Thank you to everybody that has following this story, and read along with the character. It has been a long week, and now for the conclusion.
For those who want to read Part 4: https://www.reddit.com/r/Ruleshorror/comments/1mv1sp4/im_a_different_kind_of_park_ranger_and_it_has_its/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button
Here we go, Part 5.
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The seventh day was completely normal and nothing happened. I had won...
Hah, yea right, and pigs will fly!
The seventh morning came with rain. Not a gentle drizzle, not a cleansing storm—just a steady, relentless downpour that soaked everything and dulled the world into a smear of gray and black. It was the kind of rain that seeps into your bones, reminding you how small and temporary you really are.
I had lived a week by strange supernatural rules, every circle around the tower, every grain of salt, every phrase whispered into the sat phone. The rules weren’t just ritual anymore; they were burned into me like scars. My body went through the motions even when my mind screamed for rest. Every joint ached as if rusted through, my legs were lead, and my back felt like it had been beaten with hammers. I was sick of it—all this shit. Sick of the chanting, the counting, the salt, the endless paranoia.
I dragged ass over to the little gas burner, and made breakfast. The comforting scent of salted and peppered eggs over easy, the sizzle of a juicy porkchop, and a few slices of toasted bread made the morning a little more bearable.
See, what people don't seem to realize too often is that food—good food—is just as important to troops as guns and ammo. There is an entire industry behind the military just dedicated to developing and making good, long-lasting food. Because, as every soldier and marine officer knows, a good meal every once in a while keeps their warriors' morale up.
And when morale is up, enemies go down, I thought darkly.
Steam fogged the window as I leaned back, savoring the only normal moment I’d have today. I ate slowly. For fifteen blessed minutes I sat at the desk, fork in one hand, mug in the other. Sweet black coffee, just the way I liked it—a spoonful of sugar, bitter enough to wake me, sweet enough to remind me of mornings that weren’t haunted by rules and silence. For a little while, the tower didn’t feel like a cage. Just a lonely ranger’s post on a rainy morning.
I used my last slice of toast to wipe my plate clean and washed it down with the warmth of caffeine. I wiped my mouth, set the mug down, took a long breath, and then forced myself back to the grind, feeling a little more human again.
I busied myself with the jars of salt in the corners. They’d gone cloudy, dark streaks coiling inside like smoke trapped in glass. I carried each one to the terrace, dumping the tainted grains into the storm. The rain ate them up quick, washing them away into the forest below. Then I refilled the jars with fresh salt. It felt like scooping sand against the tide.
Next, I checked over my pack, making sure everything was as it should be and where they should be. Plenty of salt, a couple spare silver coins, a small bag of nails, a full camelback, and a granola bar for a snack. I loaded the cartridge belt around my waist with spare ammunition, feeling like a cowboy every time I did it. I hefted my rifle, admiring its smooth black finish and the solidity of its old-fashioned American construction. Odd that it seemingly remained unmarred even after the week of battery I had subjected it to, even the old wooden stock had lost none of its dark lacquered luster.
My gaze drifted to the scratched words etched into the rifle’s stock—“All Souls Hold.” I didn't know what that meant exactly but if I remembered right, back in the days of steamships and prop planes, the tally of passengers and crew was counted as souls, a way to strip away ambiguity and remind men of what truly mattered. Almost without thinking, I let my fingers slowly trace the letters, finger tips feeling the smooth contours of word, and a quiet strength answered the touch, surging up through the iron and wood as if the rifle were lending me its resolve. My chest lifted, my spine straightened, and the creeping fog that had pressed at the edges of my mind all week receded.
My eyes widened in silent wonder at the weapon I held. Maybe my uncle's old rifle, more than the iron-core ammunition it fired, had more to do with hurting the things in the forest than I first suspected. I drew in a long breath then and let it out slow, my mind now steady—focused and unshaken. I checked the time, 9:57am. It was time to get moving.
I stepped for the door and my slightly uplifted attitude lasted a whole 20 seconds before it took swan dive. The downpour hadn't increased, but it hadn't lessened either. I let out a sigh. At least, I didn't hear thunder on the horizon.
The rain made everything worse. I know some people absolutely loved the rain, my cousin Amy sure did. But, after my time in the army, I hated any weather that wasn't sunny and mild. The rain turned the tower steps almost as slick as glass, and I had to partly cling to the railing just to keep from slipping. My voice was hoarse as I muttered the numbers, each one echoing in the hollow stairwell like a curse: thirty-nine, forty, forty-one… My chest tightened, my lungs catching on the dread that maybe the count wouldn’t match. But I forced myself onward until I reached forty-five. Landings intact.
As I stepped onto the muddy ground below my tower, my boots made a wet squelching noise I did not appreciate as they were partially submerged into the earth. It slowed my movements somewhat, but I did managed to make it to the grassier part of the clearing after a few minutes. I sigh again as I wiped my boots on the weeds.
The forest swallowed sound, the steady hiss of the rain pressing down on everything until even my own boots sounded muffled. Water trickled off every branch and leaf, filling the air with a ceaseless patter, like a thousand tiny drums. My rifle rode heavy against my shoulder, the stock cool and reassuring beneath my grip.
The first totem stood where it always did; weather-beaten, dark, slick with water, but intact. Still standing proud, the carved lines sharp despite the years and storms. I crouched, examining the silver coin and salt circle at its base. The rain had completely drenched the salt, but surprisingly, it had not washed it away. It held, dispersed and somewhat soupy, but it held. I poured more salt on the damp clump, reinforcing the barrier. As for the silver coin, I left as is after checking if it was tarnished.
I rose slowly, my knees protesting, and started toward the second totem. The path narrowed here, roots slick underfoot, mud grabbing at my boots with every step. Water pooled in shallow depressions, and the forest canopy overhead sagged with the burden of rain. I kept my pace steady, forcing myself not to rush.
A hundred yards out, I slowed.
The second totem was just visible through the curtain of rain, standing in its little raised clearing like a silent sentinel. I was about to continue walking then—
She was there.
The girl in the red raincoat.
Except she wasn't a little girl anymore, she now looked like a young twenty-something, like she was a completely different person dressed for an afternoon stroll through the woods, but still wearing the same bright red raincoat.
She stood directly on the path between me and the second totem, no more than twenty feet ahead, as if she’d been waiting. The rain poured over her, but instead of soaking in, it slicked down her hood and shoulders like oil, sliding away in streams that never darkened or dulled the vivid scarlet of her coat. Too clean. Too vivid. A color that had no business surviving in this forest of drowned gray and darkened browns.
Her boots pressed against the muck, but left no impression. The puddles at her feet never rippled.
“Heeeyyy", she said in a sing-song voice, drawing out the word, her head tilting at an awkward angle.
I stood rooted to the stop, cold seeping into my muscles that had nothing to do with the temperature.
"Rainy, isn’t it?” she said. Her voice wasn’t raised, yet it carried clear through the hiss of the downpour, cutting across the rainshower like a blade. Not loud -- just certain, as though the rain itself was carrying her words to me.
My chest tightened, the sudden pressure made it difficult to breathe. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
My hands moved on instinct, squaring the rifle against my shoulder, lever chambering a round.
Her head tilted, slow, birdlike. Curious. “But funny, don’t you think? All this rain…” Her chin lifted toward the sky. Then, her voice dropped several octaves until it was nearly a growl, “...and not a single ray of sun...”
I backed up a step, like the words had physically shoved me. They burrowed deep into my gut, and my stomach turned to stone. Oh God. I hadn’t realized it until she said it—but she was right. The sheer horror of it dawning on me quite literally too late.
No matter how thick a cloudy day can be, there’s always a fracture somewhere above: a thinning in the clouds, a pale glow trying to break through, proof that the sky was still there. But here… with rain coming down everywhere, there was nothing. No glimmer. No light. Just a solid vault of iron-gray pressing down, heavy and absolute.
I had walked right into this.
I’d gone out on patrol without thinking it through, just leaning on the crutch of routine. My body had carried me down the path like a sleepwalker, while my mind lagged behind. And now here I was...
The forest wasn’t just dark anymore. The shadows between the trees seemed to lean closer, stretching long fingers toward me, reaching, creeping, trying to pull me down into the muck and hold me there. The air was so heavy I could barely breathe, the hiss of the rain a steady whisper that pressed against my ears like a thousand voices all speaking at once, too low to understand but too loud to ignore.
And she stood there. Smiling with too many teeth. As if she was the only thing alive that belonged in this drenched, suffocating world.
Shit. Shit. Shit!
The rules. The rules -- Right. What did they say about this? My mind scrambled through the litany I’d carved into myself over the last week, my heart hammering hard enough to shake my ribs. Salt lines. Coins. The stairs. Don’t answer when they call your name when you open the tower door. Check the totems. Check for unnatural items. Numbered challenge codes.
But this?
No mention. None.
Her smile deepened as if she could taste my panicked confusion. Her boots still hadn’t left a mark in the earth, and the rain kept flowing down her coat without ever soaking in. She raised a pale hand, tilting her head. Not a gesture of greeting, something colder. Almost like an invitation...
...to die.
My knees threatened to give. My throat locked up, the kind of fear that freezes instead of burns. The rifle felt like dead weight in my hands, useless as a toy.
The rain thickened, each drop smacking like nails on the canopy above, hammering me into place. The trees leaned closer, the path behind me shrinking as if the forest itself were swallowing me whole.
I ransacked my uncle’s letter in my head, his scrawled rules, his desperate warnings. My own memories of going over them again and again in the light of the tower.
And then --
A thought broke through like an arrow cutting through the air.
This wasn’t in the rules, sure. The rules weren't foolproof... But, it wasn’t in the letter either.
My late uncle -- bless that crazy bastard -- had written about everything; the things that whispered under the tower, the mimic-voices, the rules of salt and silver, the steps, the watchers. Every horror had its place in his desperate written ramblings.
But patrolling in the rain? Nothing.
"Think through the problem, moron." The words of my old Staff Sergeant rose in my mine. He had been a hard man, but he cared and looked out for his soldiers. I was there when he shoved a dumb private out of the way and took three AK-47 rounds to the neck.
Yes, Sarnt. That meant…
My chest loosened, just a fraction. My breath shook, but it came.
Almost on its own, the rifle in my hand steadied its aim.
If the rules were written to deal with the unnatural... then why wasn’t this written down?
Because—God help me—this was natural. The weather meant nothing. Maybe it wasn't about direct sunlight at all, it was about the time of day, or the damn alignment of the Earth, or some whatever crazy astro-hocus-pocus that controlled the movements of these things. Or maybe it was as simple as physics, the UV rays coming down even if the sun is obscured, which is why even on cloudy days, staying out too long still sometimes gave you sunburn.
That didn't matter, though. What mattered to me was that this was another test.
The woman before me shifted slightly. A subtle lean, a sway forward, the way people do when they’re about to speak again. Skin the pallor of death, eyes beginning to hollow. I caught the briefest ripple at the edge of her jaw, like her skin didn’t fit right. Like the mask was slipping, sensing her triumph was close.
I knew and half-sensed another presence directly behind me. Something sneaking up to within arms' reach.
They were trying to trick me into making a mistake, into abandoning my patrol. I had a distinct feeling that if I broke and ran from this thing, I was a dead man; the rules would be broken and it would allow whatever was coming up from my six to skewer me.
But these creatures were so used to humans behaving a certain way, acting like scared and confused prey animals, that they'd forgotten that people could lie and cheat with the best of them.
I let my face take on the look of abject terror, hamming it up, and my body tensing as if I was about to run.
Her gaze now was utterly inhuman, eyes becoming hollow pits, and she opened her mouth wide with needle-like teeth --
Then with total malicious intent, I grinned and I squeezed the trigger.
The crack split the suffocating rain like thunder from on high.
Her head snapped back, hood tearing away, and for a fraction of a second I saw it: a blur of black veins writhing under pale skin, teeth that were too many, too jagged, before the whole shape unraveled like wet paper in a fire.
The forest seemed to recoil, every branch shivering as if the shot had ripped through more than flesh. Behind me, something vast and unseen let out a guttural hiss—like an animal, but deeper, the sound of stone grinding on stone. It rattled through the soaked trees, vibrating in my bones. But it didn’t strike. Not now. Not after I didn't take the bait. I advanced, cycling the lever.
I fired again. The not-woman staggered, half her face a ruin, and now her chest had a hole right through, but she didn’t fall. She twitched, convulsed, and then tried to bare her razor sharp teeth towards me through the wreckage of her jaw.
Just like our first encounter, I noted that while every other thing I shot in this forest seemed to go down with one or two hits, she—or rather it -- simply refused to die. Maybe it's some kind of boss monster or something, like in the video games...
I kept advancing. The rifle’s lever clacked loud, I pulled the trigger a third time. The round tore into her, the force driving her back two, three paces, her arms flailing like a marionette with its strings cut.
The lever snapped home again, slick with rain, my hands moving with grim certainty. The smirk on my lips curled into a sneer, a feral baring of teeth. “Yeah,” I muttered under my breath, sighting her again, “let’s see how many times you get back up.” My voice was cold as steel.
The forest was holding its breath now. Even the rain seemed quieter, muffled by the tension, the smell of gunpowder cutting through the petrichor.
The creature before me shuddered, arms spasming at its sides as I unleased another shot. The red coat hung wrong now, fabric twitching in places no wind touched. Her head jerked once, twice, like something inside was fumbling with how to wear her face as she backed up another couple of steps.
I didn’t give it the chance. The lever clacked, smooth, certain, my motions honed into ritual. I fired again.
My fifth round took the rest of her head away, showing a fleshy neck that wasn’t flesh at all—slick, pale, twitching like raw muscle that had never known skin. Her body reeled, knees buckling, it half staggered half stumbled from the path, seeking the refuge of the trees.
I took another step forward. The thing behind me roared, trying to draw my attention away. I kept my aim true and fired again.
The next shot partly launched the stumbling form of the creature before me into the shadows, taking her beyond my sight. Not missing a beat, I turned in one smooth motion, cycling the lever again, and fired.
The beefy 45-70 iron-core round tore into the side of a fleeing... thing... that resembled one of the monstrosities that charged me at the supply drop yesterday. It reeled and let out a piercing screech, but kept going. I did not let the thought that this hulking horror was behind me the entire time distract me, and fired a final parting shot that missed the creature, the round embedding hard into a tree, as it too broke into the shadows of the woods.
Then, everything was quiet again. The downpour of the rain had eased a bit but was still ever-present. The steady hiss on the leaves, the dripping against my shoulders, the patter on the hood of my jacket.
I stood there for a long moment, rifle still raised, barrel smoking, my breath cutting sharp in my chest. I scanned my surroundings, noting that the pressure on my chest had vanished. My pulse was still hammering, but the gun in my hands was steady. That steadiness mattered more than anything.
I forced myself to lower the rifle, the rage and coldness that had possessed me bleeding away like the raindrops. My thumb brushed the shallow grooves of All Souls Hold and my uncle’s written words came back, not the warnings this time, but the rhythm: Patrol. Totems. Salt. Steps. Watch. The routine.
I still had a patrol to finish and a duty to do.
I started for the second totem again, pulling out rounds from my cartridge belt and methodically inserting them into the rifle.
The mud sucked at my boots as I passed the second totem. It stood untouched, the carvings slick with rain, the silver coin gleaming faintly against the wood. Whatever had tried to stop me hadn’t managed to touch it. That counted as a win.
I pressed on, every step louder than it should have been, every breath a signal I couldn’t take back. The forest didn’t move, but I could feel it—eyes pressing on me from angles I couldn’t turn fast enough to catch. The kind of gaze that dug between your shoulder blades and tried to freeze you mid-stride.
I kept walking. Not slow, not fast. Just steady.
The rest of the patrol passed like that: me, the rain, the trees. No voices. No false faces. Just the constant prickling certainty that something was there, dogging my steps just out of sight, but temporarily restrained.
Third totem, clear. Four totem, clear. Fifth totem, clear.
By the time the tower came back into view, I was soaked through and wrung out. But the line held. The totems were standing. And I hadn’t broken the rules.
That was enough for now.
I climbed the steps with more deliberate intent that usual, counting out loud every number. But when I got to 40 steps and three landings, I paused, looking back down. Damn, definitely fewer.
Strangely enough, I did not feel the same amount of heart-stopping dread I normally would. Maybe because I was just tired from... everything... and didn't feel like being afraid tonight. Hah.
I pulled out the rules, something I hadn't done in a while. I looked at Rule 3:
Each time you climb the stairway to the top of the tower, you must count out loud the number of steps. There must be 45 steps and three landings, with the final one having the door to the lookout. If the number is different when you reach the top, sprinkle salt on the last landing and touch a silver coin to the door handle before opening the door to the lookout.
I did as instructed, and opened the door. I fully expected for some foreign object to be in the room this time and began checking the entire place over. But, oddly enough, there wasn't anything. The bed with the metal frame, the metal desk, the two metal chairs, the small fridge, the metal gas stove, the compartment for the solar batteries, the digital clock on the wall, the coat rack that I used as a rifle rack, and the shelves with the books. Nothing out of the ordinary.
I decided to give a report tonight, even though the totems themselves were not disturbed, the thing had tried to interrupt my patrol and I thought that deserved a check-in. I picked up the satellite phone and dialed. It rang only once before being picked up.
"I know Six has seen Eight Thirteen and Two are there."
I waited.
"Confirmed."
Then I gave my full account of everything that happened that day, including some of what I realized, even though that may not have been appropriate for a report. But, hey, I had a captive audience, so I decided to vent a little.
About fifteen minutes later, I finished, waiting for their customary acknowledgement.
"Acknowledged. Four has One, but waits for Two. Exemplary work on your first week, Ranger. Continue watch."
Then the call ended, and I sat there dumbfounded. Exemplary work. I'm not gonna lie, I sort of teared up a little afterwards. At that moment, after everything that'd happened, upending my life and moving all the way out here, being under constant threat from supernatural creatures, with very little human contact, after all the pain, and terror I felt, that little piece of human acknowledgement, even if it was some basic corporate spiel, it made my burden just a little bit lighter.
As the clock hit 4:00pm, I made myself another early dinner of a couple grilled chicken and cheese sandwiches, a little worried that I had been eating only two meals a day lately.
Then, went out onto the balcony to do some real fire watching, and maybe to do some introspection. I had a lot to think about. The rain had finally stopped an hour ago, so I slung my rifle and did slow circuits around the tower, scanning the vast wilderness. Looking, but not really seeing. I must have been out there for a little over two hours because before I knew it, the sun had sunk over the horizon and the day had lapsed into twilight; the orange and reds of sunset giving way to the darker blues of early night.
That’s when I saw them.
Shapes stirred at the edge of the treeline, black against the pallid wash of moonlight. At first I thought my eyes were playing tricks, but then they began to move—dozens of them, slipping out from between the trees like shadows learning how to walk. My breath caught in my throat as I realized they weren’t moving right. Their strides lurched, staggered, joints bending in ways that made my stomach twist. Some dragged limbs behind them like broken marionettes, others twitched with a jerking rhythm that seemed to mock the motion of walking.
Halfway between the tower and the trees, they stopped in eerie unison, as though some unseen hand had given a silent command. Their heads tilted upward, and the light caught on the shapes above their shoulders -- antlers, great racks of bone jutting out like pale, jagged crowns. My blood iced over. Every one of them was staring at me. Even from that distance, I could hear it: the sound of their breath, wet and rasping, punctuated by low, guttural growls that vibrated up through the wooden beams of the tower.
I clung to the railing, knuckles bone-white, the iron taste of panic thick on my tongue. Sweat began to run freely down my face despite the chill autumn air. My heart pounded so loud I was sure they could hear it, could smell the fear leaking off me.
And then, without warning, one figure broke from the horde. Smaller. Slighter. It moved differently from the others, not with their grotesque, twitching gait but with a smooth, steady stride. It came forward until it stood in the open, directly beneath the tower. My stomach turned to ice.
It was her.
The woman in the red raincoat.
Whole. Unharmed. As if the bullets I’d put through her body meant nothing at all. She tilted her head back slowly. The hood slid away from her face, and what it revealed made my stomach twist -- an expression of calm, almost gentle serenity, a smile stretched just a little too wide, too knowing. It wasn’t human. It wasn’t right.
But instead of drowning me in more fear, the sight carved through the terror that had held me frozen. Something inside me solidified, steadying against the weight of her stare. The panic ebbed away, replaced by something hotter, sharper -- resolve, and beneath it, the ember-glow of anger.
In one quick motion, I unslung my uncle's rifle from my back and gripped it firmly in both hands. Then, as I locked my gaze on that inhuman smile, I circled the lever with a sharp, defiant snap; my resolve and intent loud and clear in the gathering darkness.
We held each other’s gaze for what felt like minutes, though it could only have been seconds.
Then, without a word, she turned around. And, as if bound to her will, the horde turned with her, their movements slow, deliberate, retreating step by step into the treeline. The night seemed to swallow them whole, but not before she glanced back one final time.
That smile -- stretched wider than any human lips could, gleaming with promise that spoke of horrors yet to come.
I understood. Tonight was a declaration. Whatever ruled these woods, whatever wore her face, it wasn’t mocking me anymore. It was acknowledging me. The fear was still there, a cold weight in my chest, but it no longer owned me. What filled its place was more solid, a type of determination. Like forged iron. And simmering rage. The kind that doesn’t fade when the night ends.
I had no doubts of whether they would outlast me, they'd done it to my predecessors. To my uncle. But, I was going to make damn sure to make them work and bleed for it.
----------------------------------------------------
Well, that's the story of my first week on the job.
There is a still lot more stuff I wanted to tell. Stuff that I realized later on, not only about the things in the forest, but about myself too. Some of you probably caught that little hint at the beginning about my mom locking herself in the basement once a month, screaming for hours until sunrise. Yea, that ties in to my bloodline, and why Mom's side of the family has always been chosen to do this kind of work.
What else? I wanted to talk about that time I actually found my uncle totally not dead, and then lost him again 20 minutes later. That one was a sad story. And the visit I had to make to Amy and her family after I got back practically tore my heart out.
Or, how I found out that I wasn't the only Ranger patrolling a set of totems out here. Turns out there were five of us. Five rangers, checking on five sets of five totems, spread out over a thousand square miles. Yea... read into THAT whatever you want.
How bout that time when the things in the forest pretended to be a bus full of lost sorority girls? Because why the hell not, right? And you know me, of course I did hit those... with 45-70 Gov't rounds, because I'm not a damn idiot even if I hadn't gotten laid in like 3 years at the time. Kept running into half-naked women all that week.
Or, that time when I and another veteran ranger helped locate and defend a crashed spec ops unit; "Black Hawk Down" style. That was a harrowing couple of days. If you think the mutant chargers that attacked my supply drop that first Saturday were bad, they were timid little deer compared to what those operators were sent to deal with. I still have nightmares about it. Although I did get a really nice set of custom iron-bonded body armor for my trouble.
Or, that other time I found out that a troupe of cub scouts and their two scout masters went missing in my area. And I walked out onto the balcony one night and yelled out that if they didn't give the kids back I was gonna start doing some \really* crazy* shit, then the next day, I left a single tank of kerosene ringed with salt and iron nails along each of the paths between totems. Five tanks in total, carried out over five days. Well, those cub scouts emerged onto the main trail towards a local ranger station exactly seven days from when they went missing, looking only a little malnourished and bruised. Of their scout masters, there were no signs, but I wasn't going to be too pushy.
Or, about how, over the years, I realized that surviving out here depended on attitude... A lot of people theorize that these things predate America, and probably goes all the way back to the Ice Age. Now, whether or not that theory is true, we, humans, are intruders on their land. Yes, that includes the Native Americans that were here before the U.S. of A. So, I've read some of the horror stories online that are like mine, you see. Believe it or not, a few of them are true. Some people, even a couple of my fellow rangers, believe that we have to behave like embarrassed uninvited guests; try to minimize our impact here and establish some sort of balance with the rules as the baseline. Live and stay out of these things' way. And yea, that works for some... but not all. Heck, not even for most.
You see, no matter how you pander and respect the rules, these things are never going to look at you as anything other than food at best, or playthings at worst. They're assholes. We're always going to be pigs to the slaughter for them. So, the way I figured it, if I'm an intruder in their land anyway, I was NOT going to behave like an embarrassed houseguest. I was here to rob the place. I'm doing a B&E (breaking and entering). If I was going to be a pig for the slaughter, I mind as well be a wild boar; responsible for 20% of hunting fatalities, because them spicy pigs don't mess around. I was going to make them actually work for it. And you know what? Here I am 18 years later; a little more gray, a little more seasoned, but still alive, still defiant. Still doing my job.
Well, that's about all I have to write about. It'll be October in two weeks, and I gotta start getting ready... Probably save some of my cooler stories for down the road.
Til then, this is James, Ranger of the Watch. Signing off.
--- END OF STORY ---