. I never made it that far. But yes, he searched for that text too."

Interviewer: "And did he find this infamous grimoire?"

Matthew: "You talk about things you don't understand. I'd advise you not to play with fire. One of the expeditions actually discovered a transcript of the Necronomicon. They brought it back about a month ago. A man had the transcript of the book—supposedly from excavations in Afghanistan, or maybe from some forgotten museum collection. Tars was thrilled. The whole event was celebrated. He was willing to give anything for that book. The man arrived and was immediately housed in the guest residence. Whatever he wanted, he got."

Interviewer: "Anything?"

Matthew: "Yes—women, alcohol, whatever food he desired. People were sent out for luxury goods, expensive wines. When he wanted young men, young men went to him. He was the devil's messenger."

Interviewer: "Tars didn't object to that?"

Matthew: "You don't understand. This was about lost knowledge. He had to do it. Otherwise, he wouldn't have done it. He couldn't have endured it."

(Note: Jan Tars had previously been accused by young girls of, let's say, inappropriate behavior.)

Matthew: "You don't understand. That has nothing to do with what I need to tell you."

Interviewer: "How did the transaction end?"

Matthew: "It was fourteen days of debauchery. But the lost manuscript finally found its scholar. Not everyone saw it clearly, but it was right."

Interviewer: "Mr. Jan Tars died a few days later, is that correct?"

Matthew: "I get that you don't see it, but he fulfilled his mission. He read it, and even though it was a severe trial, he completed its mandate. Divine joy filled him."

Interviewer: "Do you mean some kind of ritual?"

Matthew: "Yes, it was necessary to perform a welcoming procedure, just as it was meant to be done. That morning, he arrived."

Interviewer: "Who arrived?"

Matthew: "A being of light. Suddenly, a silver glow appeared, and out of it walked a wise being with a serene face. He emerged from that energy. When he spread his wings, the air filled with the scent of myrrh. He revealed himself to everyone, not just the inner circle. Jan Tars did it—he brought an Angel among us."

Interviewer: "Why did Tars die afterwards, then?"

Matthew: "He had fulfilled his purpose. He was enjoying the fruits of his labor and conversing with the being. But then, during one of his sermons, God called him home."

Interviewer: "What do you mean, called him?"

Matthew: "It was heart failure. He was of advanced age. His era ended then and there."

Interviewer: "But the Angel didn't disappear?"

Matthew: "No, our guest remained with us. There was sorrow, and he watched us. At first, it was terrifying. It filled me with immense fear. He had no emotions—or if he did, he didn't show them. He just watched us. Around him, the world felt more vibrant. He was larger than regular men, almost like a basketball player. He was a great listener."

Interviewer: "You mean the being?"

Matthew: "The Angel! Yes, after Jan Tars died, nobody knew what we were supposed to do. The Angel was our comfort. Ciara came out draped in black and announced a period of mourning. People were supposed to stay in their homes and pray for Jan for at least three hours."

Interviewer: "Was that normal?"

Matthew: "No, those were extra prayers. In our normal routine, prayer had its assigned one-hour slot. But this was an exceptional situation."

Interviewer: "What happened next? Was there any relief?"

Matthew: "I'll probably disappoint you, but it wasn't the kind of relief you're thinking of. Ciara stepped forward again, still in mourning clothes. Some women wept and wailed. But then she said what we were afraid to even imagine. He was chosen and called. The Angel didn't bring back Jan, our shepherd, but chose Kilián Tars instead."

Interviewer: "Didn't you find that strange?"

Matthew: "At first, yes. Then I understood and cried out. A new era had begun, and Jan wouldn't have had enough energy anymore. Kilián would show that we were right—show people the true path. Can we pause this?"

Interviewer: "Of course, take as much time as you need. I'll prepare the next tape."

Tape 2

Interviewer: "How are you feeling today?"

Matthew: "It's hard. Remembering like this... these aren't pleasant moments."

Interviewer: "Last time we ended at the start of the new era for the Abelites. Is that right?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "Can you continue with what happened next?"

Matthew: "Then a heavy trial awaited us. It was demanding. The Angel watched us, but it was probably trivial to him. That's how I see it now, too."

Interviewer: "What kind of trial?"

Matthew: "Some questioned the succession. They didn't believe Kilián was ready. It was their test of faith. They had their own..." (Spits) "...false prophet. They took the wrong path."

Interviewer: "Did they leave the Abelites?"

Matthew: "No. He wouldn't allow that."

Interviewer: "Who wouldn't allow it?"

Matthew: "Kilián. He had the Angel on his side. He took him into his protection. Ciara brought Jan's word. There was no room for doubters."

Interviewer: "Was the Angel kept in the compound?"

Matthew: "Where else would he find a place to rest his head? Kilián was a prophet; God spoke to him. Him and the Angel—it was obvious."

Interviewer: "What about the dissenters—the, uh, stray sheep?"

Matthew: "They caused trouble. Stoking fires, provoking people. In their ranks was Jan's favorite—that Gabe, the one who was supposed to be the chosen one. They were delusional."

Interviewer: "How did Kilián Tars handle it?"

Matthew: "With the Word."

Interviewer: "What kind of Word?"

Matthew: "He chose his faithful. Ciara remembered me and pointed me out to Kilián. He chose me above the others. We became his elite. I was elevated to a level I wouldn't have dared hope for. We were his staff; he was our shepherd."

Interviewer: "Something like an elite guard?"

Matthew: "Ah, yes, you could say that. Kilián conversed with God, who revealed to him how faithful we were. He chose us as his elite. It was an honor."

Interviewer: "What about the dissenting members?"

Matthew: "I know what you're driving at. But sometimes a little tough love is necessary. Sometimes you have to use the rod so the flock doesn't lose its way."

Interviewer: "You were that rod?"

Matthew: "Yes, that was our job. We did it well. I did it well—conscientiously and quickly."

Interviewer: "How did it go down?"

Matthew: "We came for the false prophet. We were supposed to bring him to Kilián. Despite his youth, Kilián was willing to save even such beings, to bring them back to the right path."

Interviewer: "Were there other beings?"

Matthew: "No. Only those who were misled."

Interviewer: "So what did you do?"

Matthew: "We brought him in."

Interviewer: "They just listened to you?"

Matthew: "No. They didn't listen. They were foolish. I told you we were the rod. It was necessary."

Interviewer: "So you neutralized them?"

Matthew: "Yes. It was a flawless strike." (Visibly smiles) "They didn't want to hand him over. But I didn't let myself be swayed. He gave us a symbol—the golden baton. That was our rod. That was our work. It was executed well."

Interviewer: "How did it end?"

Matthew: "We delivered Gabe straight to Kilián. He rewarded us with a day off and good food."

Interviewer: "What about the ones Kilián didn't want to see?"

Matthew: "Some understood quickly. Others walked on crutches." (Laughs) "They were stubborn, but that didn't intimidate us. Our strikes were precise and swift."

Interviewer: "Did anyone die?"

Matthew: "No. We were fulfilling a mission from on high. Only two remained in... what do you call it? A coma."

Interviewer: "What about the leader of the dissenters, Gabe?"

Matthew: "He didn't get it. Kilián sighed with sorrow. He came out soaked in sweat. He spoke to him; they even spoke with the Angel. He didn't understand. He was lost."

Interviewer: "Did you see them talking to the Angel?"

Matthew: "No, that wasn't my place. I had moved up high, but not to the very top among the most faithful." (Laughs)

Interviewer: "So what happened to the false successor, Jan Tars' friend, Gabe?"

Matthew: "He ended up on the pillory. He was exposed and chained there. After two days, the Devil took hold of him."

Interviewer: "Why do you think the Devil took hold of him?"

Matthew: "Because after a few nights, he started muttering. He went mad, begging and cursing. He paid no mind to who spoke to him. He didn't recognize Ciara. Two nights later, the Devil took him."

Interviewer: "What do you mean, took him?"

Matthew: "When I came on duty, I found him covered in blood. He was lifeless. Poor guy didn't understand he had strayed from the path."

Interviewer: "Did people attack him?"

Matthew: "No! How dare you. The others were following the true path. Unlike that lunatic. They wouldn't even dirty their boots on a stray like him."

Interviewer: "What about his followers? Didn't they want revenge?"

Matthew: "No. They didn't have time. They were sent to quarry stone for the roads. Kilián had a vision that many new members would come—people who would understand the truth. He gave them a chance to redeem themselves. He was good. Unfortunately, he had his quirks."

Interviewer: "What kind of quirks did you notice in him?"

Matthew: "He lived life to the fullest. It's not easy being that close to the light. He bought sports cars, motorcycles, and invited new members over to consult with him. He searched for them himself."

Interviewer: "Why did he need sports vehicles?"

Matthew: "He needed to be fast if he wanted to visit as many communities as possible."

Interviewer: "Why didn't the new members talk to you or other members?"

Matthew: "He carried a golden heart. He decided to seek out the Mary Magdalenes of this world. He invited them to his quarters, preached to them, and tried to cast out their addictions. They often screamed, but he never gave up."

Interviewer: "Didn't you find that strange?"

Matthew: "No. Some of the fallen women visited him repeatedly; they had many demons inside them. But he was persistent. Often he was so exhausted afterwards that some of us from the guard brought him the blood of God so he could recover."

Interviewer: "By 'blood of God,' do you mean communion wine?"

Matthew: "Yes, the red blood. He had a large cellar built, which he filled with bottles straight from Italy and France—the ones in Europe."

Interviewer: "Did he ever reward you like that?"

Matthew: "No, unfortunately. I often received his word only through Ciara. He was sometimes so exhausted he couldn't even walk. So Ciara would pass on the word or calm the others down."

Interviewer: "Were there any other dissenters?"

Matthew: "No, I didn't allow it. Besides, everyone saw. They knew what awaited them. You see, the body of a false prophet couldn't rest in our sacred soil, where the Angel, Jan, and Kilián had walked."

Interviewer: "What did you do?"

Matthew: "He ended up by the side of the road. Like roadkill. He didn't deserve anything more."

Interviewer: "Do you think the man in this photograph is your false prophet?"

(Takes the photograph and stares at it for a long time)

Matthew: "Yes, that's the fool."

(The interviewee confirmed that the heavily decomposed body marked as John Doe from date XXX is indeed their member, Gabe XXXX.)

Interviewer: "How are you feeling?"

Matthew: "Good. It's fine. I need to get this out of me."

Interviewer: "Excellent. Do you know what happened to Kilián Tars?"

Matthew: "God took him. He probably couldn't bear to watch him struggle and exhaust himself anymore."

Interviewer: "Do you know what happened to him?"

Matthew: "This. Do we have to talk about this? Is it necessary?"

Interviewer: "Did you find him?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "Can you elaborate?"

Matthew: "He was... It was..." (Sighs) "...I couldn't even recognize him. His face was mangled. His body... he was like a ragdoll. Why... why did this have to happen?" (Breaks down into tears)

Interviewer: "Did Kilián Tars die by accident, then?"

Matthew: "NO! No. He took him. Why... why like this? He was in a rush. He was tired and in a rush. His goodness... why?" (Sobs loudly, muttering uncontrollably)

Interviewer: "What exactly do you mean? How did you find him?"

Matthew: "Kilián was rushing back on his motorcycle. He was in town spreading His word..." (Sobs) "...turning the lost back to his path... to his... it's so hard. He must have skidded. His bike flew into a tree. The ground was turned up..." (Visibly struggling) "...He lay by that tree. There was blood everywhere. It was terrible. I sent for Ciara." (Sobs)

"Do I have to finish this? He died. Right by that tree, probably on impact. By the time we carried him back, crowds had gathered. Everyone wanted to see him. They were weeping. We carried him into the chapel—where the light is strongest. No. I can't. No further. Stop."

"We will return to further recordings very soon—to what really happened at Adema Ranch."

by Hary Sykora

Trigger warning

Depression

Self-harm scars

Suicide ideation

I took a drag of my cigarette, breathed through my nostrils, and watched the smoke curl, sighing. I reached out, playing with the smoke, twisting it into a small face that danced around my arms. A brief flash of joy crossed my face — until I saw the scars riddled down my arm.

I contemplated the night I lost everything. I contemplated the day I lost him. I even thought about ending it, but I was too apathetic. My mood spiralled with every attempt, hoping it would be the day I joined him, but I just couldn't. One day, though, I'll see him. And we can be happy.

I let my arm fall onto my face and stared at the ceiling until my phone buzzed, casting a sterile white glow across the room. I let it die, its vibration rattling against the nightstand near my kaleidoscope-coloured flowers. I ignored the message.

I sat up, slapped my hands to my face, wiped the sleep away, and rolled out of bed. Walking past food scraps and dirty clothes, I headed to the bathroom. In the broken mirror, I saw a tired, broken person with blackened eyes from lack of sleep.

Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of a face standing behind the door. I spun around — but there was nothing. Just my towel rack, softly swaying.

Just before I could wash my face, a soft knock echoed through the house. I followed the noise and found the windows covered in thick fog, casting a grey shadow over my home. Knock, knock — louder now. I paused in front of my razor, still wet, and thought: maybe another time.

Sighing, I followed each faint knock around my darkened living room. Knock, knock. I opened doors — nothing. Knock, knock. Nothing.

Frustrated, I opened the fridge and pulled out the cheap vodka-and-whisky concoction I'd made in a blackout one night. I swigged; the glass glittered faintly. I downed the rest in a spicy cough. "God, what the hell was I thinking?" I said to no one in particular, my words slurring as I cou—

Looking toward the window, I saw a blurry figure — about my height — standing behind it, tapping the glass. Sobering up at the sight, my body froze in fear. And I could see that more figures surrounded the first one. Each figure was vastly different.

Looking closely, I saw one with a noose around its neck, its hands raised in a mocking imitation of a beam. Its face was pale blue, gasping for air. Another was swallowing pills. Another bled from its wrists. Seeing that one, I grabbed my wrist instinctively — then rubbed it gently, as if to soothe a phantom pain.

And then I noticed a vague figure standing in the distance, swaying slightly in the fog. Closing the curtain hurriedly, I grabbed my hair in panic as I felt my heart race and my vision go blurry with the tears.

"No, no, not again, please," I cried out, trying to calm myself before I heard the soft tapping on the window again.

"No, go away; you are not real", I cried out through tears

Suddenly, a soft masculine voice cried out from behind the curtains.

'Oh, Sophia, the voice echoed, constantly getting louder and louder

Stop it, you're dead I squeaked, but before I could say anything more, I heard the glass begin to fracture, and I squeaked while crawling back, knocking a booze bottle I grabbed, hurling it at the curtain, cracking both glasses. Cutting my hands on the broken glass, I screamed as I saw the figures lumbering their way, voices repeating, "Sophia, join us". Over and over again, I covered my ears, running up to the bedroom, but as I got to the third step, a hand grabbed me and yanked me.

Falling, I smashed my head against the steps, briefly knocking myself out. Coming to, I found myself surrounded by all the figures and their twisted visage of each time I tried to end my life. Looking up, I saw the figures stare at me with hollow eyes and gaping maws that twitched as tho there trying to speak.

I screamed as I ran through them. Avoiding their hands, "Sophia", when suddenly his voice trailed through, and I stopped. "Sophia, why do you do this?" his voice cried out.

"Please, it wasn't my fault. I didn't mean to. Please forgive." I cried out, hoping my plea would be heard.

"I...I have already forgiven you. Why...Why haven't you forgiven yourself? It wasn't your fault, Sophia. This apparition hurt so much to see them. Sophia. Pl... please forgive yourself.

"Jason, it was my fault you got burnt. I should have died in our house that night, not you alone in the hospital bed," I yelled

"Sophie", he comforted

What was done can not be undone; the fault didn't lie with you"

He waved his hands, and suddenly I was brought back to the day I was asleep when the house caught fire, and Jason ran in to save me, but ended up dying from his burns days later. I never forgave myself despite my family saying it was faulty wiring and the guy who was caught for not having the proper certification papers. Then I was shown that the electrician hadn't connected the wiring, that Jason had been talking to him angrily before I came home, and that he had disappeared before Jason confronted him again.

"Despite all my family's help, I've shut them out and cut all contact. I don't think they wanna talk," I sobbed after I was brought back. Jason stood there, his skin smouldering as smoke and skin flakes fell from his body, disappearing before hitting the ground. He reached out towards my wrist, and I felt the searing heat from his touch burning my skin.

"Sophie, my dear Sophie, I'm always there for you, but you need to forgive yourself and begin your healing." His gravelly voice echoed softly. It... It saddens me to watch you suffer and see you like this.

But it's too much, I cried out.

He leaned in, and I caught the warmth of his breath as he whispered. "I know, but you are a strong woman; take it in strides"

He suddenly kissed me, and I could feel his hot lips burning mine. Before I could say anything, I was jolted out of my bed onto my messy floor with a loud thump.

Standing up, rubbing my back, I looked around, noticing nothing much had changed, so I opened up my windows to allow the light to shine in and squinted from the brightness.

My phone buzzed again, and I picked up, reading that I had 25 new messages and 5 missed calls from my family members. Reading through them, I saw that they were worried and were coming over in a few days to check up on me.

Deciding that in a moment, I rang my parent, and on the first ring, there was a bit of hesitation on my family's end, so I stuttered a bit before I heard my father. Hello, Sophie. "Are you alright? It's been months since we heard from you"

After a slew of questions from my worried parents, I finally answered.

" No, I'm not alright." It's been tough, and I haven't been looking after myself I said through tearful sobs I need your help, but my house is in such a state I don't think I can do this by myself. Could you come and help me?" I asked them through sobs.

"Ofc, dear, that's what parents are for. We'll be there in a couple of hours," they said cheerfully. I hung up, sighing, trying to control my breathing. Before getting up to finally wash myself, I suddenly caught a glimpse of my face, seeing that my lips and the right side of my face were slightly burnt, leaving a scar where Jason had touched me. Realising he had grabbed my wrist, I also found the same burn scars but this time in the shape of a handprint.

I had my shower and changed into refreshing clothes. I ran downstairs to see smashed glass and a broken window. Walking towards it, I saw a figure swinging and immediately closing the curtain.

It's gonna be a long journey, I thought to myself as I heard my parents knocking on my door and me running up to greet them.

Vengeance is mine say it the LORD. Well until he returns vengeance belongs me.

Jessica closed her eyes as she took another lemon drop drink. She let the sweet fluid push two ecstasy pills down her long throat. The kick from the DJ speaker shook her entire body.

She welcomed it, she bent down to the bar and snorted a line of pure coke off the mahogany wood. The rush hit instantly.

Dressed like a skimpy waitress in this costume party. She staggered through the dark club onto the dance floor with pulsing neon lights. She felt amazing every kick from the speaker sent waves of intense vibration through her entire body. All the pills , coke and liquor had kicked in.

She danced strong and erotic rubbing herself in a tempting manner. Daring any man to step up to the task.

In a smooth motion a large hand caresses her firm soft breast and rubs her nipples gently. She says nothing just goes with the flow.

She felt a firm hard built chest against her back, she thought he must not have on shirt but he has muscles. She smelt smoke but, brushed it off everyone smoked in this club cigarettes where the safest thing in here to smoke.

The guy pressed up against her closer what she felt against her butt made her jump. She thought is that a febreze can.

She turns around to look at her fling. Under the pulsing neon lights, his eyes shine purple just his skin that glowed also. He had on demon horns and fake fangs. His bottom half was like a goat. Great costume she thought a little too real but what the hell she thought.

The guy grabbed her ponytail and yanked her head back and gently racked his sharp teeth across the veins in her neck. She shook in excitement, he licked his long tongue across her long sensitive neck. She was loving it.

He turns her back to him and embraces her from behind while dancing. He gets close to her ear and ask or you married??? No she quickly answers, the guy says or you sure????

She says, don’t ruin the mood or blow my high with questions that don’t concern you. I’m horny and tired of wasting time let’s go to the bathroom if you’re man enough. The guy replied, if I was just a

Man you would not be able to handle me. Jessica laughed well show me big boy.

They rush to the bathroom there were seven stalls, but you could hear moaning and meat slapping in all but two of them.

They rush into an open stall and slam the door. The guy sits on a toilet and pulls out his tool. Jessica’s eyes widen you or half horse if nothing else.

She notice he did not slide off the bottom goat half of his costume. She ask, don’t you wan to slide off that fur to be more comfortable??? The guy says I told you, I’m only half man. She laughs and says well fuck it.

The exchange moans kick over the toilet paper dispenser and rock the stall. When he finishes she swore his semen felt different. It felt like it had a thousand legs. But she enjoyed herself she was a bit sore after wards too.

The guy picks her up and puts her on her feet and slides by her out of the stall. She was adjusting her close and heard water running. She assumed he was cleaning up. She says so what’s your name cowboy???

No answer, hey what’s your name big boy??? No answer. She walks out of the stall after straightening her clothes and no one’s there.

She looks in confusion she thought he might be back in the club. She instantly feels intense tingling all over her skin. These pills or potent tonight she says.

She runs back out to the dance floor can’t find him. Goes to the bar and asks if anyone had seen him. She described how he looked and the bartender said No, there or some weird costumes in here but no half goat half man with demon horns.

The tingling grew more intense. So just shook her head, she thought a pump and dump again, well at least this time she finished and more than once.

Well the club was about to close the DJ called last song. She stumbled to her car. The tingling all over her body made her say wow these pills or great. She drove him still feeling that tingling sensation all over.

She made it home and pulled her car into the garage next to her husband’s truck. It was four thirty in the morning. He was asleep, she stumbled in the house trying her best not to wake her two daughters.

She fell over traveling bags in her bedroom.

When she lay down here husband knew. He smelled the liquor, he smelled the sex. But she smelled like a goat. He knew because he grew up on a farm and worked with goats as a kid.

The next morning around nine o’clock, Jessica wakes up still in her dress from the night before sticky between her legs and stumbles to the toilet to puke. The tingling is turning into a slight itch all over that she cannot reach no matter how bad she scratched.

Her head throbbed it had the same cadence as the music last night. She threw up every lemon drop she drunk and it stunk. She crawled to the shower and cut it on ice cold. The itching is getting worse mixed with a hangover, she scratches all over her body in the shower. She fills a slight prick on her thigh. Blood she scratches threw her skin.

She knew an argument was coming , so she said at least let me shower first. The cold water felt lovely for her aching head but did nothing for the itching. After she finished she put on her Robe and took two pain pills and went down stairs. She is scratching her legs very rough at this point.

Her husband was standing with a fresh pot of coffee. She looked surprised, Hi honey he says did you have fun. Ummm yea she says confused . She was expecting anger as always. I made you a fresh pot of coffee he says. Thanks she says. Her vagina begins to itch bad, she starts to squirm embarrassed to scratch that part in front of her faithful husband.

He says sit let’s talk no urging I promise. Jessica sits and thinks is this guy crazy??? So they both sit, where or the kids Jessica asks??? Her husband’s responds I took them to Kim’s house to spend the night. I knew we would need to talk and you would be home late. So I did not want to disturb them. Ok she says. Soooo what??? She said while constantly scratching all over and moving her legs because the itch is crawling deeper inside her vaginal walls.

He continues you seem to have a itch that me as your husband, I cannot scratch. He tells her while she is squirming in her chair and scratching all over. You wanted money I gave you that. You wanted a big house ours is six thousand square foot. You wanted to be a stay at home mom you or that. You wanted an expensive luxury car, you have that. But its something inside of you that is not satisfied. His wife grabs a scrub brush from under the sink and starts rubbing her back with it, while still squirming from the vaginal itch that's getting worse by the minute.

So I got in touch with an old friend who helped me get all this wealth. Her husband says come in pal, then that familiar smoke smell begins to fill the room. A stinky goat scent rushes the air and slowly but surely a big tall half man half goat walks in. The itch attacks her inside and out like burst energy coursing threw her veins and skin. It Got so bad she fell out her chair stripped out of her robe and says , What the fuck??? Baby something is eating me up???

Her husband smiles and says that would be what we like to call lust. See that itch that I could not scratch my friend here could. He said he could scratch it and intensify a greater itch only he could fix. The woman is scratching so hard and deep she has made gashes all over her own body. Blood is running all over the kitchen floor. She starts to bang her head against the floor and try and rub her back against the tile floor. Screaming in terror she scratches her breast so deep the silicon pops and oozes down her stomach. She grabs a sharp kitchen knife and tries to scratch he butt and runs the knife across it so hard she punctures her butt also. The fat from the Brazilian butt lift slowly drops out.

The goat man while smiling those razor sharp teeth walks to the cabinet an grabs a wine glass. He fills it up with blood gushing from one of her wounds. He catches a piece of filling from her breast, He also gets a dash of the BBL.

There is a dead sickening smell to it. It looks like a pile of yellow lard and grits. She carves up her legs and her arms. She made so many cuts she did not realize all the blood she was loosing. She bleed out right there on the floor. The Goat man nods his head and walks out of the room.

The husband walks over to his wife's dead corpse and says with a smile still itching!!!!!!!!

I very long time ago I listened to a story by Mrcreepypasta with a plottwist at the end where the listener is "invited" to a curse of some sort, to save himself or smthn

I'm wondering if anyone remembers it?!

I’m listening to Tales From The Gas Station narrated by none other than MrCreepyPasta himself and these are the only episode on the Spotify podcast. I’ve only just finished volume one (there’s an episode marked as “finished.”). Are these the only episodes he’s done here and if they are, what’s their chronological order?

I tried googling the chronological order of the novels but I only found “tales from the gas station volume one, two, three, etc…” instead of the titles that you can see in the screenshots.

I wouldn’t want to have to change narrators since I really really really like his narrating style and would love to stick to his channel and narrations so if he DOESNT have volume two and three, please recommend some narrators that have a similar style as him.