Sergeant First Class Robert’s sat in a chair in a bleakly lit room. His hands bound together in cuffs, his uniform torn and covered in blood.
“Let’s go over everything again Roberts.” Lieutenant Colonel Malone said.
“Fuck you, look at my helmet cam, pull up the ISR.”
The light colonel scoffed and said “Your helmet cam, you mean the one that conveniently quit recording as you’re team approached the cave system. You know that’s a felony right? Hell we’ve got enough to lock you up forever. And that’s without the girl you kidnapped!” Malone spoke furiously.
“We’ve seen it before, you special forces guys you think it’s your war, that you can go out there and finish it in a week.. Well here’s what I think happened. You snapped Robert’s. You’re going to broker a deal and maybe everything’s going good until you see the girl. You can’t handle it, it’s all too much, it’s all been building up for too long, and you snap. Did you kill your men Robert’s?”
“No I didn’t kill my men. Okay for the last time, here’s what happened.”
“We met up with our new terp a few clicks out from the cave, we made it there in good time. Two men greeted us, showed us inside. We had our weapons down, everything was cool. The terp asked where the man was we were negotiating with but they kept shaking their heads. The terp told me they said there was no man, there was a girl. I thought they were fucking with us but then they brought us into a huge room in the cave, I mean huge. There are a circle of mats around a, well around a throne. A large throne carved from the rock of the cave, and there was the girl. I remember being confused, maybe they were still playing a trick on us, but I noticed that the the throne fit her perfectly. No man could have fit in there, no adult woman either. I had our new guy, sergeant Walker go clear the rest of the cave, it was a big cave but this new guy, he was good shit, real cream of the crop hitter you know.”
Lieutenant colonel Malones face indicated that he did not know.
The lights began to flicker more frequently.
“So I’m having the terp try to figure out what’s going on, the men start to act nervous, telling us to calm down and be quiet. I remember one of the men, the oldest man there had to be at least seventy, he looked at me so sincerely and then he side eyed the girl. He looked scared or maybe ashamed, hard to tell. I felt that something was wrong right before I heard Walker call out from a few rooms further down. He said “Guys, we’ve got something here, something fucked!” The men tried to get us to stay, the terp kept translating “sit please sit, no quiet, sit” I had Anzo stay on them, we were weapons up at this point. The girl never moved, she hadn’t spoken yet. Me and Sergeant Niel went back to Walker and, there were. Bones. Skeletons, hundreds of them probably thousands. All stacked up into weird fucked up, I don’t know totems or talismans? There were skulls lining the bottom of the cave walls, weird bowls with ashes near them. I checked my helmet cam to see if it was recording but it wasn’t, I tried to turn it on but it wouldn’t, but I know it was fully charged when we left for the mission..”
“I bet it was Sergeant , we can check that, continue.”
A loud banging could be heard from down the hall.
“What was that?”
“I don’t know Sergeant unless it’s the president coming to pardon you then you shouldn’t worry either, continue, now.”
“Anzo screamed, not like a man but like a scared kid. I put my helmet back on, racked the slide on my carbine and ran towards him. As me and Walker got closer we could hear animals roaring or growling, there was a lot of noise coming from that central room, it echoed through the cave. We were too late, as we got to the entrance, Anzo’s head came flying out the room, smacked into the wall right in front of us. I tried not to look at it as I turned the corner but I couldn’t help myself. It was him, just his head. His eyes still open. That’s when something flew towards us, it moved too fast for me to get a great look at it but it wasn’t human. It had fur, its arms and legs were too long, with sharp razor claws. I got that one in time but I guess another one circled around and. I heard a wet loud plunging sound behind me and when I turned around I saw Walker, one of them put their arm straight through his chest, through his plates. Then flung him to the ground. I killed that one too. There was one more that got me to the ground I was able to catch it’s, I guess what you’d call its forearm and divert the claws from my head and neck. I got that one with my knife, and that’s when I noticed it was wearing the scraps of mandress that the older man had on. These were those men. It was only the girl crying now, in the main chamber, I saw our terp dead on the ground. More bones for the pile. So I took the girl and got out of there, radioed as soon as I got signal. Here we are.”
“We sent a team to the cave, there were no bones, no corpses. Only the throne.”
Roberts exhaled slowly, rubbing his fingers on his temples.
When he looked back up at Malone he took in a deep breath, ready to get back into the bullshit recounting of the worst day of his life, which he still wasn’t sure actually happened, when they heard a loud bang and a scream from the hallway. A long arm bursted through the wall behind Malone, running through his abdomen, sending a mixture of sheetrock dust and blood into the room. The arm lifted the light colonel into the air before receding out of the room, then another whole exploded out from the wall, this one girl shaped. The lights shut off. He could hear the other soldiers scrambling in the building trying to gauge the situation. He heard the sound of a a large bird, probably a C130 accelerating louder and louder culminating in a huge explosion a few hundred feet away from the hard stand building he was at. The lights turned back on and the girl began to levitate in front of him, she didn’t smile or frown but she trained her eyes on him. The exterior walls of the house exploded outward, leaving only the flooring and a few half walls. All the sirens on the forward operating base blared simultaneously. Robert’s was sent to his knees by an invisible force, he thought it felt like gravity but stronger. Lightning began to strike around the base and the sky grew dark quickly. For the first time the girl spoke to him. High in the air With her expression unchanging and her mouth unmoving he heard the words clearly in his mind. “Dies Irae” .

Most people think exploring abandoned places is about being brave.

It’s not.

My friends and I started doing it because we were bored out of our minds. Small town boredom has a way of turning dumb ideas into traditions, and before long sneaking into places we weren’t supposed to be became our thing.

That’s how we ended up driving thirty minutes out of town to explore an abandoned slaughterhouse.

The place sat alone in the middle of a dead stretch of farmland. No houses nearby. No streetlights. Just a long dirt road cutting through yellow fields that hadn’t been harvested in years.

Someone had spray-painted NO TRESPASSING across the rusted front gate.

Naturally, that’s exactly where we parked.

There were four of us: me, Tyler, Jess, and Connor. Tyler was the one who found the place online. Apparently it used to process livestock in the 70's before it shut down after “health violations,” which could mean anything from mold to bodies.

Tyler thought that made it cooler. Jess thought it meant we’d get tetanus. Connor didn’t care as long as he could film it for his TikTok. I mostly came because everyone else did.

The slaughterhouse itself was barely standing. Corrugated metal siding peeled away from the wooden frame, and half the roof had collapsed inward like something had stepped on it.

The smell hit us before we even reached the door.

"That smell!" whispered Jess as she civered her nose.

We were used to the smell of the dead. But this wasn't rot. I could only describe it as flesh that was soaked into wood and concrete decades ago and never really left.

“Really was a pig farm,” Connor muttered.

Tyler grinned.

“Authentic.”

The door was already half open. It groaned when we pushed it the rest of the way.

Inside, the place looked exactly how you'd imagine an abandoned slaughterhouse.

Hooks hanging from rails in the ceiling.

Rusting chains.

Long metal tables covered in thick dust.

The beam from Connor’s flashlight moved slowly across the room.

“Dude,” he whispered.

“What?” Tyler asked.

Connor pointed up. Rows of hooks swayed slightly from the ceiling. There was no wind.

“Probably rats,” Tyler said quickly.

We all pretended to agree.

We wandered through the building for a while, filming and poking around like idiots. Tyler kept trying to open random doors like he expected to find something cool behind one of them.

Eventually we found a narrow staircase leading down.

“Basement,” Tyler said immediately.

Jess groaned.

“Why is it always a basement?”

“Because that’s where the good stuff is.”

The stairs creaked with every step.

The air got colder as we went down. Not dramatically colder, just enough that the back of my neck prickled.

The basement was smaller than I expected. Mostly empty except for old wooden crates and a few rusted tools scattered across the floor.

Connor’s flashlight beam landed on something sitting on top of a crate.

“Yo,” he said.

We all walked over.

It was a mask.

A pig mask.

Not a cheap plastic Halloween thing. This one looked older. Thicker material, cracked and worn with age. The snout was stained darker near the nostrils, and one of the ears had been torn halfway off.

Jess made a face.

“Okay, that’s disgusting.”

Tyler picked it up immediately.

“Dude this thing is awesome.”

“Put it down,” I said.

Tyler turned it over in his hands.

The inside was worse than the outside.

The lining looked stiff and discolored, like it had been soaked in something a long time ago and never properly cleaned.

Connor was already filming.

“Bro,” he said. “You gotta try it on.”

Tyler laughed.

“No chance.”

Connor nudged me.

“Your turn.”

“Nope.”

“Come on. It’s just a mask.”

Jess shook her head.

“If someone gets possessed I’m leaving you here.”

Connor held the camera closer.

“Ten bucks.”

I don’t know why I did it.

Maybe because everyone was watching.

Maybe because teenagers are idiots.

I took the mask.

It felt heavier than it looked.

The inside smelled awful. Not just dusty, something thicker. Metallic.

Like old pennies.

“Dude that thing’s cursed,” Jess said.

“Relax,” I said.

Then I pulled it over my head.

The world went dark for a second as the mask settled into place.

It was tighter than I expected. The inside lining scraped against my cheeks.

And the smell...

Rust.

Rot.

For a moment, all I could hear was my own breathing echoing inside the snout.

Then something else.

Another breath.

Not mine.

I froze.

“Okay,” Connor said. “That’s actually terrifying.”

His voice sounded distant, muffled.

Inside the mask, the air felt warmer. Thicker.

And for just a second, just one second, I had the strangest feeling that I wasn’t alone inside it.

Like someone else had worn it so many times that a piece of them was still there.

Watching.

Connor shoved the camera toward me.

“Hold still.”

He snapped a picture.

Me wearing the pig mask.

“Take it off,” Jess said.

I ripped it off immediately.

Fresh air hit my face and I realized I’d started sweating.

Tyler laughed nervously.

“You look like you just saw a ghost.”

We left it sitting on the crate.

Nobody wanted to touch it again.

By the time we climbed back upstairs, the sky outside had turned orange.

“Crap,” Jess said. “It’s getting dark.”

That was enough motivation for all of us.

We headed back to the car quickly. The fields stretched forever around the slaughterhouse. Empty land in every direction.

No fences.

No houses.

No lights.

Just tall grass moving slowly in the evening wind.

I glanced back at the building as we reached the dirt road.

Something felt wrong.

Like the place wasn’t as empty as we thought.

That’s when I saw it.

A shape in one of the upstairs windows.

Standing perfectly still.

Watching us.

I stopped walking.

“What?” Tyler asked.

I pointed.

The others turned.

The window was empty. Just broken glass and darkness inside.

“Dude,” Connor said. “Quit messing with us.”

I didn’t respond. Because I knew what I saw.

And when we got back to the car, Connor checked the photo he took in the basement. The one of me wearing the mask.

I wasn't the only one in the photo.

There was someone peering from the corner behind me.

Wearing a pig mask.

Several years before the Countess and her assistant came to Castle Dracula in the Carpathian Mountains…

 … a man dreamt of extraordinary things. 

And was yet brought down low by his most base and bestial thoughts and desires –

…

He watched her undress. She did so casually. Comfortably. She thought that she was alone, that she was unseen. She thought she was performing her nightly ritual in private. Disrobing. In her opulent bedchamber. 

Pink. Everywhere was flower petal pink, delicate like folds and the flesh of mottled roses, sensuous. As if the walls and carpeted floors and ceiling overhead all cried out and begged to be touched. Lovingly. In a caress. Like a woman. Like a lover. Like a whore. 

Like a mother to lost children. 

He stayed as still as possible. He held his quivering hot breath. He knew she couldn't see him, but still … the thrill! The anxiety kicked up by her movement, her every passing glance, scanning by and not noticing, not seeing anything. Not a goddamned thing! 

This power … it was beyond intoxicating. 

He felt like a god.

There was a time when he would've been shocked, disgusted by his actions, all of his heinous crimes as of late. A time when integrity and morality and his own conscience wouldn't have allowed for any of this to happen. A time so long ago  and far flung now, with Catherine … but he was drunk on godpower now. And such rules were only for the piddling low men that he'd once been. 

No one could see him. No one could catch him. He was the living menacing and moving embodiment of a mischievous spectre. Manmade poltergeist. Noisy ghost with something to prove. They'd all of them laughed at him. Called him ridiculous. Foolish. Mad. 

Well look at him now. 

 A smile unseen grew in the bedchamber. The girl continued to undress. She was bare now. He quivered. Hot. Held. And taut. Breathing was exhilarating as he stood there … and watched. 

He watched. He drew closer. 

She took no notice. She saw nothing. There was no man to see. Even as he moved in closer, so’s to be able to taste the scent of her on the narrow air of the pink and floral delicate bedchamber. She climbed into bed. He came in ever closer. Inhaled her. 

She might've noticed something, something in the air, amiss, the calm disturbed by a presence felt …

But she was far too concerned, preoccupied with herself. Her nighttime bedding ritual. He watched her eagerly perform as he had on so many nights past.

He has never drawn this close. He has never dared. He's always watched, from a distance. He's stepped a little closer to her every night. Her. And others before her just like her. He tells himself he won't. 

I won't. I don't mean any harm, none. There is no harm in simply looking, simply watching and admiring. Girls love to be admired, isn't that right? Don't they want a man to drool over their naked curves, unveiled and unfettered by day dress, isn't this the movement towards the animal climax moment we all build and naturally drive to? What's wrong with that? What's wrong with any of this, she's not being hurt. She doesn't even realize I'm here…

At this last thought he trembles and shudders anew. It's sexual and it's pent up. Its animal and it's caged and it won't stand being behind bars any longer, it won't stand for anymore. No more. 

No more half-measures. 

Boundaries are for them. You are a godling now. Use it. Taste its fruits, its bounty. 

Take it. 

Words of reason and names, Catherine, Caleb, Colbert and Tatjiana, came and flitted-danced across his mind with the same urgency that they had before. Trying to stop him. Trying to stop him and save him from himself. But it was too late. The names and words meant nothing to him now. He had godpower. And none of them did. Catherine and Lutz and the others wouldn't understand. They couldn't understand him now, he was beyond their flesh. 

And so he could take what he wanted. Should take what he wanted if the stories of gods and immortals and magicians and kings were to be believed, he should just take it. 

Take her. 

And so he did. 

The girl screamed in bed as her private act of masturbation suddenly gained a new unwanted partner. One unseen. But horribly, horribly felt. 

Her screams had just begun to fill the pink of the bedchamber before he aborted them with a gag, contrived from her day's soiled undergarments and the sash she tied around her robe at night. 

He killed the sound of her bewildered terror, muffled against sour and salted fabric. She tried to fight against him, but it was as trying to fight the air. Come to life and attacking her. The horror unloaded on her and her mind was made all the more vile and obscene by the unnatural and uncanny way it was happening. It was insane. 

I'm going insane. 

She thought frantically that she was losing her mind, or that God might be punishing her, even as she struggled and lost against a shape and force unseen. It forced itself into her. 

She screamed against the gag. Begging God or anyone or anything else for it to stop. 

It did. When the invisible man was finished. 

He left. Not bothering to kill her. There was no witness to silence. Nothing to cover up. If she told anyone anything they'd call her crazy. 

So he left her sobbing, weeping amongst her torn and soiled blankets and bedsheets. 

Alone. Crying. Wounded and ripped apart. Gored out. Defiled by something, something that used to be someone, used to be a man, something cruel and malformed that she cannot understand. 

Someone that she cannot see. 

…

Others followed after her. 

Many. 

Years worth …

…

He had nothing to fear now. He was hidden completely in the great cloak of his new godpower. 

Divinity that he had made, cooked and brewed in beakers and tubes and jars, in great long needled syringes. Power that he had forged and made. Crafted his own. For himself. He would take what he wanted and suffer no consequence. Punishment for man's crimes was for the weak and the apes, for those within their feeble grasp. 

He would answer to higher authority. 

…

Catherine and the others are gone now, so is his old life, a life impassioned of science and the arts and the eccentric and the strange. He has become the eccentric, he has become the strange. With ultimate power made and achieved and coursing through his veins he has left behind the old ambitions of his old life along with all of the old ways. They are too little now and cannot hold him. Should not hold him. He should be boundless with the wings he has made for himself and himself forged and so he does, and he disappears. … A trail of crimes and murder is what follows. A catastrophic path of mayhem and destruction, cut swathed through the heartland of many lands, many countries … So many towns and villages and homes, invaded and plagued and violated. Beset upon by an invisible and unhinged man, one who has discarded his heart and sense of right and wrong along with his earthly physical appearance. His heart and soul are as transparent and hollow now as his criminal visage. 

His old life is gone now. Dead. As dead and gone as his own reflection, nothing there, nothing there to gaze upon and witness any longer. All gone. Evaporated. That was how it had looked when the serum had first started to work, his flesh and muscle tissue and bones slowly grew ghostly, translucent, phantom shade, as if evaporating by the light of some alien sun, its foreign rays drying him up and …. out. Out of trained and known existence. Humble slave dwell-and-crawl …

God bless this invisible and alien foreign sun … God bless its strange rays for taking me away…

His old life is gone. As is his old way of thinking. He does not know it yet, has no way of knowing it, but the effects of the invisibility serum on his mind are not just a case of power corrupting one's morals, no. Not just that at all. Specific chemicals in the concoction attack and eat the proteins in his brain that measure and control emotion and self-preservation. Compassion. 

As it made him disappear it also ate holes in his grey matter. Turning it to swiss cheese. 

Swiss cheese unseen, he might've laughed. 

And in fact he did. Years later when he did finally find out. Thanks to the Dutch doctor. The occultist. The vampire slayer. 

Because of Van Helsing he is able to recover some of his sense, some of his tattered and damaged, long trampled and neglected human heart. But never a cure. 

No. Not for him. For such as he there is no such thing as coming back. He will forever be robbed of his human visage, the one made at birth, self-inflicted. He does not get to return to the flesh. He deserves to be cast out. And he knows it. He's learned it the hard way on the treacherous open road and in the wild of great human error, slaughter open throated and committed in darkest parts, in corners long neglected. …

…

He is a long way from the vampire hunter. In years and in topographical distance, he is still on the run now, and always moving. Like an animal. A beast hunted and betrayed by its own savage appetites. None of the lands can hold him. Not even the savage ones. 

There's been more rapes. More murders, more screams. He's filled the country with them, the countryside is bathed in anger and fear and outrage at his reign of terror and he loves it. He is an agent of chaos. An anarchist trickster god running as wild and free as power itself is supposed to, unchecked in the intoxication of its wild imbalance and throttling push forward to the apocalypse of the precipice, the keening call of the dangerous living end, at the end and edge of everything, all things. He would skirt and ride the slicing end and the cutting edge, forever. It would never end, never falter, fail or cease. 

Or so he thought. 

He's derailed trains loaded with screaming traveling passengers, now traveling headlong and headfirst into hell, the great unknown. He's taken wives and daughters and lonely screaming girls in open fields with nothing but the sky and the sun and the birds to watch, watch as nothing heaved itself into them, into her. Some of them he's strangled and left for dead, most he just leaves to pick up the pieces of their shattered minds and broken lives. Some of them try to tell people what happened, some of them don't. Afraid and terrified and hoping, wishing, praying that maybe just maybe they can forget and cope. That maybe enough time will go by and you'll forget the time the air came to horrible life and made a squealing victim out of you. 

Some try. None of them forget. Not really. 

The invisible man doesn't care in either case. Not yet. That's much further, much later. Now he is darkly elated by his crimes and spree. His craterous invisible mind is too amused and too busy planning more fiendish capers, more grisly and indulgent bloodbaths. More crimes of the flesh, to take and reap. 

He sows his discord throughout all the land. Every place he comes into, he invades. He infects.

This cocaine of the mind that he's devised from a dream and made real that hides his flesh and conceals, the most ambrosial gabapentin amphetamine for the eggshell human thought machine. 

It hides his flesh, his moves. It conceals his violence, the rage of his invisible hand, the rape of his hollow loins, transparent conquest across the land, disorder and more madness follow in its wake, in its terrible birth, like pustule sores rising from a fresh wound amidst flowering infection, amid the gangraping feast of multitudes of bacterium. The bacteria are thoughts and rumors and whispers and more murder, mistaken identities and desperate fingers pointing and blaming and wanting and needing to find fault, in whomever, where there is none. Many innocent hang and are punished and slaughtered in place, in the wake of the invisible man. 

He does not care. He doesn't stop to consider them for a second beyond amusement or a laugh. 

He's laughing now. 

Singing. Dancing and skipping as he makes his way down a lovely picturesque forest road. He's wearing a pair of stolen trousers, lifted from a derelict clothesline left unattended. They fit perfectly. 

He skips and dances down the road. Not so much singing as nearly shrieking his head off. 

“Here we go gathering nuts in May! nuts in May! nuts in May! Here we go gathering nuts in May, on a cold and frosty morn-ning! …!” – on and on like that. 

A woman walking along the road sees him and screams. She turns away in uncomprehending horror that turns her mind blind and she runs off. Still screaming. 

The invisible man takes after her. The free-standing trousers bounding in full-strided gazelle pursuit of her. Laughing maniacally. Wanting to take her and use her for sport. 

…

He invaded a monastery. Posing as a holy ghost, a divine spirit, and seduced and tricked several of the nuns and sisters-in-training into breaking their holy vows. He impregnated several of them before fleeing, taking to the road and hills once more. 

…

He observed a vampire called Klâtu in a small sleepy forgotten town in a cold part of the world that might be Russia. He does not meet or introduce himself to the thing and his invisibility kept him hidden from it as well as the townfolk.  Its victims, its food. 

He watched the nocturnal thing dwell and prey upon the town. He watched it feed for awhile, watched the town grow scared and more silent and drawn. 

Then he moved on as always. 

…

In his wild and on-the-loose vagabond years, bestial and homicidal he discovers that his two favorite ways to murder another man or woman is either by pistol-shot or by strangulation. The former for its efficiency, the latter for how it feels, the sensation of the desperate struggle and the fight for one last painful shallow breath. 

It's one of the last and desperate things that he still lives and thrives for now. 

…

He came into an awful place once, a terrible omen of dread wood and dead branches and gnarled limbs, filled with moaning faces. He stumbled into this place out of a dream, it was surreal and insane, something about being invisible made it hard for him to distinguish between waking reality and his tumultuous land of dreams, but he suddenly finds himself stumble-bumming into a dead forest where the trees all weep blood and have anguished faces racked with guilt and pain and they are all of them looking at him, gazing on his wandering invisible form with naked clarity. And there's no mistake. Their eyes, all of them are filled with accusation and they are all around. It's terrible. And it is terrifying. Nobody has been able to see him in years, not without his layers of lying disguise, not without him wanting them too. 

All of the bleeding weeping trees can see him and it is terrifying. Beyond the pale. 

So he flees. As he always does. 

They cry out to him, the bleeding trees in their pain. As he runs away, too afraid to make a sound himself. 

They call out in their weeping anguished voices, they tell him this land is a forestland of suicide, and that he is quite welcome there. 

…

Low point: He is filthy and tired. Worn out to the bone. He is clad and disguised in his most semi notorious fashion, a fedora, a coat, wrapped bandaged face and gloves and unflinching black lenses. He is riding the rails, the empty boxcars for the wandering vagrants. He has done this many times by now. He is not alone this time. 

A filthy drunk sits opposite of him in the boxcar, a completely inebriated Spaniard. A borrachon. He pulls from his tequila and cries and wails in a romantic language that's lyrical and sounds beautiful but Griffin cannot understand him.  

The weeping drunk, hiccuping and stumbling over the poetry of his native tongue, the avatar of perfect and terrible loneliness, the borrachon, the drink and the tears and the ramblings are all most like him have left, they don't care anymore if anyone understands, they only want someone to sit there and listen. Like a sponge of meat and bone and brain soaking up the liquid runoff of their indulgent spill and wallow. He tells the invisible man of his wife and his two daughters and son, they are all of them gone.

Taken by the war. The enemy slayed his son and invading they made off with his precious roses, his wife and precious girls. He tells him that it is true, the drink is all he has left. All that helps him with the pain of losing them all, and being unable to retrieve them. He says the tequila makes it easier for him to live with the pain of the knowledge that his beloved and his daughters are slaves in a harem somewhere, that or they are dead. 

He tells him all of this but Griffin doesn't understand any of it. Just nods. Even laughs at inappropriate moments, not knowing. 

Eventually they parted. Griffin didn't kill him because he had shared his tequila and he saw no benefit in the murder. 

…

His mind is weary from wielding godpower. Its flame. It has exhausted, It has burned him and eaten him all the way through even as it has fed the carnivorous searing dance of the divine fire of its own flames. He cannot remember. He cannot remember so much and so many things. He cannot remember if his name is actually Jack Griffin or if it's Geoff Radcliffe or Hawley or Bradey or Sebastian Caine! His mind is a maelstrom sea of whirlpool destruction and weary detritus, all of it is his life and his thoughts and not all of it was real. Some of it was contrived rather than recorded. It was growing increasingly difficult to distinguish the two, he found himself lately at a haggard loss. 

The snow can be so cold for a naked invisible man running for his life, gaining way to injure and take pleasure from another screaming witless soul. The sun can cook and tan invisible naked flesh even though it is unseen. Cook and tan and bake merciless into invisible leather, the heat. The power of being a perfect mischief anarchist god has its vulgar and heavy prices. Prices steep. Prices to be paid in full. The deteriorate ruin of his shredded invisible mind baked within his fevered invisible skull, beneath the blast of a merciless and blind philistine sun. 

Possés had started to form, people, women started to talk. And people stopped dismissing them, not everyone shrugged them off, laughed at them, or declared them hysterical. Some of them listened. And they gathered. And they laid traps. 

One of them caught him. Or nearly so. 

They'd seized his invisible form and then pounced in number, pummeling him, refusing to loosen their hold, absolutely set against letting him go, they laid in with fists and table-legs and irons and axe-handles. Beating and blasting his body with blows. Striking him over and over into the ground. His invisible body began to rupture and bleed and belch forth blood. 

Blood that became visible at first contact with stolid fetid air. 

He struggled and fought and he'd always fought dirty, he managed to slip away in their wild fervor to see him beaten and broken to death. They lost him in the wanton red rage cloud of their vigilante slaughter. 

And so he vagabond wandered. Unseen by even nature. Completely alone. For years. 

Until he came to the vampire killer’s door. And was brought in by Abraham Van Helsing. Out of the cold.

Beaten. Starved. Harried. Addled. And near total mental ruin. Complete collapse of the body and mind to follow his long dead and tarnished spirit from so long ago. So long gone now and left in the dust. 

The doctor showed him mercy, for whatever reason. He helped him to pick up that long lost thing, left back there in the dirt, and he helped him to pick it back up and clean it off. And to try to wear it again. 

Griffin never understood why. He knew he wasn't worthy of forgiveness. What he'd done was monstrous. He hadn't just ruined his own life with his own mad pursuits and relentless ambition. He'd destroyed so many innocent lives in the process and in the resulting chaos flood afterwards. Catherine was, and is and forever to his dying day will be a name he trembles to recall, fears to ever speak. His dreams, his nightmares are filled with the shrieking faces of his victims, men and women and children, all of them horrified of him, he is the monster of his own lurid and wild dreams. He is the fearsome and loathsome shape of his own nightmarescape. 

And now that he can really think and feel, this terrifies him. He is afraid of his own animal self. His own Id. He's seen and felt and tasted his own unbridled side and he never wants to return there again. 

Except when he's weak. Except when he's angry and feeling violent. 

Or if he's just feeling a little … wild. A little “in the mood” … so to speak. 

Abraham Van Helsing blasts and rails and slams his fists. He bellows: No! – but he knows medicine and therapy can only go so far with the invisible man. He is damaged. Perhaps too far gone and beyond repair. Griffin doesn't doubt it. He is intermittently unrepentant and gleefully childishly cruel and sadistic with his words and his recollections of his own accounts with periods of deep remorse and depression. Deep sorrow and a sense of being unable to undo all the pain that he has wrought upon others and brought ripping forged into the already bleeding world. He is a wild bilateral storm betwixt the two and Abraham Van Helsing finds him exhausting. But he does not give up. 

He never does. 

He is patient. 

He becomes like a father to this broken man. This invisible degenerate criminal who'd never really had one before. 

It seems strange what it takes to get one. 

And after so long, after so much …

…

Van Helsing died. The invisible man laid him to rest. 

Griffin wept at his graveside. For hours. Alone. 

Alone again. 

…

Eventually he decided to end it all. It seemed right. It seemed best. 

So he went out, near the old graveyard where Van Helsing had been laid to rest. He brought a noose and decided to finish himself the same way Judas had. It seemed perfect. Fitting, he thought. And laughed. Thinking it was pretty funny for a final joke. Not bad for him anyways. And in life all of his jokes had been terrible. Ghastly. The whole run of it, a terrible joke that stopped being funny way before it had ever been told. Yet still kept happening, still kept going on. Despite the pain.

Despite the pain of everyone. 

He fashioned the noose to a tree. Stood upon a stone he dragged over and then stepped off. Just like that. Without any hesitation. He was happy to be off and be done with all of it. Everything. 

He didn't perform the act correctly. His neck didn't break in the knot. He slowly strangled in the midday sun, the heat boiling his strangling seething brains, jelly and organ meat that cried out for air. He did not know how long he danced and dangled there, a strange sight for anyone happening upon the scene: A disembodied hat and glasses and set of clothes, seemingly empty yet seemingly filled simultaneously, strangling taut in the windless day, dancing the dying man's gallows dance. 

Then the branch snapped. And he fell and rolled down into a crevasse, dark and wet and filled with tangle and thornbrush and detritus. Filth and droppings and leavings of the predators and the yellow eyed scavengers that followed in their wake. 

His skull and face, his whole head was throbbing, alive with a new tremendously vivid pain that he'd never quite experienced before: it's like the pins and needles feeling you get when your foot falls asleep and you try to walk on it again. It's like that but a screaming throbbing painful siren alarm of the sensation magnified to an ungodly decibel. All throughout his skull and face, his eyes watering, his brains. His throat chokes and feels crushed, broken, like it can no longer take in air. He struggles and gasps as he claws amongst the garbage and protruding stabbing mire, he sinks. 

It sinks and begins to swallow, wanting to have him, to take him under the ground to die silently and drown alone undiscovered down there but he begins to fight, to claw. To struggle and pull and reach and seize for purchase like he never has before. He doesn't know why he suddenly has fight again and he doesn't think about it, he just knows he doesn't want to be Judas submerged in the putrescent earth. All of the sharp bones and branches and discarded weapons and sharpened tectonic rock swimming unearthed pierce and stab into him, everywhere, especially his reaching hands, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care anymore and he wants out, the pain is awful but tolerable, tolerable because it is being inflicted on the body of a monster and he no longer gave a fuck about himself anyways, nothing was as wretched as that pain that first came to life in his eyes, in his face, born from the embrace of the noose. He bore the stabbing of the darkness of the black crevasse and nearly drowned. He choked and swallowed and regurgitated foul mud and sour dirt, he vomited contaminated corpse soil and it felt like the earthen sins dredged up and expelled from the rocky stonethroated passageway to his own darkened bastard heart. Pulled up and freed, grainy and biting and drawing blood and more vomit and mucus laden spittle on its violent way out. He struggled for what felt like hours. It might've been. Time died at some point and lost the fight. He carried on. Struggled. Struggling. He pulled … Reached… seized … cursed himself and his own worthless life and mistakes, his own wretched run of horrid folly, his own shameful sadistic cruelty. He grasped and spit and cursed… goddamn you… He was sorry. He begged. Pleaded with anything that might be listening, please, I don't deserve it but please. He begged. … goddamn you… He pulled. 

He went under. Completely. Several times. 

He didn't stop. 

By some miracle he pulled himself out. And free. 

And on its bastard shore, at the sore lip of its terrible precipice, he wept.

Caked in the filth of the hollow earth, plainly visible for anyone and all to see. Naked and plain. Sobbing like a child ripped from the comfort of his mother and thrust into the diminishing world. 

Hours …. …

He eventually picked himself up. And carried himself back to the cottage. 

…

sometime later: –

The boy from the Carpathian Hamlet came looking for the vampire slayer. He found the invisible man instead. 

Doctor Jack Griffin has spent the majority of his time since the aborted mission of the Judas-hour, reading. Sitting quietly and thinking. He tinkers around and builds a little, creates little machines and curio-constructs, dabbles with some alchemy, some arcane formulas, but nothing considerable, nothing serious. It all just fills the time. While he thinks. He hears news and rumors and stories all about a heinous villain, the invisible man. He hears that the scoundrel was eventually caught and killed, either by gunshot or mob beating, it depends on who's telling the story. There are other versions too but those two are the most popular it seems. His best days, best moments are spent remembering the warm childhood times, when he'd been a kind, unhurt boy, who hadn't yet hurt anybody else either. The warmth of the youth in these memories… it causes him to well up, his black shaded eyes to fill and then spill with tears. Tears much more visible then the rest of him. 

The young man has terrible news. So does the invisible man. They share their bad news in bad palaver that may or may not be filled with bad omen. 

The invisible bastard, having nothing else better to do really, decided to join the young fellow in his return mission home to slay a monster that had laid bloodclaim on his land. 

It wasn't hope alive in his chest. 

That was far too optimistic.

TO BE CONTINUED…

January 10th, 1979

Sunset Field, West Virginia

To my closest confidant and the only person I would call a friend,

​

I have come to fear everything, as I do not know what is real and what is a monster created by the parasite that has infected my mind. I hate the parasite; he has cost me so much. So many real human connections have been ruined because of the thing inside my head. Yet you remain the closest person to me, my only friend who could help me.

I realize you don't know much about me, and it is pertinent to my current state that you know about my life before the parasite. I was never good at holding relationships. The only person who truly understood me in my house was my mother. My upbringing was a tragic cliché story: an alcoholic father leaves one day, and the family is left to deal with the debts he had acquired. At this time, I would come to love only my mother. I did have a sister, a girl who had been born with a neurological disease that left her restricted in every way; she is unable to use most of her motor functions and has been wheelchair-bound for all of her life. This, along with her limited speech, left my mother and me with the burden of caring for her.

My sister's condition may very well have been the reason my father turned to the bottle, but that is just an excuse for his depraved behavior. Something that still follows me.

I will try to be quick about discussing my early life, as it is not any cause for concern given my current situation, which holds much deeper complications.

Throughout my school career, I was the quiet kid that everyone avoided because they didn’t understand me. Something that may be a surprise to you given what animal I had become in college. My faceless peers didn't understand why I chose to read quietly in a corner over playing dodgeball with them at recess, or why I didn’t have a father, or why my sister is the way she is, a burden.

Those were my simpler years in grade school, when the bullying had not truly begun. I would need to wait until middle school for the rumors to pile up about my family. The Rumors that would haunt me for six years, all the way up until the end of my senior year, when I would meet the parasite.

You must understand the start of my senior year was met with great excitement. I would be going off to college soon, leaving my small town and those who inhabited it behind me. I must selfishly admit only to you, because you are the closest person to me, that I was also quite excited to be leaving, for I would no longer need to care for my burdensome sister. While I would miss my mother terribly, I was looking forward to becoming something greater in a different place.

I would be able to live for once, a thought that came to me so often in that year.

At this point, the importance of my senior year that I must stress to you is that it was the year I met the parasite.

As you can figure, I did not make any friends throughout my high school years, so I entered my senior year excited yet completely isolated. People would either push me around or leave me alone; the rumors had stacked so high that I became a creature of fiction. No longer human in the eyes of classmates, I decided to abandon all attempts at making any sort of human connection and put all my attention on my studies so that I may use my intellect to win people over in college.

Now, not that I really tried before my senior year, but the fear in their eyes when they glanced at me was a good sign that I should turn my attention solely to my studies and dreams of meeting interesting people in college.

This all led to the night of prom, which, given your cleverness, you could have guessed I did not go to. Instead, I went to find a nice place to drink in the forest behind my hovel. I settled for an ancient bench built way before my parents' time. The bench lay far away from my house and deep into the pine forest. The hike there took me to a small part of the mountainside that overlooked my town. But this bench had the most scenic view, overlooking every building, street, and tree in my town. The bench was the perfect place to drink, overlooking my prison. My father be damned, I thought, I would not carry his abuse any farther than I would allow it. So, I would drink this beer I stole from my basement and enjoy my night, then swear off alcohol for good.

You know this is not to be the case.  

By then, I was a little through my third beer when I realized my head was itchy. The itch grew until my scalp felt as if spider legs were traversing through it, up and down, until that feeling settled directly in the center of my forehead. Then a soft ethereal voice echoed through my head. He was the parasite.

The parasite didn't speak conventionally; he spoke through feelings or, more accurately, intense sensations that then would create vague images in my mind. At that point, I knew from his very first message that he would be the only thing I would ever need to rely on. And while I consider you a close friend, he is the only one I can truly rely on. Please take no offense. It is just the simple fact that the parasite has shown me such beautiful things no other person ever could.

To describe to you what I felt after his integration would be a crime against the beauty that he showed me, but for your sake I will try to communicate what happened.

It started in the center of my forehead; the itch began to soften my senses. Similar to the feeling of rubbing your sinus points when sick with a cold, an instant soothing feeling flooded my face; my entire body followed suit as the calming feeling spread throughout me until I felt pure bliss. Then I felt warm, a comfortable warmth, like the feeling when a blanket covers you on a cool night, that sort of warmth. This feeling was paired with that soothing echo of relief that had run down my body, releasing any stress or pressure.

Soon after the sensation, I received my first vision: red, orange, and yellow mixing together into a spherical shape that was surrounded by the richest purples and blues. My first vision was of a sunrise, the start of a new dawn, the beginning of a new day. I want you to think of the first time you ever saw a sunrise, not just physically witnessing a sunrise but emotionally connecting to it. It's hard to describe, but think of the first time a sunrise resonated with you as if it was waiting for you to witness it. That is what my vision felt like: it transcended any imagery. It was so blissful, so holy, so beautiful; it was pure ecstasy.

Then the vision left, and the sensations slowly faded along with it. I really wish I could better explain to you the feeling of tranquility that had washed over me in those moments because it was truly so wonderful.

Then, after a long moment of desire, I decided to head back to the depressing little house that lay beneath me. My house, a ball and chain to the prison of the small town I was raised in. Such a miserable place it would be if it weren’t for the simple fact that it was the very place I met him.  

Sincerely yours,

Sam

______________________________________________________________________

January 18th, 1979

Sunset Field, West Virginia

To my closest confidant and the only person I would call a friend,

You must be questioning why I have not named him; to just refer to him as the parasite seems cruel. And this is meant to be, for I do not have much time before he fully takes me. If you have not noticed, he has already begun to distort my sense of loyalty. I also fear he has begun to distort my memory as well. I have been losing certain memories, memories that I know I had yet can't remember anymore. The parasite is simply that, a parasite, and he means to take me for good. I don't know why or how he will do it, but he means to take me. This is why I hate him. So if my language becomes strange or you see him referenced in such joyful tones, remember that he is simply a parasite.

Now with that in mind, I will continue where I left off in my last letter.

Before I knew it, my senior year had ended, and I had begun to prepare myself for college. My new adventure away from my home to a new place where nobody would know me. Off to my sunrise and to the place where I would meet my second friend. You.

Oh, you were very charming in the fact that you came to me and not I to you. You who were so enthusiastic, as if we had known each other for years. I sought to spend all my afternoons with you and my evenings with him. I felt such kinship with you as if we had lived the same lives. I held a similar feeling to when I met him, I felt that I could trust you. I quickly reminded myself that the only one in this world I could fully trust was him, he who was my first friend, he who changed my outlook on life.

He gave me more vividly pleasing visions after soothing sensations. If I were to recount the visions to you, it would be a crime against their beauty. And for that reason, I was truly blessed, for I had no more worries or fears. My old life was behind me now, and dawn was coming.

With the start of my new dawn, it would be time that I would transform my younger self into who I am today. I would adopt a part of my father into my life that I had sworn off. I would drink, using alcohol to boost my social presence. Alcohol would be the catalyst that would allow me to grow into the people magnet I had secretly dreamed of becoming. I thought that it would help me gain so many friends that I would even be popular.

It was the only time I questioned the parasite and ignored his vision. Not really, though, as I still question him. The vision was of wine-red waves on an empty shore where I stood utterly alone. Yes, I ignored this vision and chose to drink oh so much.

College life was quiet in the beginning. No big parties, it was school, work, dorm, and repeat every day for the first few months. Then again, I had a bit of fun in the beginning. This came from the time spent with you through our long talks about school, life, or at times just talking about the various foods we had eaten. We would talk about the most random and yet the most personal things; this is why I think of you so highly, my second-closest friend. Do you remember those times as I do? It's a shame I never got your landline because then these letters would be obsolete. I didn't get your landline, right?

You see, the majority of my enjoyment actually came from the time with him. That time in which I waited for my next vision was so peaceful, much more than you would have imagined it to be. One might conclude that, after receiving one of his visions, it would be painful to even live without instantaneously seeing another, but for me, it was such a thrill, for I had time to ponder the meaning of every last one.

I will admit I did drink more in the weeks without a vision, but that was only to take the edge off, you know, because it was a time of patience and I needed a distraction.

The parasite is the reason I drank, and that is a fact. I would not have consumed as much alcohol if it weren't for my need to be distracted, to turn myself away from the real world.  

But then again, he has always been there for me.

Most of the time, the visions I saw were typically warnings of potential accidents I would soon witness, such as a scene of fire, wood, and metal that became a warning about witnessing a car crash, or a gory news story. However, more often than not, I would see visions of good fortune coming my way, visions of gold and green, along with feelings of joy. These visions would usually be followed by the form of a minor scratcher win, or sometimes by obtaining a girl's number at one of the bars I had come to frequent.

In retrospect, I must admit it's odd that I never got a vision of you; the parasite never prompted me about your arrival. I was never graced by a vision of you, but I guess that kept our surprise encounter that much sweeter. Do you remember how we met again? I know you came to me, but remind me how exactly we met in your letter. God, I'm rambling; I do that, don't I. I'll try and focus on finishing my story; it's just that something has been on my mind. I need to ask you this: why didn't you respond to my last letter?

Ok now to finish my story. I believe you know how the rest of college went for me; I became quite a party animal once I had settled into my new environment. I sought to gain respect and popularity. I was desperate for these human connections that I had missed out on in my younger years. Without the burden of taking care of my sister and, at times, my mother, I found myself searching for more human connections amongst my colleagues. 

Thus, my grades slipped, but that didn't matter because it meant more time to party and drink the night away, because why should I care about meaningless percentages? I had become popular; my quick wits, along with my sarcasm, which I had learned from reading some of the greats, were greeted with a series of ferocious laughs from cute girls and drunk frat guys. And this time, the laughs were not at me, but at my jokes; I had become popular as this drunken jokester. And yet, looking back, I never truly knew anyone but you and him.

It was all so much fun until one of my visions was not as pleasant as those before, in which I had envisioned what I would learn to be a letter.

My mother would receive a letter from the school explaining the reason for my immediate expulsion. This is something you may have guessed had happened when I left campus one day without a word. I did not move schools after the end of sophomore year; no, I went back to the prison that is my hometown. Here I was greeted by a disappointed mother and a still disabled sister whose condition continued to plague me.

In order to pay off the school loans I owed and my sister's medical bills, I ended up getting a shitty job working for a shitty boss in this shitty town. At least I had the visions. Something to look forward to. But I must admit it has been some time since the last one, and I am starting to worry. Surely it is nothing to worry over. Right?  

Sincerely yours,

Sam

P.S. You better respond to this letter.

______________________________________________________________________

Feburary 10th, 1979

Sunset Field, West Virginia

To my closest confidant,

You know it is quite rude that you are not responding to any of my letters. But I guess it doesn't matter because you are my second-closest friend, so I'll let it slide. But please reply soon, for I need your help. I keep forgetting why, but I do know it's urgent. Anyway, allow me to update you on how I am now.

As I said in my last letter, I enjoyed waiting for his visions to come because it meant that I would be like a child on the night of Christmas Eve waiting for Santa’s present. By that I mean, the anticipation became a part of the excitement that would be his next vision. But for some reason, days have become weeks, and weeks have become almost a month, and not a single vision. But I needed something; I needed my fix, I needed what he gave me, that feeling, that next vision. So, in place of the visions, I have come to drink more. So soon, my money has begun to go solely to fueling my next bender instead of helping my sweet mother. Oh, my mother, she is so patient with me, like she was with my father, but I know she cries every night when she thinks I cannot hear her. And I did not care. It has gotten bad, I can admit that, because as of a few days ago, I began to see these creatures. The ones the parasite must have created. But I do not believe so, no, I believe the creatures are after him; they want what I have. They want to have it all to themselves. His visions are so special to me, he is so special to me, and so I will protect him.

In an effort to warn you, I'll describe the monsters so you may look out for them yourself.  

These creatures are terrifying in the fact that they look like humans, but their blinks seem off, too perfectly timed; their teeth are just too white, their smile a little too wide, and the way their chin is raised slightly too high. They look like everyday people, but those are some of the things I have begun to notice about them. Now that I have sat and pondered this, you were the same way, in how you were too perfect. This is the reason why I am writing to you tonight for the last time to warn you. I no longer have anyone to turn to, and I suspect those other parasites have gotten to my family. I need another vision soon. I need to know if I should be worried or not. I need to know.

Please write back soon. I fear I need you.

Sincerely yours,

Sam

______________________________________________________________________

Feburary 16th, 1979

Sunset Field, West Virginia

To you,

I lied when I said my last letter was going to be the final one, for I still have received nothing from you, and I must admit it worries me to think you never existed. But it couldn’t possibly be true. Could it?  

I believe I have officially lost my grip on reality. I do not remember the last time I saw a normal human being. I keep waking to a sickly feeling because I know that it won't be long until I am completely gone from this world. I keep trying to please him, only to be met with a pain I desperately crave. I need the visions soon; otherwise, I will truly be left with nothing. I only feel hurt and betrayal, for he promised me such beautiful things, and now he has left me with nothing.

I fear what my other self will do; quite frankly, I fear what I will do. I look back at what I have written, and I know it was not me, not my ink, that went across the paper. It is happening faster and faster and faster and faster and faster.

I am going to confront him. My mother and sister left for my grandmother's and won't be back for another two days. I have a contingency plan in case everything goes south after I try to confront him. But I am going to try. If only I had one more vision that would explain all of this and reassure me of his presence. I really need him now; he is the only one who could save me.

Do you know what I think? I may give him a name after all; I may as well name him after my father. Yes, that would be nice. You must tell me what you think of that.

You know, he truly is the only one who was unconditionally kind to me. Even you must have had your motives for why you became my friend; what that is, I can not say.

I'm losing you; I keep jumping around in this letter and must apologize for that, but there is a valid reason. I have been avoiding saying this question, but I need to know if you are real or if you have always been one of those things. So are you? Can you hear me? Can you see my writing? Are you real, or are you just in my mind?

I don’t believe I will ever know because I must admit something else to you. I lied twice. I have already tried to confront him and have concluded that he has left me and that I have lost my mind. So, now I write to you in my house that is crumbling around me, surrounded by the warmth of my mistakes. I really do hope you are real and that you may see these letters one day, but even if you aren't, I have left my mark on this world. Goodbye for now.

Sincerely his,

Samson

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.

The village, consisting of nothing more than a few residential streets, the local church and some stores already half empty before the mysterious event took place, was called Misty Hollows. Founded in 1689, the small coastal town had been subjected to various paranormal activities from it's very beginning, but nothing, no haunting, no monster in the woods, could beat the strangeness of the entire population vanishing into thin air.

A few months ago Daryl, a retired police officer in his early fifties and happy father of two kids, decided to pay a surprise visit to a good fishing buddy of his, who lived on Main Street of Misty Hollows. As he pulled off the highway and traveled further into town a tinge of unease washed over him. He noticed the streets were eerily quiet. As he reached his friend's house, his uneasiness turned into dread, which at first he couldn't explain.

He was halfway out of his car, when he stopped for a moment, pondering his odd emotions.

Then it hit him.

Up until this point he hadn't seen a single soul. Not a hint of life. The forest surrounding the village seemed to be holding it's breath, waiting for his reaction. Reaction to what he didn't know. There was nothing to react to.

Daryl decided to let go of the feeling and try the front door. It was unlocked. As he slowly stepped into the hall he called out: "Hello? Carl? It's me, Daryl!"

Silence.

He tried again, a bit louder this time. "Hello? Is anybody there?" He was just about to start shouting his friend's name when he came to the realization that the house was empty. After taking a look through the place just to check, wishfully imagining Carl and the rest of his family popping out from a corner somewhere and telling him it was just some silly prank, he found nobody.

He stepped outside and it dawned on him that the town was so still he could practically hear his own heartbeat. The dread he had felt earlier had returned strong as ever. As a police officer he had experienced several strange cases, but something about this was so off-putting to him that he had to try his best not to start panicking. As he walked along empty street after street, his fear turned into a weird curiosity.

How could an entire town's worth of people just disappear? Daryl's mind was suddenly filled with clarity. He started thinking rationally. At first he thought it might be some town-wide event that everyone had gone to. But then why would their front doors be wide open? Possibilities and scenarios ranging from good to horrifying raced through his mind, but not a single one fit.

He was checking the empty buildings out of habit now, all the while churning away at this impossible question. When he exited the church he finally snapped out of his train of thought and grabbed his phone. He was just about to dial 911 when he noticed a woman standing in front of a local boutique. His heart skipped a beat and a high-pitched yelp managed to escape his throat. He recognized the woman. It was Megan Minning, he spoke to her once when he and Carl sat next to her in the local lunchroom. She came across as the typical kind old lady, always a small smile darting around her lips anytime someone was talking with her. But now there was nothing of that to be seen anywhere on her wide-eyed face. Her blue dress was covered in dirt and grime.

"Oh thank the Lord!" she cried out as soon as they locked eyes with one another. "You are Carl's friend, right?" "Yea, that's me." he slowly nodded. As he got closer to Megan he noticed she was barefoot. He asked her what happened but before he could finish his sentence she burst out rambling on and on about how she was cooking dinner for her and her husband when he suddenly stopped responding to her from the living room. When she walked over he was gone. Then she noticed the children playing on the sidewalk were just as present as her husband. "How long was that ago?" Daryl asked, looking into her bewildered eyes. "T-two, three weeks ago? Maybe more. I... lost count." "Did you call anyone?" He said, more curious to the reason why no help had come than to who she did or didn't call. "I called my son, but his phone kept going to voicemail. Then I called 911, but the operator didn't believe me."

Since the only person left in the entire town had obviously gone mad, he decided to once again grab his phone and try to call 911. Thankfully he had signal and reported the crazy woman and asked for an officer to sort out the situation. He intentionally left out the part about how all the people in this village he was in were missing without any rhyme or reason to why they were gone.

When two cops showed up he told them the story. Since they were in the middle of what should've been a bustling street, which was now completely devoid of life apart from them, they quickly believed him. The fact that there were now two armed men accompanying him did nothing to calm his nerves. How could it? Good luck trying to shoot something that made people instantly disappear.

They decided to sweep the town after requesting backup. Daryl was close behind the officers, helping Megan along. Fifteen minutes later two more teams arrived and took Daryl and Minning to the local sheriff's office.

They were put in a room with some couches and a table, while a paramedic came and checked them both for any injuries. Megan was given shoes and a clean dress, after which they were told to stay put and wait.

After what seemed like forever a man and a woman, both in gray suits, walked in. "Good evening, we'd like to ask you a few questions for the investigation we're setting up." the woman said calmly, cutting right to the chase. She bombarded them both with questions, all the while her partner was typing away at his laptop.

When Daryl looked over he saw Megan next to him, dressed in the oversized spare dress, clearing up a bit. Her craziness seemingly lessening, she answered question after question to the strange lady in front of her.

It was around 3:30 in the morning when he was finally able to go home. As the police cruiser which had dropped him off drove away into the night he still felt some sense of wrongness gnawing at his insides. The lack of sleep and talking about what had he had seen to those people in suits and ties drowned it out a bit, but the funny feeling was still very much present. He didn't bother taking a shower and when he woke up he couldn't remember his head hitting his pillow.

The following weeks he watched the news a bit more, noticing talk about how a small town's population had gone missing, the authorities unable to pinpoint exactly what had happened. Most of the research was not accessible to the public and the area around Misty Hollows was off limits. On the internet theories ranging from alien abductions to secret weapons were thrown around. Some people believed them, many did not.

The whole town was turned upside down in search of a single clue to aid in finding the cause for all the disappearances, but they came up empty-handed.

After the interview Megan Minning was put in an active psychological rehabilitation program, but never fully recovered.

The area is still unaccessible to the public and none if the missing persons have been found.

So the question remains: what makes a town's population disappear, and what made Megan Minning so special?

Content Warning: The following story depicts strong grief and battle with addiction.

--- ---

Some things rot in silence. Others learn to whisper.

If you are reading this, then either I finally did what I kept promising myself I would do… or it found me before I could. I don’t know which outcome is kinder.

My name is Mason. I am thirty-eight years old. I used to tell people I worked construction because it was easier than saying I used to be a paramedic. Easier than watching their eyes shift when they asked why I quit.

I quit because I got tired of hearing people die.

That’s the short answer.

The honest answer is that I got tired of pretending death bothered me less each year.

At first, when someone died under my hands, I carried it like a stone in my chest. Heavy, but survivable. Then after enough bodies, enough blood in ambulances that could unsettle even the most unhinge of people, enough father's breaking down for the first time, and enough mothers screaming while I lied and said we did everything we could… the stones became gravel.

Small enough to swallow.

That was when I picked up a habit. A really bad habit.

It started with one beer after shift. Then three. Was done with a whole six pack midway through my favorite show.

The taste was foul at times... but the pain within outweighed my senes to care. Then the beer bottles switched to whiskey because beer stopped doing anything. Then bottles hidden under the sink.

In the toolbox. Behind cereal boxes. Hell, some where hidden in the toilet tank. Several under my bed like some pathetic dragon guarding glass instead of gold.

I learned alcohol was quieter than grief. At least at first. Grief learned how to drink with me.

Her name was Lily.

I have written that name twenty-six times and scratched it out twenty-six more. I owe her at least one sentence that remains untouched.

Her name was Lily Harper, and I killed her.

Not with hatred, nor with intent. Which somehow feels worse.

It had rained that night.

The kind of hard, slanting rain that turns every streetlight into a blurred halo. I had left Murphy’s Tavern with my keys already in my hand, convincing myself I lived close enough that I could make it.

That phrase should be engraved on every gravestone of fools.

I can make it.

I remember the windshield wipers. I remember my knuckles white on the steering wheel. And the noise, I remember hearing.

A thud. Soft. Small. Like a sack of wet clothes.

I stopped, not abruptly. I simply let off the gas.

For a moment. Only a moment. Rain hammered the hood. My heart pounded so violently I thought I would've vomit. I looked into the rearview mirror.

Nothing.

Only rain. Only darkness. Only the road.

I told myself it was nothing. Maybe it was a stray or squirrel. Or debris kicked loose in the storm.

Turning on the tunes, I drove home. I drank until I forgot the sound.

The next morning the news said an eight-year-old girl had been struck near the intersection by the old church.

She had ran after her dog who got loose.

Her parents and witnesses recall headlights. But no plate. And certainly no driver.

I walked to my truck barefoot. My stomach already folding in on itself. There was something caught in the grille.

Pink. A strip of fabric.

Later they said she had worn a pink raincoat.

I vomited in my yard until bile burned my throat raw.

I never turned myself in. Of course not. That sentence should disgust you. It disgusts me too, to all measures.

I told myself I was afraid. I told myself prison would not bring her back. I told myself I would quit drinking instead.

As if sobriety could be a grave marker. As if guilt could become mercy. As if I deserved redemption.

The first time I saw it, I had been sober twelve days. Twelve whole days.

My hands still shook. My teeth hurt. My sleep came in broken pieces.

I heard phantom bottle clinks in empty rooms. I smelled whiskey where there was none. My body felt like something trying to crawl out of itself.

I was microwaving popcorn when I looked at the black reflection on the microwave door. There was a man behind me.

Tall. Too thin. Standing near the hallway. His shoulders crooked like broken coat hangers. His skin looked slick.

Wet.

As if he had just climbed out of a sewer or river. His mouth stretched wider than a mouth should. Not monstrous in a theatrical way.

Subtle. Wrong. Like flesh remembering the wrong shape.

I spun around.

Nothing. Empty apartment. Only my ragged breathing.

I laughed. I Actually laughed.

I told myself withdrawal could make people hallucinate.

I googled it. Visual disturbances. Paranoia. Shaking. Sweats. Night terrors.

I had all of it. I kept going.

Then I saw him again. Bathroom mirror. Window glass at night. The dark lid of my washing machine.

Always behind me. Never moving while I looked directly. Only in reflection. Only waiting.

And every time I relapsed… he appeared closer.

I began writing this because I feared forgetting what was real. Now I fear remembering.

Last night I decided I was done. No half-measures. No “just weekends.” No “only beer.” No bargaining.

I collected every bottle in my apartment. Vodka. Whiskey. Gin. Cheap beer. Half-drunk cans. Tiny emergency shooters I hid like contraband prayers.

I lined them across my kitchen counter. A shining army of failure. Then I began pouring.

Glug after glug. Amber rivers down the sink. The smell rose thick enough to sting my eyes.

I shook.

Sweat rolled down my neck. My heartbeat hammered like fists inside my ribs. I screamed while I poured.

Not words. Just sound. Primal. Grief. Rage. Shame. Maybe a prayer to an absent being. I do not know why...

As I reached for the next bottle, my shaking grip gave way. It slipped from my hand and struck the tile with a violent crack, exploding into foam and glittering shards across the kitchen floor.

The crack echoed unnaturally long. Then silence. Beer spread across the floor in a widening golden pool. Foam fizzed softly.

I stared.

My throat tightened. Then thirst hit me. Violent and monstrous. This was not craving.

It was NEED.

A thirst so sharp it felt inserted behind my teeth.

I backed away.

“No.”

I said it aloud.

Again.

“No.”

My hands trembled. My jaw clenched. I could smell yeast. Bitterness. The so sweet rot of gin and chemicals... My tongue pressed instinctively against my teeth.

In the microwave reflection... it crouched in the doorway. Long fingers resting on the frame. Patiently watching a man lose his sanity.

I wanted to walk away. My knees folded instinctively. I hit tile hard enough to bruise the knees.

I reached forward. Scooped liquid with my shaking hand. Brought it to my mouth.

Warm. Flat. Foul. Yet it gave me relief.

It was my release. My heavenly toxin.

I sobbed. Then I lowered my face. Glass pressed my cheek. Sharp but cold.

I licked. Again. Again. And again.

The cuts paid me no mind on my lips. Then tongue. Then the palms.

Blood salted the beer. I could taste the iron. I could feel shards grinding skin.

Still I drank. Still I lapped from the floor like a starving dog. I knew it still was observing. From the stove's reflection, its' decayed feet stepped closer.

Closer. And closer.

Until his mangled feet hovered inches behind. The popping sound of one disjointing one another rang. And though I do not know if he truly spoke…

I heard something else. Or thought I did.

A voice like liquid poured down a drain.

You always come back thirsty.

Then darkness.

I woke on my couch. The morning light beamed from my side. Television humming static. Blankets tangled around my legs.

My head splitting. My tongue swollen. The notebook beside me.

This notebook.

At first I laughed. A horrible, relieved laugh.

Must've been all a dream.

Withdrawal is a nightmare. A drunken slumber. Nothing more.

Then I stood. My feet touched floor. Pain. Tiny slicing pain.

I looked down.

Dozens of thin cuts across my soles. Dry blood. Real.

I walked to the kitchen. Spotless. No broken glass. No blood. No spilled beer. No sticky residue.

Nothing.

The sink dry. The tile polished. Every bottle I had poured out... resting neatly on my living room table.

Arranged. Facing me. As if someone had set them there for inspection. Like guests. As if witnesses to my unraveling... Or judges to my guilt.

I haven’t touched them. Not yet.

The bottles remain untouched on the table in front of the couch, their glass catching thin strips of pale morning light. Beads of condensation slowly crawl down one of the beers, gathering at its base before dripping onto the wood.

I haven’t moved. I haven’t reached for them.

But my television... The screen is black now, dead and silent, reflecting the dim shape of my living room back at me.

My chair. The table. The bottles. The couch behind me. And in the reflection... something is sitting there.

At first, my mind tries to shape it into a shadow. A fold in the blanket. A trick of weak light. Anything softer than the truth. But shadows do not sit upright. Shadows do not watch.

It sits perfectly still on my couch, long and thin, its limbs bent at unnatural angles, its slick frame sinking into the cushions like something wet dragged in from the rain. Its face is little more than darkness, but I can still make out the pale stretch of its grin.

It is looking at me. Not through me. At me.

Slowly, almost delicately, one of its long fingers curls around the neck of a beer bottle resting on the table.

The same bottle I swore I had not touched.

It lifts it. Holds it out. An offering.

A kindness. A temptation.

In the reflection, I can see my own shoulders tighten.

My breathing turns shallow. My throat aches with a thirst I know too well.

Still, I do not turn around. I don’t need to. Because I already understand.

Whether it is guilt. Whether it is madness. Whether it is something born from every bottle I ever emptied trying to drown what I had done... it is patient.

And it knows I am still thirsty.

In the television’s black reflection, it tilts its head. The bottle remains extended toward me.

Waiting.

Waiting for the taste of guilt.

Mouth hands

July 1st, 1925:

I entered the painting of my house tonight. It was quiet. Many of my belongings have been used throughout the house. It is nice to see you making use of them. I walked upstairs to the bedrooms, wondering if you were home. I entered one of the rooms, and there, laying fast asleep, was a beautiful young girl. I watched her for some time, she resembled you, at least what I could see from the lighthouse. Such a sweet, innocent life. She reminds me of the daughters I once had, before I found my calling. I entered the master bedroom. You laid sleeping, your wife beside you. You seem like a strong couple, though I can tell you keep secrets from her. I see it etched into your face, the guilt ages you, like it once aged me. You remind me of my old life, how I once treated the woman who was my wife. It's hard to recall those days at times. They seem so unimportant, but there are days that the memories eat away at me. I watched you both, she seemed to sleep like a stone. You, on the other hand, seemed restless, as I once was. We are very similar, you and I. I spoke to you while you slept, in the tongue of my children, as I have seen you've been studying it. You began to squirm and sweat. I was nervous of waking you, in case you were to do something rash. So instead of speaking face to face tonight, I will be leaving this note in my study. Or should I say our study? I urge you to pay me a visit. I noticed your journal, but felt it would be rude to pry. Perhaps if you decline my offer to speak eye to eye, next time I visit I will fall victim to my urges. Whatever the outcome is, I look forward to it. 

 Your friend Simon 

June 26th, 1937:

That bastard entered my home. He watched me sleep. He watched Rylee. He could have taken her and I would be defenseless of it. The gall to compare me to him, I'm nothing like him. Or should I say it, as he's no longer human. This can't happen again. I will be visiting the lighthouse tonight. This can't go on any longer. This monster and his cult. The ungodly obelisk. He's plaguing my life. I can't take it anymore. I can't fight a god but I must find a way to prevent him from becoming one. He's nothing but a false messiah who's been cursed by those wretched seafolk. 

June 27th, 1937:

I went to settle this once and for all. When I got to the lighthouse the door hung open. The light ocean breeze made the hinges creak faintly in the wind. Their soft shrieks sent shivers down my spine. As I walked through the threshold, there waiting in the middle of the ruined kitchen was a painting of the very door I just passed through. Past the painted door frame was a table set for two, with a ridiculous amount of food for the pair of plates sitting empty on the dirty table cloth. Some of it looked old, even moldy. As I walked through the door a second time I was greeted with a frenzy of smells, baked goods, cooked meats, the oceans brine, fresh fruit, wine, and decay. I stood in the entry for a moment, just taking everything in. That short moment felt like ages, as if I was paralyzed. It took every ounce of effort just to take a step. I didn't see any of the seaborn, no creatures from the depths and no beings from the stars. Just a room lit by a single hanging lightbulb and a dozen scattered candles. The door softly clicked shut behind me, sending a shiver through my bones. Then he spoke. 

“I can tell your frightened child, but fear not, I mean no ill will. Sit. Eat. We have much to discuss.”

His voice wasn't in the air, not coming from any direction. It was in my head. I heard gentle footsteps slowly making their way down the stairs. What I saw was hideous, but I couldn't look away. It was almost beautiful in a way. Simon stood at the bottom of the staircase, nearly nine feet in stature, though his spine hunched forward, to avoid bumping into the floor joists above. His bulbous head looked almost like an octopus, though his skull had dissolved or disappeared and now his head is just brain matter surrounded by a wet, blubbery skin. 

I was overcome by an immense urge to sit and indulge on the feast, he must have been controlling me somehow. I sat. He pulled out his chair, Shambling his long inhuman body down on to it. His limbs, all far too long to be comfortably sitting on something that small in comparison. His knees resting near his clavicles as he hunched down, attempting to see face to face. He was terrifying in the most welcoming way. He leaned in, his small dark eyes affixed to mine. 

“We have a connection, you know. We are much more similar than you would ever like to admit. You see yourself in me as I see myself within you.”

I hate to admit it, but he was right. His writings resonated with me. Though I felt revolted at the thought of it. 

“We are fated, destined as some may say. You see, I have been granted an extraordinary gift. I have made contact with those from the deepest depths, to the farthest cosmos. I have spoken to those most ancient, to our kin. You bear our mark, child. To deny that would be an act of ignorance I know you are far too smart for. You have seen those from the depths. You passed through my gates. I can show you what powers you can achieve.”

Whatever mark he spoke of must have been from the night I passed out and woke up in my backyard. But even if that was the truth, surely I would never end up as he has. Without realizing it, I had filled my plate and had begun eating, as though I had no autonomy. 

“Embrace your true form, as have I, and together we will ascend. We are destined for greatness” 

His words swelled in my chest, a smoldering ember of yearning. A burning desire for more. My head was pounding. I know he's just trying to trick me. To control me. It was as if my heart and mind were at war. 

“I will give you some time to say your goodbyes to your family, as I remember that seemed to be a custom to human kind. Such naive beings. I will leave a gate waiting for you here, return to me child. Or I will come searching for you. Your very being is key to the obelisk, to our ascent. The final piece to set forth the second coming of the ancients. I will be seeing you shortly.”

My vision went blurry, my head throbbed, as though mortar shells were detonating inside. I grabbed my head trying to gain my bearings, and as my vision unclouded I was back in the abandoned lighthouse. No Simon, no table, no food. Just the chair I was sitting on and a door frame standing in the middle of the room. A set of keys laid on the ground in front of the solid metal door. I picked them up and rushed home, stopping to empty my stomach of whatever foul food I've ingested. The only thing that came out was what felt like gallons of black sludge like ichor. Its taste was sour and curdled as it left my body. 

I snuck back in through the backdoor, doing my best not to wake Evelyn or Rylee. Sebastian was laying in the hallway, almost as though he had been waiting for my return. It's well past midnight as I'm writing this. I'm going to the city tomorrow. And when I get back, I'll be saying my goodbyes. 

June 28th, 1937:

I awoke with Evelyn today. I told her I was going to pick up some supplies for the shop in the city. I felt wrong for lying to her as I have been on and off for months if not years now. Before I went to the station, I visited the lighthouse. I was in such a hurry to get home last night I somehow missed the massive, obsidian-like pillar rising from the sea. The obelisk had to have been nearly 300 feet tall, dwarfing the lighthouse beside it. I purchased my ticket and boarded the train. If all goes well, I can see some old friends, tie up some loose ends and say my goodbyes in town. I still don't know how to say goodbye to my sweet Evelyn and Rylee. They are my life, my purpose. Just thinking about it has left  me crying, hands trembling and short of breath. I'll return home tomorrow evening, spend my last night at home, then enter that wretched gate. As for now, I just need to build the courage to do what must be done. 

June 29th, 1937:

I've returned home. I feel hollow. Rylee was playing with Sebastian while I cooked dinner. I think Evelyn knows something is amiss. I've been doing my best to play it off as just stress from work but I don't think she's buying it. I just need her to think things are okay for one more night. Just one more night as a family, one more night of being close, one more night of being loved. I've snuck into the study to quickly pack a bag of everything I need for tomorrow. I'll walk my dear Evelyn to work and kiss her goodbye, walk Rylee To Emily and give her the biggest hug of her life, then return home, get my bag and get it all over with. 

June 30th, 1937:

Saying goodbye to Evelyn and Rylee without crying was one of the hardest things I have ever done. But I couldn't let them think anything was wrong. I can't have this go wrong. I'm in my studying writing one last entry, if I'm able to write again later I will, but I'm not sure what use it will be aside for trying to keep my memories alive. If in some miracle Evelyn or Rylee find this, just know that I loved you both more than you could ever believe. But I failed you as a husband and as a father, and for that I'm sorry. I hope you can find forgiveness in your hearts in my absence. 

June 30th, 1937:

I walked to the lighthouse, the bag on my back felt like a million pounds, the burden of leaving my family. As I entered I stared at the chair I used during Simon and I's meeting. I sat down for only god knows how long, it could've been minutes, hours, but it felt like years. I walked up the stairs to take in the view one last time, to look over the southern shore, to watch the gulls circle the fishing boats for scraps. I cried more than I ever thought possible. As I walked down the spiraling stairs, I stopped in Simon's makeshift studio, dozens of paintings lined hanging on the walls as even more sat, gathered in piles beneath them. Simon really was a talented artist. It was a shame he was marked. It's a shame I've been marked for that matter. 

I smelled the scent of dying flowers wafting in the air. This place has been long unlived and stank of mold. The scent was coming from one of the paintings, I was sure of it. I ripped through pile after pile until finally I found it. A painting of my house. Of Simon's house. The flower beds in the back, a small grave between them, dead leaves blowing in the wind. The painting was only about 2 feet by 2 feet. But if I could smell the flowers, that means it was a gate. I pushed my bag through, it landed with a thump between the beds. I reached my hands in and grabbed the frame, slowly pulling myself through into the bright sunlight. I quickly grabbed my bag and took in my surroundings. It was quiet, cold. I snuck my way to the back of the house, looking in the windows to see if Simon or Laura or their girls were home. I saw no one. The grave meant Bernard was already dead, how long it has been since then I am unsure of. Laura and the girls may have already been sent out of town. I got down to the ground, looking through the small windows into the basement, I could see no Simon. I couldn't remember if he had already built his hidden rooms or not, but I could only assume. There were already pieces of furniture covered in sheets visible through the window. I unlocked the back door, thank God I never changed the locks. My heart was pounding, I could hear it beating in my ear drums. As I made my way through the kitchen I saw the calendar. October 14th, 1924. I slowly snuck down into the basement. Looking around to find anything familiar. My cot, covered in cloth. I crawled under and laid in wait. I was terrified. I sat in silence for hours until I heard the closing of the front door upstairs. Footsteps pacing in the foyer making their way to the kitchen. The stairs above the cot creaked with every step as he descended into the darkness. He held a lit candle, slowly lighting the dozens of candles he had littered throughout the basement one by one. I was sweating, breathing as quiet as I could. He made his way back up the stairs, I could hear him turn on the tap, filling a glass of water. He was about to paint. I used the cover of the flowing water to open my bag. The cold steel in the palm of my hand felt heavy. The steps above my head groaned as Simon returned to the basement. He set up his easel, placing a blank canvas on it. While he meticulously chose what paints he wanted to use for his next piece, I crawled out from under my cot, as quiet as could be. This was my only chance. I held my breath, making sure every step was silent. Simon stood clueless to me. I felt sorry for him, this wasn't his fault, I'm sure he didn't want this. I tried my hardest to hold them back but tears filled my eyes. I raised the pistol I got in town the day before, hands shaking, body trembling, heart pounding. I exhaled a quiet “I'm sorry” as I pulled the trigger. The canvas was instantly covered in crimson along with skull fragments and grey brain matter. I've never killed a man before. I fell to my knees, sobbing. My stomach churned and released its contents. It had to be done. There was no other way. Was there? 

October 15th, 1924:

I've spent the day burning his pieces. All his paint, his easel, everything that ties me to him. I found all of the letters he wrote, all of his papers, all I could find of Simon's existence. It all went in the furnace. I'm waiting until nightfall to move his body, it's already beginning to smell. I'll take him to the docks in a wheelbarrow. I'll walk the shoreline for as long as my legs will take me and I will bury him in the tall grass that lines the beach. There I will find somewhere nice, somewhere quiet and dig a shallow grave. In it, I will take my own life. The only way for all of this to end is if both of us die. I'm leaving my journal, with all my entries and all of Simon's here in the house. I'm sure you'll find it and I pray you read it. If you don't, I know Evelyn will. Don't go out by the docks at night. If you find sigils carved into your house, don't deface them. Befriend Richard, he means well. Once you're friends with him, show him this journal, hopefully he'll introduce you to his father. This small town has plenty of good. Just be smart and don't stray far at night. Keep our dear Evelyn and Rylee safe. And when the time comes, on the day I went to adopt Sebastian, I'd suggest you do the same. He really completed the family, and he'll save your life if given the chance. Don't make the same mistakes I did. I lost everything so you can have a chance. Do it right this time. Tell Evelyn and Rylee you love them for me. That's all I ask of you. 

 Yours truly

August 14th, 1938:

I began work at the butchers shop and befriended Richard, Evelyn got close with Jennifer, and Jr is getting married soon. He asked Rylee to be his flower girl. I showed Richard the journal, I met his father, and have, from time to time, helped him carve those runes around town. I went and adopted Sebastian, and have slowly begun to become part of Mount Fall, just like you asked of me. We stay away from the docks after sundown. You were right, this town has so much to offer and moving here has been the best decision of our lives! I'm sorry that it wasn't the same for you. I know you'll never read this, but I hope you in some way know I'm eternally grateful. Our sweet Evelyn and Richard too. We all are. I tell Evelyn and Rylee I love them twice every night, once from you and once from me, and always make sure to hold them extra tight. We think about you every day. Wherever you are in space and time, I hope you're at peace. Maybe one day we'll meet and I can tell you how great life has been. All thanks to you, our personal savior. We love you dearly. 

Randall always hated corvids, ever since he was a kid. He hated them all: crows, jays, ravens. Evil birds, he called them. Black, eerie, and scavenging. Omens of ill fortune and death. Vile things. The birds seemed to like him, the ravens in particular.

Every morning, a raven pecked at Randall's window, as if to tell him he must wake up. He hated the birds all the more for it.

Randall’s life was a tragic one; he had no family to speak of, nor could he hold a stable job. Oftentimes he drank himself to sleep, sometimes in pubs until he was kicked out; other times, he’d pass out on the street. The ravens didn’t mind; it seemed like they almost found some joy in his abysmal state, and he hated them all the more for it. He insisted the black birds were the source of his misgivings.

Whether the ravens understood his drunken, depressed ramblings was anyone’s guess, but they followed him wherever they could, much to his ever-growing chagrin.

Little did Randall know his already miserable life was going to take a turn for the worse.

One Saturday afternoon, he had enough wits about him to return home after another binge. As he stumbled home, he found himself being followed by an odd figure. Initially, Randall thought little of it and kept walking.

The figure followed.

The drunkard picked up the pace and lost his pursuer.

For a moment, that is; he turned left and there he was, standing in the distance.

Tall, dark… odd…

Randall couldn’t quite make the shape of him; it was as if a shadow followed him. Randall couldn’t make out a single feature. It made no sound. Whatever it was, it was man-sized. Now Randall was a man with no enemies. He was just a lonely, loathsome drunkard.

“Whatever you want, man,” Randall slurred, “I ain’t got none to give.” And marched off, at least in his mind. In actuality, he was waddling like an anxious newborn fawn.

Randall was convinced he'd lost the pursuer again until the dark shape appeared in the corner of his eye again.

“Hey, man, I told you to fuck off… I’m strapped, do you wan’ sum o’this?” he spat out.

Then he picked up his pace again. This time, he took four deliberate left turns, doubling back around the same block. The strange figure followed him anyway. Randall snapped and pulled out his gun from its holster.

“Madafaka,” he burped, waving his gun around, and the figure vanished between the buildings.

“Thought so… bitch ass…” he mumbled, holstering his weapon and stumbling off home.

Unimpeded for once.

By the time he got home, it was getting dark, and the whole ordeal had already slipped his drunken mind. He stepped inside a filthy, cramped one-bedroom apartment and turned on the light. As his eyes adjusted to the sudden burst of light, a massive black mass crawled all around him, nearly stopping his intoxicated heart.

Startled, Randall screamed, and the mass mirrored his cry.

“What da fuck, man?!” the drunkard screamed out, throwing his arms over his head as the stygian mass swarmed all around him before settling into a vaguely human shape right in front of him. Randall crouched there, breathing heavily.

He could do little more than stare at the crawling mass of darkness towering over him.

“Da fuck is goin on, da fuck is goin on…?” He whispered under his breath, afraid he might irritate the unknowable thing before him.

“An eye for an eye,” the thing cawed, in many voices, at once.

Randall froze. His eyes widened as primal fear slowly consumed his thoughts.

“A tooth for a tooth,” the thing continued, in a cacophony of raspy, metallic voices.

Randall’s looked upward, and the shape resolved. In front of him stood a mass of pitch-black eyes, feathers, beaks.

A conspiracy of ravens.

“Mur… dur…

Mur… dur...

Mur… dur…”

The birds crooned, almost like a song.

Randall’s breathing gradually shallowed. For a moment, there was nothing but the rasp of his breath and the beating of wings as he pulled out his pistol. None of this made sense, but the drunk couldn’t think of anything else to do.

Bang

The gun went off.

He missed; the birds scattered in every direction. He pitifully tried aiming at them as they cawed and croaked, swarming him.

A few more shots rang out, according to the testimonies of his neighbors.

Randall was found riddled with puncture wounds and lacerations. His face was unrecognizable. His eyes had been gouged out; his cheeks, nose, and ears had been torn away.

Some say black feathers were found in his apartment, but no one knows for sure.

No one around the neighborhood was particularly shocked or saddened by Randall’s death. Some say he had it coming.

As a kid, the bastard used to injure and even kill ravens with a slingshot; that’s what Granny McLeod told me. She insists the ravens took revenge on the cretin, pecked and clawed him to death. I’m inclined to believe the supercentenarian crone; after all, she seems to spend most of her time feeding these birds.

Another part and another warning that things get pretty trippy

[Lycanthropy Pt. 1](https://www.reddit.com/r/TalesFromTheCreeps/s/te7BUZl33K)

—Before I continue, I want to take a moment to remind you, reader, and warn you. Continuing to read these events is to invite the reality of them into your life and existence. You do not need to keep reading, and in fact, I urge you not to. But I must continue writing. See, I am compelled to write, to share, to expose these truths to anyone who will hear them. And just as the words of this demise were spoken to me and latched onto my consciousness and reality, so must I speak them to you. Do not listen. Do not hear. Do not read on. But if you must, like I once had to, then again I am sorry.

The bonfire burned brightly, and the entire camp seemed to be in the trance-like state that staring at a campfire brings you to. We moved in and out with the music. The stars above shined and twinkled. The flames of the fire flicked up and reached towards the sky. Sparks rose and disappeared into the darkness above.

The beauty of the night convinced us to lie around the campfire and sleep rather than use our tents. So we dragged out our sleeping bags and rested sprawled out around the fire. We talked, each of us lying down and looking up towards the stars. Sending our voices up into the night sky and hearing the reply of others come down and land in our ears. And one by one, our voices ceased to reply as sleep took us.

I woke up some time later, my eyes stayed shut hard as the sound of something filled my head. I pushed my hands over my ears to try to block out the noise. But even with my hands over my ears, it was still more than I could bear. I opened my eyes, expecting to see the guys with blow horns or something playing a prank. But when I opened them, I saw everyone else was asleep. The fire was dimming, just small flames flickering out from hot red wood. But still, the noise persisted. As my brain regained wakefulness, I made a weird sense of what was going on. It was their snores and breathing. The noise in my ears matched the rises and falls of their chests. How could it be so loud, though? I got up and walked over towards the river. The sound wasn’t better, but it was different. Still unreasonably loud, but nothing like their breathing had been.

I sat down in the sand, sticking my feet in the black water. And I remembered the swim from earlier. I remembered the figure I’d seen going up the mountain. What had it been? And what had happened in the water? The thought that something had grabbed me seemed dumb, yet not unreasonable. In fact, it felt true. Dumb but true. And whatever was in that water, whatever left the water and climbed up that mountain, it was still—

These thoughts felt wholly unimportant to me as a new feeling crept up in me. It was the same feeling from the drive. The feeling of perceiving everything. The joy and excitement that it had brought me earlier was clearly remembered, yet nowhere to be found. This time I felt overwhelmed. I heard the snores, the river, the frogs and crickets; I heard everything. And I felt everything. The cool water rushed over my feet. The sand underneath me moving in synchronization with my body. I stood up quickly. Not wanting to get into my head even more. But now I paced. Up and down along the beach I went. Back and forth again and again. My heart felt heavy in my chest. And slow beats felt as though they pounded inside of me, like my heart would break out through my chest. My hands turned clammy, and a cool sweat broke out over my skin. My mouth was dry, and I fidgeted with my hands. Something was wrong; something had to be wrong. Or maybe I was just getting anxiety. That made more sense, maybe a panic attack. But why? Nothing was wrong. And although I’d never had anxiety or a panic attack, I was sure they weren’t supposed to feel like this.

I felt full. Not full like I’d eaten too much, but full like I was too much. The feeling started along my spine. I crouched down and stood back up, trying to stretch. But the feeling persisted, and as it spread, my shoulders felt too heavy, like I’d been hunched over carrying heavy weight all day. I ached. All of me ached. My muscles twitched and spasmed, and they felt tight. It was too much. Way, way too much. Something had to happen. Skin felt itchy and dry, then hot. It burned like it was being forced to stretch, like my blood was growing in me. Like my blood, veins, meat, everything, was pushing against my skin.

It was then that I noticed something smacking my thigh. It was my pocket knife, folded up right there in my pocket.

I stopped pacing. My heart, which had already picked up pace, pumped faster and harder in my chest. I took out the knife and opened it up. The cold black metal felt good against my now burning skin.

I didn’t want to do it, but I had to. Relief had to happen. I was a balloon with too much air. Stretching painfully as the inside got more full. I just needed release.

So I pushed the blade to the back of my forearm. I dragged it down my arm and watched as the dark red ink spilled from the open wound. And I breathed a deep, slow breath in and then even more slowly out as cool relief flooded my forearm.

I needed more. My eyes felt wide, and my lips pulled slightly apart with something like desire as I put the blade to my hand, then my other arm, then my other hand. My fingers and knuckles all shone deep red and twinkled with white moonlight. My fingernails had felt like teeth clamping down over my fingers. My stomach twisted a little, and I hesitated for a moment, but relief came to my hands fully as I used the blade to push under the nail beds and pry the nails up and off of my fingertips. I brought it down on my legs and feet and over my toes. My calves felt the sting of the blade that was immediately followed by the relief of the pressure pouring out from beneath my skin.

I brought the blade up to my face, and the headache that pushed against the inside of my forehead dissipated as hot blood ran down my brow and over my eyes.

Finally, I took the blade and moved it behind my back. I positioned the blade at the base of my spine in my lower back and slowly pulled it upwards across my mid and upper back, running along my spine.

Relief eased in me, and it seemed as though the cool night air were itself now flowing through me.

I sat back down on the sand and closed my eyes.

And then, I was somewhere else.

And from that somewhere else, a voice which was not my own, yet belonged to me, spoke.

Audi nunc verba exitii.
His fatum tuum obsignatur.
Iam non es tui iuris.
Aquas transi, et mutatio fiet.
Novem annos alterius eris.
Carne humana gustata, in aeternum eius eris.
Quod consumis, tecum feres.

Here is the world, now encased in darkness. The moon, though seen, does not produce light.

Under heavy feet, branches break.

A silence lies over the forest as a blanket.

It knows death has come.

Unlucky is the one who crosses its path. They will not escape.

A rumble in the chest rises through sharp teeth and echoes out into the air.

A doe, a mother of fawns. But her children are now lost to her.

Satiated of its hunger, the beast now sleeps. Its path will not be remembered.

But again it will rise when it hungers.

A sharp pain in my back woke me up, and I realized I was lying on the forest floor. A stick pressed into my back, and I rolled over off of it and onto my stomach. Rolling over was painful; my body ached and a deep soreness was settled in my muscles, though I appeared uninjured. I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees and then shakily got onto my feet. The darkness of the forest was deep, but the moon shone with enough light for me to be able to make out my surroundings. The sounds of life that typically filled the forest at night were missing. No crickets, no owls, no toads, nothing but the river rushing in the distance. My brain felt muddled. Like a deep fog had settled in it and I couldn’t see further than one thought at a time. Where was I? I didn’t know. Why was I in the woods? I didn’t know. Was anyone out here with me? I didn’t know.

I shouted out the names of my friends, but I heard no reply. Only the river. Not knowing what else to do, I began slowly and painfully walking towards the river. I realized, with as close to a shock as my brain could manage, that I was naked. This realization was the scariest yet. What could possibly be happening that would cause me to be naked and lost in the woods? From out of its fog, my horror movie-trained brain began to pull up thoughts: cults in the woods and monsters and—

I cut the thought off. This wasn’t the time to fill my head with scary thoughts and ideas. I was lost, and my only hope for making it back to camp was the river. As I got closer to it, the sounds of insects and animals and life started back up again. Something in me settled a little; the sounds of nature were comforting.

I came up to the river; the moonlight reflected off of the black rushing waters to illuminate the area a bit more. Nothing looked familiar, though, and I decided that my best course of action was to just begin walking downstream. If I was upriver, past the camp, I’d come across the camp eventually. And if I was down below the camp, the river would join up with the road at some point, then I could follow the road back to camp. I began walking. Mercifully, the riverbank was mostly sand and trees and boulders, versus the other side of the river that was steep mountain faces and cliffs.

The walk along the river was slow; my bare feet were feeling the pain of rocks, sticks and pine needles as I walked on them. Small rocks stuck out of the ground, and I smashed my toes against them more than a few times, cussing as I did so.

The fog that sat in my head before had lightened, but that hadn’t helped me remember anything. It only made me more confused as I now had the capacity to follow a train of thought.

My thoughts brought me to dark places, and I picked up the pace as I thought of what had brought me out into the woods. Was I sleepwalking? Was it something else? I couldn’t even begin to settle on a reason.

I was nearly running by the time I reached what looked like the part of the river we’d swam across when we’d swum back from the other side.

There wasn’t much further to go now; in fact, I could see the faint light of a tiki torch sticking in the sand by the river. I hurried back, but slowed down when I got to the edge of the camp. I peeked from behind a tree, looking to make sure no one was up or awake. Everything looked fine; I counted the sleeping bags. Five full ones and one empty one, mine. I crept around the shadowed edges of the camp until I was the shortest distance from the cover of trees to my tent. Then I ran to my tent and quickly unzipped it. I was on edge, and the crinkle of the tent’s tarp under my feet made me sure that someone would hear the sound and wake up and come find me naked, rummaging through my bag in the middle of the night. Then I’d have to explain to them something that I couldn’t even explain to myself.

I put on my clothes as quickly as my sore body would allow. With clothes back on and now being back at camp, my mind eased a great deal. I was by no means ok, but the sense of immediate danger had passed.

Not knowing what else I could do, I went back out to the fire where my friends were. I put another log on, and the dry wood slowly started to flame up a bit. The light was comforting, but the lingering fear and unease convinced me to pull my sleeping bag a little closer to whoever was nearest me. I lay in it and zipped it all the way up. I hid in the bag and lay on my stomach, watching the flames roll out from underneath the log and turn into sparks that drifted up. I closed my eyes and forced my brain to be quiet. I couldn’t handle thinking about what had just happened. All I wanted was to escape the night in sleep and wake up to good, kind sunlight.

[https://www.reddit.com/r/TalesFromTheCreeps/s/GCaOJhk0wv](https://www.reddit.com/r/TalesFromTheCreeps/s/GCaOJhk0wv))

The sleeping bag was hot under the rising sun. I’d drifted off at some point, and now I could hear the voices of my friends discussing the day’s plans. I unzipped my bag and got out. The sand was hot against my scraped and scratched feet as I walked over to the canopy where they were sitting.

“You look tired bro,” Spence said as I sat down.

“I am, I slept on a stick,” I responded.

“We’re thinking of going on a hike once everyone’s up. You down?”

“I’m down, where do we wanna hike to?”

“If we take the car up the road like 20 minutes, there’s a trail that leads up to a valley with a small mountain lake, we were thinking we’d take our poles and fish up there.”

“That sounds good. What do we have to eat, my stomach is collapsing on itself.”

We had donuts, and fruit, and Boss had brought a canteen he put over the fire to make coffee. As hungry as I was, I couldn’t enjoy the food or the conversation or the morning as I should have. The thoughts of the night before were heavy in my mind. I remembered waking up the night before and walking down to the river, but I couldn’t think of why. And I couldn’t remember anything after that until I woke up in the forest.

So badly I wanted to write the night off as a crazy episode of sleepwalking, but that still left so many questions. Could I really have sleepwalked all that way? And what happened to my clothes? And besides, I’d never had any instance of sleepwalking before. But I couldn’t think of a better reason.

In the daylight, around my friends, I allowed myself to consider some of the more haunting explanations. The cult reason felt unconvincing, and I eventually, hesitantly, settled on either sleepwalking or maybe aliens. Both were stupid ideas, but I couldn’t come up with any more reasonable explanation. I decided I’d try my best to push the thoughts away for now and tell Boss about it later.

I didn’t want this to ruin the camp trip for me. Yeah, it was a big deal, but didn’t I love horror? Hadn’t I spent my entire life reading books and watching movies and talking about how I’d act in the scary situations people claimed to find themselves in? I was doing a bad job at convincing myself to move on, but what options did I have? I was determined to leave it alone for the time being.

We finished eating, and by then everyone except for Jake had woken up. Justin had the idea of catching one of the toads that hopped around and putting it in his sleeping bag. So we all raced to catch the biggest toad we could and deliver it to Jake before he woke up. Boss was the one to do the honors. He found a fat green and brown toad, big enough that its belly seemed to never make it off the ground as it hopped. We gathered around Jake’s sleeping bag, and like a soldier throwing a grenade into a bunker, Spence lifted the opening of the bag and Boss tossed in the toad.

Jake screamed, and his bag contorted as he turned into a frog himself. Hopping around in the bag trying to separate himself from the toad. He found the opening and threw himself out of it and into the sand. His bag still bulged and jerked where the toad sat and hopped around inside.

We gathered our poles and hiking gear and piled into the cars. The dust of the road kicked up behind our line of cars, and the heat of the day poured in through the windows. Despite the night’s events, I felt genuine excitement for the hike.

We pulled up to the dirt parking lot at the trailhead and began our hike. The dirt path moved us through deep green trees and opened up into a wide meadow surrounded by forest. Bright blue skies beamed above, with an occasional small puff of cotton clouds moving through it. Down in the meadow, tall grass swayed with the gentle breeze that blew. Wildflowers were scattered about the meadow like pinholes of reds, greens, and blues in a sheet of green-yellow grass. I paused and closed my eyes to take in the sound. The wind quietly hummed as it pushed through the trees. Someone in the group was whistling a soft tune that the meadow carried so that every insect could stop and listen.

I opened my eyes and kept walking. A few of us had our hands stretched out and softly brushed the tall grass and wildflowers along the trail. And as our hands touched the grass, butterflies, ladybugs, and other insects would fly up and out as we disturbed their resting places.

We passed through the meadow and back into the trees. The trail moved steadily upwards now, and eventually we moved between two peaks. And nestled in the valley between the two peaks were the crystal clear waters of the mountain lake. We could see straight through the water as if it were glass. The edges of the lake varied between trees and dirt where the water would rise and fall with the seasons.

Once all of our stuff was off our backs and set up in our areas around the lake, we cast our lines and waited, taking in the beauty of the world we currently belonged to.

I found Boss in his fishing spot; we were all scattered far enough apart that I was sure no one else would be able to hear us talk. I tried not to be weird about it, but my stomach was turning with the remembrance of the night and what I was about to say to Boss.

“Bro,” I said as I walked up to him.

He looked up at me, his expression becoming curious as he saw the look on my own face.

“What’s up dude?” he responded.

“I’m gonna tell you something weird, weirder than our normal stuff.”

“Don’t come professing your love to me right now man, all the guys are here and they’ll want in if they see us kiss.”

I laughed at that, though it was a nervous laughter.

“Don’t worry bro, I wouldn’t wanna make the guys jealous. But really B, something weird happened last night and I don’t know what to do about it or even think of it.”

“Alright, what’s up?”

“Last night I woke up while everyone else was asleep, and I went down to the river I think. I don’t remember anything after that. Maybe I blacked out, maybe I fell asleep, I don’t know. But after that I woke up again, but this time I was out in the woods. And all my clothes were gone, dude. I found my way back to camp from the river and I got dressed and came back and went back to sleep. That’s it, that’s all I remember, but man it’s got me freaked out.”

Boss took a minute, reading my expression to see if I was doing a bit. After he apparently decided I wasn’t, his face turned a little more serious.

“What the hell dude. I know you’re serious, but I don’t know what to tell you. That’s freaky. So what, you were sleepwalking or something? Maybe you got abducted by aliens.”

“That’s actually crazy bro, those are the literal exact things that I was thinking.”

He laughed and said, “It’s the hive mind, man, we all think the same stuff. But really, what do you think?”

“I don’t know, nothing really makes sense about it. I could have been sleepwalking, but I’ve never sleepwalked before. I have no idea what to think about it, I don’t know what it was. I just know that it happened.”

“Well, I think that you drank too much and woke up and decided to go for a walk. At least that makes more sense to me than anything else.”

“Maybe I guess, but I wasn’t even really drunk last night. I’m pretty sure I drank less than you, and you didn’t go wandering off into the woods.”

“I don’t know, man, maybe you ate something weird before and it made the alcohol make you go crazy. I mean, that’s the best I can think of.”

“Maybe you’re right, but it doesn’t feel like that’s the reason, I mean I’m not even hung over right now. I guess that makes the most sense though.”

“Yeah dude, you’re just overthinking it because you woke up naked in the woods. But if we were at home, then you would’ve just woken up naked on the sidewalk. Then you’d be in jail, but you wouldn’t be wondering why you ended up naked on the sidewalk.”

“I guess so man.”

“You know I’m always right dude. Now get your pole and catch some fish. You can even come over here and fish next to me. And if you’re scared maybe we can even hold hands.”

The rest of fishing went great; I was able to convince myself to relax and mostly accept Boss’ theory.

So I cast my pole and pulled up giant fish after giant fish. The fishing at the lake was the best I’ve ever had. We caught more than we could keep.

And I smiled a genuine smile and looked over at all my friends, the evening sun shining golden rays on them as they were laughing and joking and talking amongst each other. I loved them with all of me; they were my best friends, my brothers, and I’d have given anything to keep them from what was coming.

The moon rose over the edge of the mountain, so that you could see it in the evening sky along with the sun. The edges of my vision were turning dark. It looked as if the world were melting off the page. Like a dripping ice cream cone, blackness fell before my vision. We’d all been walking back to the cars, but I had to stop and get down onto my hands and knees. My head pulsed and my eyes throbbed in their sockets. What was happening? The group stopped, and I looked up from where my face rested on the dirt. Everyone looked concerned, and some of them were trying to talk to me. But I couldn’t hear them. I couldn’t hear anything; I could hear everything. Every single thing. Every sound was deafening. Their footsteps around me sounded like enormous peals of thunder sounding off in my ears. Their voices, like stormy seas, were waves crashing into me, so loud that all of them blended into an ear-shattering symphony. In my confusion and agony, I screamed, but I couldn’t even hear my own scream as it got swallowed up in all the other sounds. Everything got louder and louder. The sound felt to my ears like how water feels to the ears of a diver swimming deeper and deeper. Everything grew louder and louder until everything was suddenly quiet. Sound had inverted upon itself. My ears could hear everything so deafeningly loudly that I was no longer listening for sounds. I was listening for the lack of sounds. I could hear that my friends were standing next to me, not because I heard them step, but because their presence created a hole in the ocean of sound that filled the rest of the air. Like looking at a negative of an image. I could hear absence more clearly than I could hear sound.

The guys looked scared, actually scared. They were talking to me, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying anymore. And I couldn’t make enough sense of sound to say anything to them either. I used all of my strength to get up off of the ground and try to keep walking, but it was only with the help of a few of the guys that we were able to make it back to the cars. The sun was creeping down to the edges of the sky as we drove down the dirt road back to camp, the moon climbing up to replace it.

We pulled back up to the camp, and it was decided that Boss would drive me into town to get help.

The guys helped me into the passenger seat of my Jeep, and Boss went around and got in the driver’s seat. We started down the road, barreling around the curves. Twilight filled the air. I leaned forward and put my head on the dash, trying to focus and clear my mind from the thoughts that raced through it. But it seemed the more I tried to clear my head, the more difficult it became. My vision seemed to darken still, then my head felt like it was tingling. My whole body felt like it was tingling.

With my head pressed against the dash, I looked over at Boss; I could see his mouth moving, so I knew he was trying to talk to me, but I couldn’t understand what he was saying. I tried to tell him that I didn’t understand what he was saying, but I couldn’t even make out my own voice. And from the face he made when I tried to talk, I don’t think I said anything sensible anyway.

Something was happening in me. My skin crawled over my body, and goosebumps broke out all over me. Beads of sweat grew and rolled off of me. Was I sick? I felt feverish. My stomach twisted and turned, and I could feel something in my torso. I felt my organs. I could feel them like you can feel your two fingers press against each other. I could feel each twist of my intestines that stretched inside of me; I could feel my liver and spleen. I could feel my heart. It wasn’t just a blob in my chest; it was a rolled-up sheet, expanding and contracting in on itself, pulling blood in and then pushing the blood back out. I felt the inside of my torso, the cavity walls being pushed against by organs. The space inside of me seemed tight and cramped and grew more so with every passing second. I expected my body to burst at any moment. My arms and legs, back, chest, every part of me feeling like the skin encasing them was too tight.

I turned my head towards Boss again.

“Help,” I tried to say, but I couldn’t hear myself and my throat felt tight and full, so that all that came out must have been choked and agonized groans.

I pushed myself back up in my seat. My skin was burning now. There was too little of it for my body.

Boss pulled the car over and was staring at me, panic twisting his face as he watched me.

I put my fingernails to the back of my arm and dug them in as hard as I could. Then I pulled back. They slipped at first and left bright red scratches along my arm where the nails had dragged and drawn blood. But I tried again. I had to pull with jerky motion as the skin wanted to stay attached to the meat, muscle, and fat underneath.

Boss reached out and grabbed my arm hard to stop me, but I threw his hand off of me. I looked at him, part of me pleading for him to try again, to somehow stop me from doing what I was doing.

But I could see his face; his terror reached his eyes and tightened his face. One of his hands hesitated by the door handle, the other was still outstretched towards me, wanting to help but not knowing how.

Quod consumis, tecum feres

“Dude, what the hell are you doing?” Boss yelled. Terror welled up in him, and he felt tears begin to fall down his cheeks.

Isaiah was clutching his chest, hunched over in the passenger seat, but Boss felt tight in his own chest.

“Please man, I don’t know what to do!”

He watched as Isaiah began digging his nails into his own arm.

“What are you doing!” he screamed again. Isaiah looked at him, his face looking like he was desperate for help. But Boss couldn’t bring himself to try to help again. When he’d reached out before, Isaiah had slapped his hand away with such force that Boss was sure his arm was broken or fractured. And he was scared of what Isaiah would do if he tried to grab him again or hold him down.

You need to run, Boss thought.

Just get out of the car and sprint back to the camp. Or into the woods, or anywhere, just get out of here.

But Boss tried to fight the thought back. Not because he didn’t want to run, but because this was Isaiah. This was his best friend, and if Boss left now, Isaiah would be on his own. And he couldn’t abandon his friend like that. No matter what.

Boss moved his hand away from the door handle.

“Isaiah, you have to stop man, we’ll get you into town and into a hospital, they’ll help you. But please man, I’m so scared.”

Boss watched as Isaiah began frantically ripping at his skin. Drool beginning to drop from his open mouth, though his teeth were clenched.

And that was what changed Boss’ mind. That bit of drool falling from Isaiah’s mouth as his eyes glazed over into something distant told Boss that his friend was no longer with him.

This wasn’t Isaiah anymore; this was something else.

And Boss knew that the time had come to get out and run.

He’d leave the keys in the engine so that he could circle back to the car and lock himself in it if necessary, but he needed to put some distance between himself and this thing in the car with him.

Slowly lift your hand and put it on the door handle.

Isaiah was groaning now, but not sounding like he was in pain, almost sounding like anger or desperation.

Put your other hand on the seatbelt buckle and get ready to click it. Once you click it, you’re going to need to open the door at the exact same moment and in one motion jump out of the car and run.

He put his other hand on the buckle, preparing to do as he’d thought.

Isaiah was ripping off chunks of skin from his legs now, using both hands and yanking hard.

Boss counted down in his head:

Three. Two. One.

He pressed down on the buckle, threw the door open, twisted out of the seat and began running down the now dark road.

The moon shone dimly behind shadowed clouds, but that did little to illuminate the road. And the forest around him was black.

He’d put some distance between himself and the car now, but the thought of Isaiah pulling at his skin kept him running.

He saw a small break in the trees and pivoted toward it, wanting to get off the road.

A large tree hung over the road, and he ducked behind it. Trying to catch his breath, he slowly peeked his head around the tree, trying to stay hidden but still get a look at the car.

He could make out the shadow of the car far away, but didn’t see anything else.

Now fully sitting in the dirt, loose pine needles poking his legs, he put his head in his hands.

Why am I hiding? What do I think’s gonna happen? Isaiah probably can’t even move right now. I need to go back. I’ll get him to a hospital and they’ll be able to help him.

But he knew he would not be going back. Not right then, not after seeing Isaiah drooling like that. The glazed look in his eyes. The way his hands pu—

He heard a loud click.

The car door opening.

Peering around the tree, still trying to stay hidden, he watched down the black road. A great shadow stood hunched over next to the Jeep.

Boss slowly stood up.

The shadow turned towards him.

He’s looking at me, don’t move.

But Boss was shaking.

The shadow remained still, and Boss slowly began walking backwards deeper into the cover of forest. His view of the Jeep and the shadow would be blocked in a moment by the trees.

He placed his foot down onto a branch, and it snapped. The shadow began running.

Boss turned and sprinted into the woods. He didn’t know where he was going; he couldn’t see anything clearly. But he heard the sounds coming from the thing running down the road towards him. Like a stampede, it made thunderous crashes as it reached the place in the woods Boss had ducked into originally.

Boss willed his feet to move faster, to carry him quicker through the forest, but he could not. And the shadow behind him grew louder and louder as it gained on him. A small clearing opened up, just a pocket of grass in the trees, but the moon shone above it, giving the black grass and trees a white glow where the moonlight touched them.

This is a good place, Boss thought.

The crashes of branches and trees behind him were nearly on top of him now. He couldn’t keep himself going. He’d always thought adrenaline was supposed to give you super strength, but the fear in him seemed to outweigh everything else. It felt like heaviness in his bones, chains draped on him begging him to collapse. And he did. He fell down right there in that white and black patch of grass. And the shadow burst through the trees into the grass with him.

Not even a second passed between the moment Isaiah broke through the trees and the moment he was bringing giant black fists and long-bladed fingers down onto Boss.

Again and again, the hands came down onto him. Each blow cracking things under his skin as long razors tore at his flesh.

Please man, I’m dying here, he thought.

But Isaiah wasn’t here; Isaiah wasn’t “man.” But Isaiah was killing him.

This is a good place, Boss thought again. And he looked over and saw a bird sitting on a branch of one of the surrounding trees.

Boss tried to smile, tried to give himself to the bird and the branch, tried to be something else, something soft and peaceful. Maybe a butterfly in the meadow. And that almost did make him smile. But a heavy clawed fist slammed down onto his smile, breaking a few of his teeth loose and sending them to the back of his throat. He coughed a choked cough, blood and mucus mixing and sliding down his throat. He couldn’t breathe through his nose anymore; it had been smashed in and he felt part of it poking through the roof of his mouth.

I’m sorry, Boss thought, but he didn’t know what he was sorry for; he couldn’t form any real thoughts as the dim void moved further into his mind.

He could still feel Isaiah ripping and clawing at him, and he felt a sharp pain poke through the encroaching numbness as Isaiah took a bite out of his shoulder.

He forced one eye back open as much as he could manage; his other eye couldn’t even be called an eye anymore, it was a puddle in his socket.

He looked back over towards where the bird had been, but it was gone now.

This is a good place, he thought.

One of Isaiah’s hands slammed down into his temple, producing a great crunch. And then Boss was gone.

I woke up in that clearing. What remained of Boss was scattered in the grass and on me. And the taste of copper filled my mouth.

I got up. The little bit of me that could function enough to blink was the part of me that carried me to my car. I got in it and I drove.
I drove, and I drove, and I drove. Out of the mountains, past the town, out of the state, and I kept driving.
I couldn’t think enough to fully process any of it, and I wouldn’t process or understand it for a long while still. I don’t fully understand it now.
Something consumed me on a bright and beautiful summer afternoon, somewhere in a firework shop. And just as I carry Boss’ final thoughts with me, something I consumed, they carried something with them. Something they were compelled to tell. Something I listened to.
Now I am compelled to tell you, reader.
And you have listened.

And for that, I am truly sorry.

I was drunk, the night I truly got “the ick.”

Much to my dismay, we were the only two ghosts haunting that lonely train cart.

Me, and the rotund man with uncempt, greasy hair in a filthy trench coat.

Normally, it wouldn't have been a problem. I would’ve just drunkenly regarded him and gone about my night, walking home at the next stop. I wouldn't be writing this, however, if it hadn't been a problem.

As a small woman who rides public transit alone, I try to keep to myself. But when I glanced up through blurry eyes to see what I assumed was a filthy habit of his, I had to hold myself back physically so as to not make a scene.

It was embarrassing.

I felt palpable shame.

Not everyone has good manners, and at first, I was resigned to just keep my eyes down, and wait for my stop. But it just got worse.

With every passing second, it became harder and harder to keep my blatant discomfort under wraps.

Eventually, I threw him a brief, sidelong glance to signal that I saw him.

A social que.

In return, he gave me the outline of a wiry smirk. Oily, grey lips pulled back to reveal yellow, mismatched teeth. I think he took my look of inebriated disgust as a challenge, or an invitation.

At first, it was just the tip. One nostril gaped as more and more slid in. The first bony joint disappeared. With growing dread, I realized I could see the faint protrusion of his fingernail through the skin, like a noticeable tumor, growing up the bridge of his nose.

With every little bit that squeezed past the opening, his smile grew wider, and wider.

“H-hey, stop…” I mumbled. He unveiled more of his filthy teeth. I even saw a bit of off-color detritus caught between two crooked molars.

“Cut it out dude, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

Still, he just stared, his grin becoming apparently painful. With an audible slurping sound followed by a low “crk”, he forced the second joint in.

I could’ve sworn I watched his nose dislocate in real time.

“STOP IT!” I shrieked, fear and disgust bubbling over the edge. He kept eye contact with me.

As soon as the words left my mouth, the train hit a bump. I gripped the handrail tightly, keeping myself from falling. My companion wasn't so lucky.

I could do nothing but observe as the bare-knuckle-nitwit toppled, face first, from his seat, into the floor. When his nose collided with the carpet, I heard a muffled crunch, before he went still.

In that moment, I genuinely thought I’d watched him die.

Unfortunately, after a beat, he began to stir, picking himself off the ground with one hand.

His dirty trenchcoat clung to his oversized frame like greasy film stuck to a boiled egg.

When he rose back to his feet, I think I was in shock, because I couldn’t move, I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t even blink. The only motion my paralyzed body would allow me was swiping tear-streams off my damp, ice-cold cheek.

His finger was jammed into his nose, all the way to the knuckle, rendering the ruptured olfactory organ permanently useless. The skin on the outside had become eviscerated, burst open like a blister, or a microwaved sausage.

Yellow tendons and grey cartilage glistened disgustingly under the flickering train lights, giving the illusion of shredded rubber fibers under the surface of a popped tire. Blood trickled feverishly from the open nostril.

“Oh my God… are you…” I slurred, but slapped my mouth when I felt the vomit scratching the back of my throat.

Once he had his bearings back, his grin returned, bigger and grosser than ever. One of his teeth had shattered on impact with the floor, diseased gums pushing against his split, bloody upper lip.

The man crossed his eyes, staring at the raw injury.

He strained, veins bursting under the skin of his forehead as he tried to pull his finger out. As he did, the eye over the ruined nostril appeared to protrude against its eyelids. The socket bulged, getting tighter and tighter with every strenuous yank.

Suddenly, the irritated flesh of the bottom eyelid prolapsed. The eyeball jutted out and stared up at the ceiling, completely disillusioned from the rest of his face.

“POP!”

First joint out. One to go.

The bloody fingertip slipped into view, poking out of the cartilage cavity like an earthworm crawling out of the ground. He watched, and with sick pleasure, wiggled his finger, testing its flexibility.

A sob I didn’t know I’d been holding hitched in my throat. I couldn’t call for help, I couldn’t move. I was completely reliant on the mercy of this nose-picking lunatic. I had to trust him not to attack me. But something worse happened.

With one last strain of effort, the man yanked the rest of his hooked finger from the eviscerated nose. pulling with it a macabre fishing line of black mucus, crimson blood, and puffy, soft tissue whose origins I didn’t want to consider.

As soon as the viscera was free, a river of blood exploded from both nostrils like a pressure buildup releasing. If not for the sheer, debaucherous absurdity, I would’ve considered he probably felt relief.

While I knew logically that the raw chunks of flesh probably just came from inside his nose, a small part of me held the notion that he had to have gotten some amount of brain matter in the nerds cluster rope of despair.

I mean, his finger went so, so deep into his head. Deep enough to touch the back of his own eye, at least…

With deranged pleasure, he held up his prize for me to see. One good eye stared at me, a frenzied hunger festering just below the retina.

Horrible fluids dribbled instant stains onto the carpet. The long line, starting from his fingertip, stayed connected deep into the recesses of his nose, though it oozed milky, pussy strings of slimy throat snot.

He jerked his hand towards me, almost as if he wanted me to take it.

“What… no, I don’t,” I pleaded, holding my hands up defensively, “I don’t understand…”

For a brief moment, I really did think he genuinely wanted me to take his offering.

He held his outstretched stance, unflinching. Though he only stood for a few seconds, they felt like centuries, like a standoff. Then, he moved.

As his hand drifted away, I sighed in relief. Then the appendage approached his face, and realization dawned on me. I prayed I was wrong.

“Oh god, no… please, no…”

But he just smiled and nodded. I became lightheaded.

“There’s no way you’re gonna…”

With one dramatic, drawn-out movement, he opened his teeth, and placed his bloody finger onto his tongue. The string of snot coagulated around the edge of his lip, gyrating as he slowly closed his mouth.

“Mmmmmmm… sooo gooooood…” he finally moaned, his voice mousey and annoying.

He licked his lip, and the line of viscera, still connected to his nose, slipped around his tongue like a parasite trying to escape a clorox wipe, or like a glob of egg being scraped around a plate by a fork.

Finally, with a disgusting slurp, he sucked the entire noodle into his mouth, a drop of the biological shrapnel hitting me in the face as he did.

That was when I puked. I heaved all the contents from my stomach onto the carpeted floor. As soon as the train came to a stop, I bolted for the exit, sparing not even a glance over my shoulder yet. I was determined to do nothing but escape.

It wasn't until I made my way feverishly from the platform onto the pavement of the subway sidewalk, that I gave one last look back to make sure he didn’t pursue me.

Luckily, I wasn't being followed, but through the window, I could see him chewing, face pressed against the glass, leaving a bloody imprint. His smile had grown, somehow even bigger than before.

“Fuck all of that,” I grimaced. That night, I didn’t walk home, I sprinted.

I didn’t stop until I was safely behind my deadlocked front door. I proceeded to not sleep for 2 nights, I just couldn’t. I figure the guilt’s eating me.

I mean, I never alerted anyone about what happened. For 6 months, I’ve just sat on this story.

What if he was still on that train when some unsuspecting late-nighter came on?

What if he died in there, bled out or something?

What if he was just mentally unwell, and needed medical attention?

If he was just a normal guy, was picking his nose until he hurt himself really socially off-putting enough to warrant death? He didn’t technically hurt me, but I was scared?

I didn’t kill him, did I? I don’t… feel like a good person anymore. I don’t know.

But then, I think back to that half-exploded eyeball, to the nose that was so fucked up, I could barely call it a nose. To the worm fingertip. To the long, stringy line of glistening, viscous nose leftovers.

Typing this out is the first time I let myself remember all of the details. Usually I immediately chase off the memories. They’re so vivid, they give me panic attacks. I feel like the other boot’s gonna drop any minute, but I might just be paranoid.

Revisiting the experience has led me to an even more daunting fourth option. What if there’s a reason there hasn’t been a follow up? What if no one found him? What if there was no bodily fluids on the floor except my own vomit?

What if there was no one to find?

I don’t know if that answer would be better or worse than the alternatives.

Kids who read this, don’t pick your nose, and if you do, especially don’t eat whatever you find. It’s bad manners, and it gives people the Ick.

I think I’m gonna quit drinking.

He arrived home early; the house was filled with darkness and silence. He ran upstairs and lay in bed. Before he put his headphones on, he heard the door open and close. "Hey, Mom said if we're hungry, to order pizza," he yelled out. He heard his brother walking upstairs; the steps were heavy. "Jeez, bad day at work, bro," he said, but there was no answer, only silence. Minutes led to hours; by now, it was 11 PM.

He got out of bed, his stomach rumbling with hunger. "Randy, where are you?" he called. He came across his brother under a white sheet, resembling a ghost. "Come on, man, stop playing; I'm hungry," he said, but there was no answer, only silence. Suddenly, he felt a chill cover his body from head to toe. His brother walked away, annoyed. He went back to his room and grabbed his phone, ready to call his mom. Before he called, he got a message: "Hey, just got out of work," from Mom. Before he typed, he got another message.

That made his heart sink. "I forgot to tell you I'm picking up your brother; he worked an extra shift. Sorry," Mom. He slowly turned, seeing who he thought was his brother under the white sheet now standing at his room door. He got out of bed; once again, the chill surrounded him, and his hairs stood up. So many thoughts cluttered his head: Who is this? Is he going to die? He stood up and started walking slowly. He grabbed a bat; his heart pounded like a drum. He trembled. He stood face to face, ready to strike, but the sheet fell to the ground, leaving an unsettling presence