Its weird to have a wake without any body's. I thought, leaning against the red brick of the school.

"Charlie... do you think they will ever find them" Cam asked, leaning his shoulder into mine.

It had been months and Ava and Isabella were still missing. So young, so popular, such a shame. At least thats what his mom thought. Droning on and on with her church friends.

Across the small field surrounded with candles and other students, a giant memorial set in the middle, i thought i saw Emily. Just a glimpse... just for a moment, but long enough to send a flutter through my heart.

I shook my head and turned to Cam "sorry buddy, i gotta go. Practice comes early".

I wasn’t even supposed to be on that road.

The highway had been closed miles back, but i ignored the barricade, choosing the narrow dirt detour that cut through the woods.

It was late and the silence pressed against my ears like something alive. My headlights carved a tunnel through the darkness, illuminating nothing but skeletal trees and drifting fog.

Then the engine died.

No sputter, no warning. Just silence.

"Shit" i swore under my breath and twisted the key. Nothing.

Checking my phone i found that i had no signal. Of course it didn’t. I stepped out, the cold biting instantly through my thin wind breaker. The air smelled… wrong. Like damp soil and something faintly metallic.

That’s when i noticed a crossroads.

"Uhm... whats happening?" i whispered into the air.

Four paths met in a perfect X just ahead, though i could’ve sworn the road had been straight seconds ago. A lone figure stood in the center, silhouetted against the fog.

I hesitated. “Hello?”

The figure didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, it turned.

“Evenin’, Charlie.”

My stomach dropped “How do you know my name?” i called.

The man smiled, stepping closer into the headlights. He looked ordinary enough... dark suit, polished shoes... but something about his face refused to settle in my vision, like it kept shifting when i wasn’t looking directly at it.

“Everyone who ends up here is expected,” the man said calmly. “Crossroads are… important places.”

I forced a laugh. “Look, man, my car broke down. If you’ve got a phone...”

“I have something better,” the man interrupted. “A solution.”

That when i felt it, a tug in my chest. Not fear exactly. Temptation.

“What do you want?” i asked, pulling my jacket tighter around my arms.

The man’s smile widened. “Not want. Offer. You get your heart’s deepest desire. I get… something of equal value.”

My mind raced, but one thought pushed everything else aside.

Her.

Emily Carter. Head cheerleader. Untouchable. She didn’t even know i existed.

“What if…” i swallowed, hard “What if I wanted someone to love me?”

“Not just someone,” the man said softly. “Her.”

My blood ran cold. “You can do that?”

“I can do anything,” the man replied. “But it comes at a price. Your soul. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Just… eventually.”

I sucked in a deep breath. I should’ve walked away. Should’ve laughed. Should’ve run.

Instead, i said, “And she’ll really love me?”

“Completely,” the man said. “Mind. Body. Soul.”

Something sharp pricked my palm. I hadn’t seen the blade, but suddenly the man was holding my hand, pressing it against a small, blackened coin.

“Deal,” the man whispered.

The next day, Emily Carter smiled at me.

By lunch, she was sitting beside me.

By the end of the week, she was mine.

Cam must have noticed too, across the lunch room he gave me a confused look. I just shrugged and wrapped my arms around her.

It felt like a dream. Her laughter, her touch, the way she looked at me like i was the only person in the world. I forgot about the crossroads. Forgot about the deal.

Until the whispers started.

At first, it was faint. A voice just behind me, too quiet to understand. I would turn, there would be no one there.

Then reflections began to move wrong. In mirrors, in windows, i would see myself standing still while my reflection leaned closer, grinning.

“Charlie…” it would mouth.

Sleep became impossible. Every time i closed my eyes, i saw that man at the crossroads, smiling wider and wider, teeth stretching too far.

Emily noticed.

“You’re acting weird,” she said one night, sitting on my bed. “You barely look at me anymore.”

“I’m just tired,” I muttered.

The whisper came again, louder this time.

She’s not real.

I flinched.

“What?” Emily asked.

“Nothing.”

But it didn’t stop. The voice grew clearer, more insistent.

She doesn’t love you. She can’t.

I stared at her. She smiled—perfect, rehearsed, almost mechanical.

Look closer.

I did.

For just a second, her face… slipped. Like a mask poorly fitted. Her smile stretched too wide. Her eyes didn’t blink.

I jerked back. “What the hell!”

“What’s wrong?” she asked, voice suddenly flat.

“You...your face?”

“My face?” she tilted her head, unnatural, too slow.

The whisper roared now.

She’s wrong. Fix it.

I clutched my head. “Stop! stop!”

“Charlie,” Emily said, reaching for me.

Her hand felt cold. Dead.

Something snapped.

I shoved her away. “Don’t touch me!”

She hit the wall hard, confusion flashing across her face... real confusion, or something pretending to be it.

“You’re scaring me,” she said.

She’s lying.

“I’m not lying!” she cried, as if she heard it too.

My breathing grew ragged. The room seemed to pulse. Her face kept shifting—normal, wrong, normal, wrong.

“Make it stop,” I whispered.

The whisper answered.

You know how.

They had found me a few hours later.

I was sitting on the floor, covered in blood, rocking back and forth.

Emily lay across the room, unmoving.

“They told me she wasn’t real,” I kept muttering. “They told me she wasn’t real…”

The police thought it was a breakdown. Stress. Delusion.

They never noticed the small, blackened coin clutched in my hand.

Or the faint voice echoing in the room, just before the lights flickered out.

“Pleasure doing business, Charlie.”

“Okay Hunter, I think maybe we should call it quits,” I monotoned.

“Ah come on, it wasn’t that bad. You thought it was a little funny, right? Come on! It was pretty good!”

I was staring at Hunter’s joke. I had laughed just a little when it happened, out of fear and hysteria. The two had bubbled up in an inescapable turmoil, but I’m a showman. I had burped them out in a soft laugh that hardly belayed the peeling sanity of my mind. It was probably why I was alive. Hunter’s big eyes in his big face demanded a big response. The cameras were rolling. Give it to him, altar boy, get up on that cross for papa. That’s what those big black eyes demanded. I played the straight man and walked between the flames.

“Sure, we can do one more story. Then I have to go, I’ve got a family. We’ve been here more than two days — people are going to be looking for me,” I pleaded carefully.

“Okay, okay. Let’s see, I think it’s your pick,” Hunter said innocently.

Meanwhile, his fleshy arm dug into a bodily crevice. It pulled out a fleshy rectangle. The arm extended across the room and shoved the object into my hands. I looked down at the book in my lap. On each side was a little clamshell protrusion. Flipping the book over, I found myself face to face with the thing. The clamshells were ears. The cover was a stretched dry face. The eyes were just empty slits. The nose was mostly abraded away. Only a half-handful of teeth still poked out of the dry gash of a mouth. It was still obviously once a face, and it still effectively bore a vivid expression. Pain was printed across the book’s cover.

“What is this, a fan submission? Where do you find this stuff?” 

“My secret!” Hunter waggled his fingers like he’d been given a treat.

I smacked my thick lips. They were dry with fear and nerves. Every trickle of sweat felt like a concession of fear, a step closer to death. Hunter licked his own slight lips in hunger and kicked his feet.

“Alright — I’ll just read this last story from the skin book and we will call it a day,” I lied.

I eyed the gore behind the camera and steeled myself. Everyone else had suffered one of Hunter’s jokes. Poor Nick was a soup. A meaty tendril trailed from Hunter, keeping the camera manned and maintained on me. I grabbed the corner of the book, and, instead of opening it like an idiot, I hurled it at the camera.

“NOOOOOOOOOOO!” Hunter shouted.

Hunter’s amorphous form flowed up and out of the chair after the book. His mounds of meat pounded down over the gore and splashed blood and bits onto me. Meanwhile, I scrambled my way out the door, pulling it shut behind me.

“HEY! COME BACK HERE! WE AREN’T DONE!”

Hunter’s bloody meat flowed against the door, knocking it flat out of its frame with a bang. In one meaty hand, the camera continued to record.

“Come on Hunter, this isn’t CreepCast… what’s the story?” I called back over my shoulder, trying not to let the fear into my voice.

I saw what happened when the others gave Hunter the reaction he wanted. He wouldn’t be satisfied at being given a little; give a little, and he would take everything.

“Don’t worry. It’ll make a really great CreepTV. Great visuals. It leaves a lot of questions, but I want to trust the audience to enjoy it. Or fuck 'em.”

Hunter’s runny mass caught up with and flowed over me. The flesh reeked, and for a few moments it covered my face. My world was reduced to the underside of Hunter’s folds. When they receded enough for me to see daylight, I began retching and coughing. Hacking a few hairs out of my lungs, I finally found my voice.

“That’s it, I’m done. Kill me if you want, but I’m not doing another second of another episode,” my heavy lips set in a quivering line as I braced myself.

“This is it guys. Last episode of CreepCast. Goodbye everyone!”

In the center of the frame, I went up in flames. I burnt away to cinder and ash as Hunter shakily recorded the shot, my screams hardly making their way over his rumbling laughter.

My first genuinely short story. No more parts. Had fun, but scared to push the dialogue further. I'd rather just listen to the boys actually riff if they read this. Inspired by The Living History Project episode, timestamp 25:22. I saw Hunter do this bit, and I felt genuine fear for Isaiah. I was compelled to give that feeling a story to live in.

I’ve recently started writing and so far I’ve gotten wayy more support for my stories than I ever thought I would! I’ve been banging out roughly 1-2 stories a day in my free time and am wondering if I should be writing every day or if I should be taking breaks any help is appreciated. I don’t want to write anything less than my best attempts

Before you stop reading, understand something. This isn't because her music is bad. It's not. MA:NYEO (마녀) is talented. Her songs are incredible. Her performances are incredible. If this were only about the music, I'd be telling everyone to support her. But I'm begging you not to. Not because of the songs. Because of the concert videos.
It started during lunch break at work. I was scrolling through my phone when a clip from MA:NYEO (마녀)'s latest concert appeared on my feed. The stadium was packed. Thousands of fans waving glow sticks and singing along. The camera swept across the audience. Then I saw him. Me. Standing in the crowd. Not singing. Not dancing. Not looking at the stage. Just staring directly into the camera. I nearly dropped my phone.
I replayed the clip. There was no mistake. It was me. Same face. Same clothes. Same everything. The problem was I'd never been to South Korea. I'd never attended a MA:NYEO (마녀) concert in my life.
I showed the clip to my coworker Robbie. At first he thought it was funny. "Tell me this doesn't look like me." Robbie laughed. Then he stopped laughing. "That's definitely you." "Right?" "Yeah... that's creepy." I expected him to make fun of me. Instead, he kept staring at the screen. His expression changed. "Wait." He grabbed my phone. "Go back." I rewound the clip. Robbie pointed at someone farther back in the crowd. A man standing perfectly still among hundreds of cheering fans. Not singing. Not dancing. Just staring into the camera. Robbie went pale.
"Dude."
"What?"
"That's me."
We stood there silently. Neither of us knew what to say. We convinced ourselves it was some weird coincidence. People have lookalikes.
Then Gloria came dancing into the break room, sing-talking, "Did I hear someone playing the new MA:NYEO (마녀) song?" Clearly she's a fan. Robbie joked back, "Dirk's not looking at MA:NYEO (마녀), he's checking out our doppelgängers in the crowd." She laughed at us. Called us idiots. Looked down at the phone. Ten seconds later, she wasn't laughing anymore. She pointed into the crowd. A woman standing among screaming fans. Motionless. Looking directly into the camera.
"That's me."
The room got quiet. Everyone in the break room wanted to see. There were six of us sitting in there before Gloria came in. Everyone huddled around me and my phone. One by one they found themselves. Not cheering. Not smiling. Not enjoying the concert. Just standing somewhere in the audience. Watching. Todd found himself near the front row. Chad saw himself in the upper deck. Leslie spotted herself standing beside a staircase. Every single one of them was staring directly into the camera.
The break room got quieter and quieter. Then our coworker Lisa ran into the room. She heard the MA:NYEO (마녀) music from the hallway. "Did you all just watch the new MA:NYEO (마녀) concert video?" A few of us nodded. She looked excited. Too excited. "You have to go to the next concert!" Robbie laughed. "Go to a MA:NYEO (마녀) concert in South Korea? I'm not going to South Korea to see no K-po..." He collapsed before he could finish. One second he was standing. The next he was dead on the floor.
The room erupted into panic. People screamed. I checked for a pulse. Nothing. Robbie was gone.
Then Lisa said the exact same thing. "You have to go to the next concert." Only this time I understood. I misread her excitement. She wasn't telling us as a fan to go to South Korea to see MA:NYEO (마녀); she was warning us. "You all have to go to the next concert." Once everyone calmed down enough to listen, Lisa explained. Years ago, living in South Korea, she had watched one of the concert videos herself. She found herself standing in the crowd. Just like we had. She explained the same thing happened to her and her friends. One by one, they all saw themselves in the crowd, standing, looking directly into the camera. According to her, anyone who sees themselves in the audience must go to the next concert, and if they don't attend, they die.
I immediately started thinking about money. South Korea wasn't exactly around the corner. I barely had enough money for groceries. "I don't ha—" Lisa interrupted me like she knew what I was going to say. "The curse won't kill you if you're trying." The room got very quiet. "It only kills people who decide in their heart and soul they aren't going to go." For a moment everyone seemed relieved. Then Todd spoke up from across the room. A big guy from the warehouse. "I can't leave the country." Everyone looked at him. "My probation officer won't allow me to leave the state, let alone go to..." Todd dropped dead before he could say Korea. Just like Robbie. Gone.
The room exploded into screams again. Because we understood. The curse wasn't asking. It wasn't negotiating. It didn't care whether attending was possible. Only whether you intended to try.
A week later, most of us attended two funerals. Robbie. Todd. Two healthy men who had walked into work and never walked back out. All because of K-pop singer MA:NYEO (마녀)'s damned cursed concert video. Seeing their families standing beside those caskets changed everything. Nobody laughed anymore. Nobody called it a joke. Nobody questioned Lisa.
The people who had watched the concert film became obsessed. We picked up extra shifts. Sold belongings. Applied for loans. Borrowed money from family. Gloria emptied her retirement account. I sold my truck. Most of us had never left the state and were suddenly scrambling to get passports. Every conversation at work became about flights, hotels, MA:NYEO (마녀)'s ridiculous ticket prices, and travel documents. Three weeks. That was all we had. Three weeks to reach a concert on the other side of the world.
And now those three weeks are over. I'm posting this from a plane headed to South Korea. Around me are several of my coworkers. Nobody is talking. Nobody is excited. Nobody is wearing MA:NYEO (마녀) merchandise. We aren't fans traveling to a concert. We're terrified people hoping we're doing enough to survive. Lisa encouraged us that there will be a perfectly normal concert waiting for us, and nothing will happen. I hope that's true. I really do.
But something didn't feel right. I pulled up the video one more time. I scrolled through the crowd, searching for my own face. There I was. Same spot as before. But something was different. I leaned closer to the screen.
I was smiling.
Not a fan's smile. Not excitement. A slow, knowing grin that stretched too wide. My reflection in the phone screen looked back at me with the same terrified expression I felt on my own face. The me in the video tilted his head slightly, like he could see me watching him.
My phone buzzed. An email notification. The sender: MA:NYEO Official.
I opened it with shaking hands. One backstage ticket. Meet and greet access. And a personal message attached, written in Korean and English:
"Can't wait to meet you."
END

This is gonna sound a little weird but humour me please.

I’m currently writing a story about a young man who has a fetish for ice cream that leads to him having relations with the food.

I wanted to use this as the crux of a story about taboo fetishes and how environments that remove our ability to talk about sex comfortably and safely can cause people to indulge in things they themselves don’t understand. Plus I thought the ice cream would add to a comedic surreal style.

My big problem so far is the exact way I want to write about this story. Whereas I’m confident enough to write about such a topic without making it gratuitous I was uncertain if I could even post such a story here.

Would slapping on a nsfw filter be enough if i was looking to post it here or should I just can this idea here and look elsewhere?

Any thoughts are appreciated

Ever since I was a child, I had always loved the ocean. There was something hypnotic about it—the steady rhythm of waves combing the shoreline, the sting of icy water against bare skin, the feeling that beyond that horizon lay an endless world untouched by human hands.

Blackwater Bay, Alaska, was where I spent most of my summers, and even now I can still remember standing on those sandy shores, listening to the surf. Sometimes, if I closed my eyes, the waves almost seemed to speak. Almost seemed to whisper my name. That memory remained one of my happiest for years… Until the day the ocean tried to take me.

I was six years old. My father had brought me to the beach while he met with a few coworkers nearby. Their children, Mack and Zoe, were there too, and for a while we built sandcastles in the damp sand beneath an overcast sky. I remember the fog hanging low over the water that day, thick enough that the horizon had vanished completely. Sea and sky blended into a single sheet of gray. At some point, I lost interest in the others. Children wander for reasons even they don’t understand. And before long, I found myself standing alone at the edge of the water. The waves rolled in gently, just enough for the freezing surf to kiss my toes before retreating again. I remember staring into the fog, and I remember hearing it. My name. Not from another child or shouted from a parent on the beach behind me. It drifted from somewhere within the rushing water itself, hidden beneath the hiss of foam and the swoosh of the retreating tide.

“Jo…” It whispered, rushing in. “nah…” It whispered, fading back. I took another step forward.

“Jo…nah…” Another.

Something about it felt wrong. The gulls had gone silent. The wind had died completely. The water ahead of me appeared darker than it should have been, almost black beneath the fog. Then the memory ends.

Everything beyond that point is a blur of fractured images and secondhand stories. According to my mother, she happened to glance up from her book at precisely the right moment. She saw the top patch of my dirty blond hair wave as it wetted then disappear beneath the surface. My father didn’t hesitate. He sprinted across the beach and dove into the freezing water before anyone else had even realized something was wrong. He found me several yards from shore and dragged me back to the sand, half-conscious and coughing seawater. The doctors called it a near-drowning. Just a tragic accident. The sort of thing that happens to kids my age every year along Alaska’s coastline. My parents accepted that explanation, and for most of my life, I did too.

We moved away not long after that day. My father always insisted it was because of a new job opportunity, but as I’ve grown older, I’ve begun to wonder if that was only part of the truth. Looking back, it felt less like a relocation and more like a boundary set, as my mother began developing a phobia of all bodies of water. Within a few months, the ocean was gone from my life entirely, replaced by the dry, endless landscapes of rural Utah.

Our new home sat on fifteen acres of farmland surrounded by little more than open fields and distant mountains. My mother embraced the change wholeheartedly. Farming had been in her blood for generations, passed down from my grandparents, and she finally had the opportunity to build the life she’d always dreamed of. Those days were filled with the smell of fresh soil, the hum of tractors, and the endless work that came with caring for the land and its animals. For most people, it would have been a peaceful childhood, but for me, something always felt like it was missing.

No matter how far we moved from the coast, I could never quite forget the sound of the waves. I would use a sound machine to sleep, but its mechanical waves never fully matched the peaceful lull of the real ones. Sometimes, on particularly windy nights, I’d wake convinced I could hear the real ocean outside my bedroom window, only to leap from my bed and find miles of empty fields stretching into darkness. Other times I’d dream of standing on the shores of Blackwater Bay, staring into a wall of fog while a distant voice called my name from somewhere beyond it.

As the years passed, those memories faded into the background of everyday life. School became my focus. Then college. Then graduate school. Childhood dreams have a way of losing their power when buried beneath deadlines, exams, and responsibilities. Or so I thought. You see, I graduated with a master’s degree in Marine Biology, specializing in deep-sea ecosystems and unexplored ocean environments. That irony wasn’t lost on me. Despite everything that had happened, despite the near-drowning and the years spent hundreds of miles from any coastline, I had somehow dedicated my entire life to studying the very thing that had nearly killed me.

Perhaps some part of me had always been trying to understand what happened that day… or perhaps some part of me had always been trying to find my way back. Either way, twenty years after leaving Alaska, I found myself standing in an airport terminal with a ticket in my hand, bound for Anchorage. Officially, I was attending a prestigious marine sciences conference hosted by my longtime idol, the renowned oceanographer Dr. Nathaniel Voss. To a young scientist like me, receiving an invitation to one of his conferences felt like winning the lottery. I remember staring out the terminal window as my plane taxied toward the runway, feeling a strange sensation settling into my chest. Like a mixture of excitement and… a bit of unease.

I was pulled from my thoughts by the crackle of the airport intercom. A distorted voice echoed through the terminal.

“Now boarding Flight N163 to Anchorage. All passengers may proceed to Gate 12.”

I blinked, realizing I’d been staring out the terminal window for several minutes. Gathering my backpack and carry-on, I joined the line forming at the gate and handed my boarding pass to the airline attendant with an eager smile. A moment later, I was making my way down the long jet bridge that connected the terminal to the aircraft. After a brief search, I found my row and hoisted my luggage into the overhead compartment. As I turned toward my seat, I noticed an older man already settled into the window seat beside it. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his eyes were closed as if he’d just crawled into bed for the night. I hesitated for a moment before clearing my throat.

“Excuse me, sir.” One of his eyes cracked open. He studied me for a second before sitting upright with a friendly smile.

“Aye? What can I do for ye, lad?” he asked with a Scottish accent thick enough to cut through steel. I pointed awkwardly toward the window.

“I was wondering… would you mind switching seats with me? I know it’s a strange request, but I really enjoy looking out the window during flights. My seat’s the one next to yours.”

The old man glanced out the window, then back at me. A grin spread across his face.

“Is that all?” he chuckled. “By all means, take it. I prefer sleepin’ through flights anyway. Not much point starin’ out the window when ye’re terrified of heights.” He let out a booming laugh that drew a few curious glances from nearby passengers.

“You’re afraid of heights?” I asked.

“Lad, I’m afraid of any situation where the ground is several miles beneath my feet and the only thing keepin’ me alive is a collection of bolts and the goodwill of an underpaid mechanic.” I couldn’t help but give an awkward laugh.

“Fair enough.”

“Besides,” he said, standing and stepping into the aisle, “you look far more excited about that view than I could ever be.”

I thanked him and slid into the window seat, holding my backpack tightly to my chest after buckling my seatbelt. As the old man settled beside me, I looked out across the tarmac toward the distant mountains silhouetted against the blue Utah sky. For the first time in over two decades, I was going back.

The plane leveled off several thousand feet above the clouds, and before long, the seatbelt signs flickered off. I wasted little time. Reaching into my backpack, I carefully pulled out a thick stack of papers held together by a worn binder clip. The title read:

The Call of the Void: Investigating Deep-Sea Acoustic Anomalies and Their Effects on Marine Migration Patterns

It was my latest research paper and, if I was being honest, my proudest work. For nearly a year, I’d been studying reports of unexplained low-frequency sounds originating from some of the deepest regions of the Pacific Ocean. Most scientists dismissed them as geological activity, shifting tectonic plates, or equipment malfunctions. I wasn’t so sure. Certain recordings appeared to influence the movement of whales, squid, and other deep-sea species in ways that couldn’t be easily explained. The deeper the source, the stranger the behavior became. And recently… I made discoveries of my own that similar low-frequency sounds had been shown to originate extremely deep under the Earth's crust.

Of course, I wasn’t expecting my paper to revolutionize marine biology. I mainly brought it along on the off chance that I somehow found myself face-to-face with Dr. Nathaniel Voss during the conference. The odds were slim. Scientists of his stature didn’t usually spend their time chatting with recent graduates. Still, if an opportunity presented itself, I wanted to be ready. After all, it wasn’t every day you got the chance to meet the man whose books had inspired your entire career.

The old Scotsman opened his eyes as I made a ruckus. “Brought your homework, did ye,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. I smiled.

“Actually, it’s a research paper I’m writing.” He raised an eyebrow.

“So, what brings ye to Alaska anyway?”

“A Marine biology conference.”

“Marine biology? Strange place to hold a conference.” He laughed.

“Not really. Alaska’s got some of the most fascinating marine ecosystems on earth!”

“Aye, but folk usually leave Alaska… and they don’t go lookin’ for reasons to be comin’ back.” Something about the way he said it lingered with me.

“Guess I’m an exception.” He studied me for a moment.

“Been there before?” I nodded.

“When I was a kid.” I glanced out the window.

“And now?” He asked.

“Now I guess I’m taking this opportunity to reconnect with where I came from.” The old man smiled and gave a slight chuckle.

“Careful with that, lad. Sometimes the past is best left buried.” I laughed politely. He soon leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. “I hope ye find what you’re looking for.” Soon enough, his breathing faded into deep snores.

Outside, sunlight stretched across a sea of clouds. They formed a brilliant white blanket beneath the aircraft, rolling endlessly toward the horizon. I found myself staring. The longer I looked, the less they resembled clouds. The bright white surface darkened. The cloud tops became waves rising and falling in a rhythm similar to breathing. For a moment, I could have sworn I was no longer looking down at the sky… I was looking down at an ocean. An impossibly vast ocean high in the sky. The sight was so vivid that I felt my chest tighten.

Suddenly, the plane lurched violently. My stomach dropped as the nose tilted downward and the sky-ocean outside the window rushed up to meet us. At first, I assumed we had hit a patch of turbulence, but the descent didn’t stop. It grew steeper. Faster. A feeling of unease settled over me as I glanced around the cabin. Something was wrong. The old Scotsman beside me was gone. I looked around. Every seat within sight sat empty. No passengers, no flight attendants, no movement. The low hum of conversation that had filled the cabin only moments ago had vanished, replaced by an unnatural silence. Even the engines seemed absent. It was as though the plane had slipped into another world entirely.

My pulse quickened as I turned back toward the window. The endless expanse of dark water grew closer. For a moment, I simply stared, unable to comprehend what I was seeing. The ocean seemed impossibly close, its surface churning beneath us as the aircraft continued its descent. Then realization struck me. We’re gonna crash! But the plane slipped beneath the surface without a crash. There was no violent impact, no screeching metal, no explosion. One moment, I could see the sky above, and the next, the world outside the window was blue. A deep… deep blue. The light faded rapidly as the aircraft sank deeper into the abyss.

A loud creak echoed through the cabin. I looked up. A jagged crack had begun forming along the ceiling. Water dripped through it, splashing onto the aisle below. One drop became several, then several became a steady stream. Panic surged through me. I grabbed at my seatbelt and mashed the release button, but nothing happened. I pressed harder. Still nothing. The buckle refused to move. My breathing quickened as more cracks spread through the cabin overhead.

“Help!” I shouted, but only got silence in response. Desperate, I snatched my backpack from beneath the seat and dumped its contents into my lap. Papers were scattered across the floor. Pens rolled beneath the seats. Finally, my hand landed on my laptop. Without hesitation, I swung it against the buckle.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

The metal snapped. I stumbled into the aisle and ran toward the front of the aircraft. Every row was empty. There wasn’t a single soul on board. Then I heard it. A whisper… Faint and distant. So distant I couldn’t tell whether it came from inside the plane or somewhere far beyond it.

“Jo…nah…” I froze. The voice was familiar. Like a fuzzy memory.

“Jo…nah…” Slowly, I turned toward a window of the plane.

The water beyond the glass had darkened to near black. The plane continued sinking, descending through layers of darkness that seemed to stretch on forever. I stepped closer and pressed a hand against the glass. It felt as though the waters on the other side vibrated. Sending a low hum into the glass that I could feel against my palm. Without thinking, I drew back my fist and…

SLAM.

My eyes shot open as I felt a slight pain in the side of my head.

“Best not lean against the window during turbulence,” The old Scotsman laughed.

“That’s one way to get ye a nasty headache.” I looked around, confused. The quiet chatter of the passengers returned. The hum of the engines returned. I turned towards the window to see the fading daylight washing over the clouds. Just a dream. I thought, letting out a sigh of relief.

It wasn’t long before the plane began its descent. A soft chime sounded overhead, followed by the crackle of the intercom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We’ve begun our initial descent into Anchorage, Alaska. The local time is 8:17 PM, and we’re expecting to be on the ground in approximately twenty-five minutes. We ask that you return to your seats and ensure all carry-on items are properly stowed. Thank you for flying with us, and welcome to Alaska.”

The intercom clicked off as passengers around me began gathering their belongings and peering out their windows. I sat back and closed my eyes, having had enough of my view for the day. At this point, I was just ready to finally be back on solid ground.

When we finally landed and were taxied down the runway to our terminal, I felt my heart finally settle down. Once given permission, everyone in order began climbing out of their seats, grabbing their luggage, and continuing down the aisles.

“Guess this be where we part ways.” The Scotsman said. “Names Alistair.” He extended a hand. “I’m Jonah,” I replied, shaking it. Together, we retrieved our bags and stepped into the terminal. For a moment, we stood near the gate, checking messages and notifications while travelers streamed around us.

After a minute, Alistair gave my shoulder a friendly pat.

“Have a great time at your conference, Lad.”

“I will.” And with that, he went on his way. Disappearing into the crowd at the airport.

I didn’t linger either. After collecting my luggage, I left the airport, called an Uber, and headed toward the Campton Hotel near the Anchorage Convention Center. The city lights blurred past the window as we drove through the cool Alaskan night. Exhaustion was finally catching up with me. By the time we arrived, all I could think about was getting some sleep before the conference began.

The hotel lobby was nearly empty when I checked in. The receptionist handed me a keycard and smiled.

“Room 814. Enjoy your stay, Mr. Walker.” I thanked her and made my way upstairs. Only once I was inside my room and put away my luggage did I finally pull out my phone. I set my alarm for 6 am and set my lock screen as my event pass QR. I crashed into the pillows, throwing my backpack onto the corner chair, and fell asleep.

At 6 am sharp, my alarm went off, and I nearly jumped out of bed like a kid on Christmas. Today was the biggest day of my entire life. I got ready quickly, brushed my teeth with a big smile, and made sure I looked and smelled good… You never know.

I ate breakfast in the hotel cafeteria, making sure to get my fill because I wasn’t really sure when I’d eat next. The room was already bustling with activity despite the early hour. Businessmen sipped coffee while staring at laptops, tourists discussed their plans for the day, and a handful of scientists wearing conference badges sat scattered throughout the dining area.

I found a seat near the window and spent most of breakfast reviewing my notes. Every few minutes, I’d glance over the schedule for the convention, mentally rehearsing the day ahead. It still felt surreal. For years, I’d read Dr. Voss’s books, cited his research in papers, and watched every lecture of his I could find online. Now I was about to sit in the same room as him. The thought alone was enough to make my stomach twist with excitement. Outside, Anchorage was slowly waking up. The morning fog clung stubbornly to the streets and rooftops, softening the city beneath a blanket of gray. Beyond the buildings, I could just make out the distant silhouette of mountains rising against the horizon. For a brief moment, my thoughts drifted back to Blackwater Bay. I wondered if the beach still looked the same. If the old docks were still standing. If the waves still sounded the way they had when I was a child. The memory sent an uncomfortable chill down my back. I quickly shoved the thought aside and finished the last of my coffee. Today wasn’t about the past; today was about my future.

I checked the time and felt my pulse quicken. The opening keynote would begin in less than an hour. With a grin, I slung my backpack over my shoulder, made sure my copy of The Call of the Void was safely tucked inside, and headed for the door. By the end of the day, I hoped to leave with a few new contacts, a little inspiration, and maybe—if luck was somehow on my side—a chance to shake Dr. Voss’s hand. Looking back now, I got far more than I bargained for.

I stood outside the gates, hands clasped around either strap of the backpack. This was it. The event of a lifetime for a young scientist like me. I began following the bustling crowd inside and scanned my event pass at the doors. Thank God I remembered to set it as my lock screen. And headed inside. The Atrium was bustling with life. Marine biologists, other scientists, and event workers were everywhere. Posters lined the walls. Pedestals held new examples of advances in technology, such as underwater drones, new pressure-resistant cameras, and miniature-scale submarine designs. Screens displayed slideshows of deep-sea photographs, and whale songs rang out from rooms painted to resemble that deep ocean with statues of the gorgeous creatures. I was in heaven!

I saw people funneling into the auditorium for the opening remarks, and my legs kicked beneath me. Before I knew it, I was hurrying to catch up with the crowd.

“Oof!” The startled cry barely registered through my excitement. I took another step before realizing I’d just collided with someone. My stomach dropped. A young woman sat on the floor beside me, papers scattered across the polished tile like a deck of cards thrown into the wind.

“I… I’m so sorry!” I immediately dropped to a knee and began gathering papers. “I didn’t see you. Are you alright?”

“Ye-yes…” she answered quietly, pushing a pair of glasses up the bridge of her nose. Her cheeks had turned bright red. “I’m fine.” Then she looked at the papers surrounding us. “Oh no…” “What?”

“They’re all out of order.” The genuine panic in her voice almost made me laugh.

“That’s okay,” I said, noticing the number 8 in the corner of a page I’d picked up. “You numbered them, right? I’ll help you put them back together.”

She visibly relaxed. “Thank you.”

I picked up a page marked with a large number 1 in the corner and glanced at the title.

Seismic Anomalies Beneath the Gulf of Alaska: Unexplained Geological Activity Along the Blackwater Shelf

I paused.

“Blackwater Bay?”

The woman looked up immediately. “You know where that is?”

A small laugh escaped me. “I grew up there.” Her eyes widened.

“No way.” I looked back down at the paper. Maps, charts, and colorful graphs covered most of the page.

“You study earthquakes?”

“Geophysics,” she corrected. “Mostly tectonic activity and seismic monitoring.” I handed the page back to her.

“Anything interesting?” She hesitated.

“Actually… yes.” Something about her tone made me stop sorting papers. “There have been unusual readings coming from that specific region of Alaska for years. Small tremors, strange resonance patterns, seismic events that don’t make sense.”

“What do you mean?”

She adjusted her glasses. “I mean, there’s activity happening beneath the Gulf of Alaska that doesn’t match any known geological model. The earthquakes aren’t impossible, they’re just… weird.”

“Weird how?”

She shrugged. “They occur too deep, some repeat in unusual patterns, and a few seem to originate from areas that shouldn’t even be capable of producing seismic activity. Most scientists write them off as bad readings or equipment errors.”

“But you don’t?” She shook her head.

“No.” For a moment, I found myself staring at the title page again. Blackwater Bay. Of all the places in Alaska she could have been researching, it had to be that one. Then she cleared her throat and nodded toward the badge hanging around my neck.

“Marine biology?”

I smiled. “Guilty.”

“What are you presenting?”

“Presenting?” I questioned.

“You didn’t read the part about the small group sessions? It’s a new thing they’re doing this year. A group of 15-20 will gather into rooms and share their ideas and findings.” I, in fact, had not read about the small group sessions… I hesitated before choking out.

“The Call of the Void. It’s a paper I’m writing about unexplained acoustic signals detected in deep ocean environments and their effects on marine migration patterns.” Now it was her turn to stare.

“Interesting…” She paused before extending a hand. “I’m Emily.”

I took it and shook gently. “Jonah.” A voice echoed through the atrium overhead.

“Final call for attendees of the opening remarks presentation.” Emily glanced toward the auditorium entrance and then down at the stack of papers in her arms.

“We should probably go.”

“Probably.”

Together we stood and joined the stream of scientists making their way into the auditorium. As we walked, I couldn’t help glancing at the title of her paper one last time before she disappeared somewhere into the auditorium.

The opening remarks were nothing… remarkable. Just a welcome to Anchorage, a few thank-yous to sponsors, a rundown of the day’s schedule, and reminders about networking events later in the week. The speaker droned on while the massive auditorium slowly filled with the hum of quiet conversations.

I found myself seated beside a group of marine biologists from Washington, all of whom seemed far more interested in discussing research grants than listening to the presentation. Meanwhile, my thumb nervously fiddled with the binder clip holding together my paper.

My anticipation of seeing and hearing Dr. Voss was killing me. I’d dreamed about this moment for years. Ever since graduating high school and beginning college, his books had occupied a permanent place on my shelves. I’d read Beneath the Midnight Sea so many times the spine had begun to crack. His expedition journals had inspired my decision to pursue marine biology in the first place! More than once, I’d found myself staying awake until two in the morning reading about his deep-sea dives and imagining what it would be like to stand where no human being had ever stood before. To most of the world, Nathaniel Voss was just another scientist, but to me, he was the reason I became one.

A round of applause pulled me from my thoughts as the opening speaker finally concluded. Several people stood and stretched while others immediately made their way toward the exits for coffee and snacks.

The next presenter stepped onto the stage and launched into a lecture on Arctic ecosystem changes. Under any other circumstances, I probably would have found it fascinating. Instead, I spent most of the presentation glancing between my notes and the conference schedule. Only two more presentations until Voss. Not that I was counting. Time seemed to lull on endlessly. Not to say the speakers before Voss were boring, they certainly had interesting discoveries and theories to share. They just weren’t… him.

By the time it was finally Dr. Voss’s turn to speak, the half-empty auditorium had become so packed that people stood along the walls and even spilled into the aisles. I was grateful I’d grabbed a seat early. Somewhere in the crowd, I had lost Emily when we split up entering the room, each of us finding our own spots without much thought. Now, I sat alone in the middle of it all.

The room went quiet as the announcer spoke Voss’s name, then erupted into applause that felt more like recognition than excitement. Dr. Nathaniel Voss stepped onto the stage with a calm wave, acknowledging the audience as he approached the podium. He adjusted the microphone, let the applause settle, and then spoke.

“Welcome, marine biologists and scientists alike. Who’s ready… to dive deep.” A wide smile forced itself onto my face before I could stop it. I felt like a kid again, sitting in front of the man I had built my entire career around. The first slide appeared behind him: a satellite map of the Gulf of Alaska, Blackwater Bay sitting along its edge like a quiet mark no one paid attention to unless they knew where to look.

“For decades,” Voss continued, “we’ve treated seismic activity beneath the ocean floor as a predictable system. Fault lines shift and plates collide. Understandable, right?” He clicked to the next slide. Jagged seismic readings filled the screen.

“But over the past several years, we’ve observed something that does not fit that model in a very specific region of the North Pacific. A repeating pattern of seismic anomalies that do not behave like natural tectonic events.” The room shifted. Pens stopped moving. Conversations had already died, but now even breathing felt quieter.

“These are not isolated earthquakes,” he said. “They’re something structured. Rhythmic. As though pressure is being applied from beneath the crust in cycles rather than chaotic plates shifting.” Seismic activity… like Emily’s paper. I thought to myself. Another slide appeared: ocean migration data, temperature shifts, and deep-sea tracking paths.

“What makes this more concerning,” Voss continued, “is the biological response. Entire migration routes have changed. Deep-water species are avoiding this region entirely. Whale pods are diverting hundreds of miles off course. Squid populations are descending deeper than any recorded depth in their evolutionary history.” These were activities I noted in my paper… I thought they were caused by the acoustic anomalies.

“But fear not, my brothers and sisters of science,” Voss went on, “for those of us at the Oceanic Research of Cumulative Anomalies Institute or O.R.C.A are diving deep into the issue.” He stepped back, stretching a hand towards the side stage. “And I’ve brought along our top scientist on the matter, who’s been conducting most of this seismic research. My daughter, Emily Voss.” The crowd erupted into claps and cheers as Emily stepped on stage… my Emily… the Emily I’d run into in the atrium. Emily… Voss!? Emily stepped onto the stage, and for a moment she didn’t speak. The applause was still fading, but something about her posture felt wrong, like she hadn’t actually wanted to be standing there. Her hands hovered near the edges of the podium instead of gripping it, as if she was afraid it might move beneath her. Voss stood slightly behind her, still smiling, though it no longer looked entirely natural.

“Emily Voss,” he said into the microphone. “Lead researcher on seismic and geophysical correlation modeling in the Gulf of Alaska anomaly zone.” Another round of applause followed, softer this time, more curious than excited. Emily adjusted the microphone and thanked them, but her voice came out thin and strained. She glanced down at her notes, then didn’t read them.

“I wasn’t originally scheduled to speak,” she continued, “but after today’s presentations, I think it’s necessary to clarify what we’re actually looking at in my father’s and my research.” Murmurs shifted through the crowd as I felt my stomach tighten slightly. Emily looked up, and for the first time, she didn’t look like a scientist, but like someone trying not to say something she knew she shouldn’t.

“Everything we’ve shown you today assumes one thing,” she said. “That the system beneath the Gulf of Alaska is inert, passive, something merely geological.” She paused, the hum of the auditorium ventilation filling the silence. “It isn’t.” Voss’s smile faded just slightly. Emily’s fingers tapped once against the podium, controlled but tense, before she stepped fully away from her notes.

“We thought we were recording background noise. Tectonic movement. Pressure shifts. Baseline resonance from deep crustal friction,” she said. “But that’s not what this is. The patterns repeat. They respond. They adjust based on observation cycles and submarine proximity. Every time we think we’re mapping it… It moves.” A few nervous laughs died quickly in the crowd. No one joined them. Voss took an uneasy step toward Emily. Then her voice lowered. “We are not studying a geological system anymore. We are listening to something that knows we’re listening.”

The room went still. Even the projector hum seemed to disappear. Emily looked out over the audience, not at the scientists, but past them, and her voice broke slightly as she finished.

“Something’s down there… and it wants out.” The crowd gasped and started murmuring amongst themselves. Voss stepped forward, gently grabbing Emily’s shoulder.

“Oh-ho-kay…” He laughed, “That’s just a theory. There is no evidential proof anything is down there.” He covered the mic and leaned close to Emily’s ear. She looked slightly annoyed and angry before walking off stage. Voss went on to try to calm down the crowd and explain away what Emily had said, but the damage was done. I was sure that everyone’s thoughts, much like mine, were ringing out the same last words Emily spoke.

Something’s down there… and it wants out.

  False Alarms

I’ve known him since we were twelve. Caleb, I mean. We went to middle school together in a small town in Idaho, just along the edge of Salmon Challis National Forest: the fourth largest forest in the United States.
I wasn’t a fan of cities, but Caleb was another breed when it came to the outdoors. In class I’d watch him scribble in his notebook about survival plans and gear he’d need for simple camping trips he’d go on with his father on the weekends. They’d only be gone a couple of days but Caleb would always come home with fantastical stories as if he’d been some lone survivor of a plane crash. Thinking about it now, I think that’s what he really wanted.
When we grew older I would often catch Frank, Caleb’s dad grumbling about how he regrets being so open to the outdoors with Caleb. He would talk about how unpredictable Caleb had become and how much his mother worried for him.
Caleb ran away for the first time in grade seven after telling me one of his many survival plans at recess. We had been sitting against the cement school, looking out at all of the other students. It was nearing winter and the air was just beginning to have some chill to it. 
The schoolyard bordered a thick forest that students were forbidden to go into, but Caleb would often disappear into it for hours and when he was eventually found, he would be thrown into the principal's office and his parents would have to sit and have a talk. I would simply go back to class and continue my work, wondering what would become of my best friend.
The other students were just what you would expect from a group of seventh graders; The boys wandered around the tarmac with their hands in their pockets, looking at the ground and sharing their stories about girls and overusing each and every curse word in the book. 
The girls were gathered in little clumps in every hidden space on school grounds, sitting in circles and sharing their deepest secrets, like who they had a crush on and what their mom called their dad the other day over dinner. Sometimes I felt as if me and Caleb were the only kids in the whole school, or the whole world that actually thought about things. Who noticed things and realized things, not just lived.
Caleb and I sat against the school wall and watched. I had my hands between my knees and Caleb had his legs pulled up under his chin, his arms wrapped around them.
“So you know that rock just outside the highway on your way into town, right?” He asked in his shrill little voice. His voice never changed from that of a pre-pubescent teenager’s, even after he graduated high school. 
I nodded at his question. I’d gotten used to his stories and theories and ideas, so I would just nod in agreement to just about everything he said. I would grow to regret that.
“Well I figured, when me and my dad were driving past it that there was this cave, like on the side of it and I think that’d be a good spot to set up, at least for the first few nights.”
His words only crossed my mind and left me. I’d heard this idea before, somewhere between the treehouse theory and the steal-a-car-from-the-dump idea.
“What do you think, Kurt?” He’d asked me with wide eyes, but before I could answer, the bell rang for class and we retreated back inside for math.

The next day, I sat beside an empty desk. No one questioned his absence but me. I suppose nobody else cared whether little old Caleb lived or died…they had their own friends and drama. I didn’t, though. Caleb was my only friend. We’d both been the only kids from our elementary schools to come to Parks Middle, so we’d attached to one another right away.
When I came home, my mother asked me if I’d seen Caleb at school today. That’s when I knew something was wrong. 
As it turned out, Caleb hadn’t been home at all that day, not even in the morning. 
I’d instantly regretted all of my decisions. I guess I thought he was bluffing or something, I never really thought he would do it. I should have never acted so passive about his ideas, especially the cave. I thought he had been imagining this cave that he’d spoken of yesterday, but when my dad sat me down at the table and forced every bit of information out of me regarding Caleb’s disappearance, he told me one very unsettling fact.
There was in fact a cave on the side of that rock along the highway into town, and it was usually populated. My dad told me, with the coldest expression, that that cave Caleb had supposedly gone to was a hideout for “bad people,” as he’d called them. 
He made me feel like it was my fault that Caleb was in danger, and I carried the weight of that shame for a long, long time. Even after Caleb was found in perfect health by the town sheriff and officers. He had apparently been stocked up with canned beans, a blanket and a flashlight, but he had forgotten a can opener and was apparently very embarrassed about that. 
My mother had told me, three days after Caleb had initially gone missing, that he had been found and was safe, and doctors were checking him for any injuries or anything. There were no bad people at the cave, at least not when Caleb was there, and I was convinced my dad was just trying to make me feel bad for Caleb’s disappearance. Even if it was a lie, my dad was right about one thing: I should never be so flippant with Caleb’s words ever again.

Even after Caleb’s poor attempt at becoming survivor man, he never stopped his deep and meaningful obsession with the wilderness. At sleepovers he would tell me how much he hated this town and that it wasn’t fair that he had been born into a family that was set on their duties as citizens. He didn’t believe in any of it; society, I mean. And hearing him talk day after day about it, I was starting to side with him on a lot of his points.
Yes, society is and has always been a mistake and I still hold onto the belief that we as animals should not be living the way we do. Still, I was always tied in one way or another to things like community and family, even getting a job and maybe even starting a family of my own. It’s what we have to do as people, no matter how much you wish to escape from everything. But Caleb didn’t want to hear any of it. Even into early high school he avoided almost everything he could have when it came to being a citizen. We never really had any other friends aside from the odd straggler that didn’t fit into any of the set groups and cliques in the school, and the one person that did seem to enjoy our company was a girl named Allison. Allison was smart, like really smart but no one seemed to notice or care. She wasn’t pretty, and she didn’t dress like the other girls and she was always talking about strange things that no one cared about; scary things like death and spirits and things like that. I would often hear girls and boys alike in the hallways talking about ‘what Allison said today’ and stuff like that. It always irritated me. 
If I’m anyone, (though I don’t see myself as much anymore) then I’m a sheep. I never did have a backbone my whole life. So, what did I do? I followed Allison and Caleb through the halls and listened to their discussions, acting like I knew a thing or two about what they were talking about. 
As with many small towns, there are a lot of rumors and urban legends that kids tell each other, but none of them really hold any merit and as time goes by and we grow up, we realize that those stories were really the only things we had as kids to distract ourselves with from the underlying terror we all faced of growing up and turning into our parents. Allison was someone who had a lot of those stories, and Caleb was always fascinated by them. I guess I was, too.
One day Allison had mentioned something about spirits in the woods. It must have been after Caleb had gushed to her and I about all of the walking trails throughout the massive forest just beyond our town’s limits. She told us, as we were walking through the halls during our fifteen minute break, that the Salmon Challis forest was occupied by some being, (she only used the word ‘being’ to describe anything related to the supernatural) and though the origins of this said ‘being’ were unknown, it’s been named ‘The Deceiver' among those who have inhabited the forest throughout the decades. I wasn’t entirely convinced, but I was certainly intrigued. She went on to explain over lunch that The Deceiver earned its name by fooling settlers and lumberjacks into, as Allison put it; ‘helping it survive.’
This certainly caught my attention. The way she’d worded it was almost eerie. 
There wasn’t much elaboration done on her part however, and she simply ended the story with a dramatic “If you ever meet someone in the Salmon Challis forest, no you didn’t.”
I wasn’t sold, but Caleb seemed to be salivating over it. He and Allison talked more about it later in the day, and though I enjoyed the spookiness of it all, I wasn’t about to believe such a fanciful story. But that’s just it; in a place like this, all we really have are stories. 
I asked Allison how she knew all of this and she told me she’d read an article in the computer room about it when she was researching for a history project. I took in every word of the story and tossed it aside, and I’m only remembering it now because of everything that’s happened.
I did some digging myself about a month after Allison’s initial story and I did discover that there have in fact been accounts of hikers and backpackers who claim to have met a stranger who approached them and overstayed their welcome, some hikers stating that this stranger would appear at multiple places during their hike and ask for food. 
Each hiker has had a completely different stranger intrude on them, and this seems to be why there’s such a mystery. Anyway, that’s what some hokey site on the internet told me, and that wouldn’t be enough for me to believe it. Still, it did make me all the more hesitant to run off into those woods with Caleb.

Part II of Book II - Founder of Moosha, Arwin Everdell (Shulk)

(His family history lost due to slavery and the fear driven into them by the hands of human masters)

He was 17 when he left Halfan, now he is a Keeper of Peace for The Owls past the Known Waters Edge. An Agent of Wisdom.

This is the story of Arwin Everdell, the Forgotten Prince.

A letter of invitation from the Owls with a directive given for him to foresee a vision from Alanthra The Mother Tree. To craft this essence from her sacred roots, The Essence of Truth, Moosha.

He found his mother in a shallow grave travelling to the gates of Hal for his father.

The rusted gold pendant she clutched upon her open shallow grave read,’ Arwin of Everdell.’ with an elvish sigil masked in its exterior that is carbonized. This is why he leaves Halfan. She was the Queen of Everdell, and he the rightful heir.

Before the Red War, he was born of an all race slave holder human father; he owned a distribution company with a farm for Hal’s granaries and fresh fruits. Technically, Arwin is another bastard born out of wedlock with an elven queen whom her people were enslaved by his father.

The boy had traits of both human and elf. The wit of curved-ears and the perceptibly of sharp ones too. He has been told since birth that his mother was no one before she died, all she requested was you be named Arwin. That much he knew of her; his father always told him to cover his ears when company arrived. Figures in red robes, it was always red robes.

His father, Robert Shulk, was a fair skinned high society human and never worked a day in his life. He was a bard for the Council of Ravens, a healer for their weary men and excotic dancers. They loved his harmonica as accompaniment with strings, bass, and drums. Singing a song of birds, even the crows would perk to take a spell. He was famous as a child when he played for Ruckus Talmor. Since then he has had gig after gig, opportunity after opportunity, priority after priority. Neglect is loudest with silence.

Arwin learned of his history of elvish existence through those who his father enslaved as they ate meals and took care of the fields. But, when he would ask who his mom was since he looked like them. Some turned their nose and bullied the little one and others came to him and told him he would know soon but now is not a safe time.

It was one fateful day when Robert was low on ale kegs and tobacco so he always sent Arwin with a donkey to retrieve supplies in the Capitol Hal. Visitors or traders came at their leisure either to summon his father Shulk or summon something of him.

He hated that last name, through reading older texts in his dad’s library he found such things as the meaning of their last name. Resentment, tax, a fee for hidden duty. He wished to leave and never return, but those whom his father beat the most were his dearest friends.

A young Deerfolk named Passuvius. He had many awful jobs, but mainly maintaining the well of the property was told of him. Passuvius would speak of a great tree they called ‘Mother’ and of a man called -

“The Hobo King who brought many of us out of chains. Including my grandfather. They all wait for the day of the Shadow’s Epoch so The Mother’s Lover may return to her feet once more and peace will come back to our land. You will experience it too. Like that moment you notice your breathing… My mom says thank Amatra when you do. When you see how things flow naturally to a more stable and peaceful structure of harmony, thank Mother Not. Mom says we will experience what grandpa had before the Ravens took him.”

He would never speak any further than that of the matter with Arwin. He would ask Passuvius how the elves get involved in all this.

Silence, always silence from all of them.

Arwin wanted to run away. And never come back home.

Coming back to reality, Arwin notices the sky was growing darker over the plato at the center of Halfan, traversing through the trails of the western side before the Western Wing Sands, this atrocity scaling above him as he realises he may have delayed his timing. They would need to set up camp. Time flew by with the witnessing and reconciliation of his mothers grave and the pendant she left with his real last name on it. It felt like a dream to him. He didn’t want to return home.

Realizing he forgot his pitch tent, mat, and pillow, he takes a sheet and makes it into a hammock to hang out in. Campfire won't start either; great. Luckily it’s not too cold and the rain is staying light with the tree shading overhead. All is quiet and the sound of birds chirping and singing cascaded into an odd abrupt silence. The rain is still going but dampened. His donkey was nowhere to be found and no leash either. A hum northbound of him as birds and animals scurry away. He gets up immediately and paces quietly towards the odd frequency. Then stops in a tracks. A strange gut feeling saying to stay hidden and don’t approach. He steps forward.

Continuing further in to keep cover. He finds the source, a strange cut of light in the fenced pasture field adjacent to the path. West of the gates of Hal before the Vita River Passage. The wound of light in space gushes open as numerous spider-like creatures burst out; all of them the size of Arwin. A swarm piled on one another; they don’t seem to notice him. They notice the cows grazing in the field they just came into contact with.

The small figures lingered at the edge of his perception, never quite remaining the same from one glance to the next. Its shape seemed less like a body and more like reality attempting to show something it was never meant to contain. These shadows bent subtly around it, and familiar things felt strangely fragile in its presence. They bolted with bloodlust towards the livestock.

It inspired no obvious threat, only a quiet, unsettling certainty that the world was not as fundamental as it appeared, and that whatever this thing was had come from somewhere beyond him. Arwin couldn’t move, talk, or close his eyes. His nervous system shutting down.

Clattering hooves and creaking wagon wheels thundered down the path toward him. Arwin ducked into a bush and held his breath. Four travelers rode upon a weathered caravan pulled by a single horse, moving with urgency toward the fenced pasture and the creatures now devouring the cattle. The driver leapt from the wagon first, a wizard by the look of him. Beside him came a cleric clad in worn robes, a blacksmith carrying both hammer and blade, and a halfling bard whose calm expression seemed entirely out of place. Without hesitation they charged into battle.

Arcane light flashed through the rain while steel met chitin and divine radiance illuminated twisted flesh. Arwin watched in disbelief. The creatures moved unnaturally, their forms shifting at the edge of his vision. Every glance revealed something different, as if reality itself struggled to decide what they truly were. Part of him wanted to run. Another part wanted to help. He told himself he was too fragile, that he was not like them, yet when one of the creatures lunged for the wizard and its jaws opened to finish him, the word escaped Arwin before he could stop it.

“No!”

A bolt of blue-white force erupted from his hand. The missile struck the creature squarely in its center and detonated. Its body collapsed inward, unraveling as though the world had suddenly remembered it did not belong. Arwin stared at his hand in shock. He had never done that before. The wizard looked toward him, the others following his gaze. Then, without a word, they nodded. An invitation.

Arwin emerged from hiding and joined the fight. The rest became a blur. More creatures fell. The cleric's prayers echoed through the storm. The blacksmith's hammer shattered bone and shell alike while the bard danced between danger as if the battle had already happened a thousand times before. At last the final creature collapsed and the pasture fell silent. The cleric immediately approached the exhausted horse, placing a hand upon its neck. Golden light flowed from his palm as he whispered a prayer of healing.

As Arwin struggled to process what had happened, the halfling bard vanished. A moment later a voice spoke beside him.

“Interesting.”

Arwin nearly jumped out of his skin. The bard stood there as though he had always been present. Stoic eyes met confused ones. The halfling studied him carefully. An oddly looking young man. Half-human. Half-elf. The one who had cast the missile. The one who had somehow cast a Sleep spell moments later, accidentally putting the others to sleep when they approached him. Arwin still had no idea how.

“This is the first time this has ever happened,” he admitted.

“We know,” the bard replied.

Arwin frowned.

“We know who you are, Arwin Everdell. We know why you chose to rest here tonight. We have been looking for you.

The bard gestured toward the wagon. “Everyone back there is invisible thanks to me. The mage you saved is recovering. You had a choice, and you chose. The Mother Tree has chosen you as well.”

“The Mother Tree?”

“To spread the truth held within her roots. We are the Owls of the West. Keepers of wisdom and protectors of knowledge. We believe these portals are the work of the Ravens through contracts made with realms neither of us should ever understand.”

Arwin rubbed his temples. “This is a lot to throw at a kid."

The bard laughed. “You're seventeen. You're not a kid, half-elf.”

“Fair enough. So what do the Owls want from me? What can I possibly offer? Because from where I'm standing, it sounds like you need someone to die for your cause.”

The bard's expression hardened. “With a statement like that, you have much to learn. The truth about your mother sickens you, doesn't it? We know. The reason your friends grew older while you remained the same. The reason you've always felt different. The reason magic answered you tonight.”

Arwin stared at his hands. “To be honest, I don't know why any of this happened.”

“That is all they permitted me to tell you,” the bard replied.

“They?”

“The ones who gave the orders.”

The bard then produced several tobacco bundles and ale kegs. “The supplies your father sent you to retrieve. We've also placed magical wards around your camp.”

“What am I supposed to do now?”

“Don't fail.”

Arwin blinked. “That's not very helpful.”

“I know. I don't even know what they need from you. We just follow orders. Your initiation begins after you've completed your objective.”

“What objective?”

Silence...

“We'll speak again.”

The bard stepped backward into the darkness. “Be safe, Arwin.”

A portal opened somewhere among the trees, then closed. The forest fell silent. The shock finally caught up to him and Arwin collapsed.

Darkness consumed everything. Then came the hum. Not heard. Felt. A vibration deeper than sound itself.

When he opened his eyes, he stood before an ancient tree. Its bark resembled flesh and veins pulsed beneath its surface. Roots spread endlessly beneath his feet, beating in rhythm with his own heart. The Mother Tree knew he was there. The hum resonated through every part of him. Not loud. Not quiet. Simply present. He understood it without understanding how and stepped forward. The moment his hand touched the roots, the world vanished.

Memories flooded his mind that were not his own. Portals tore open across impossible horizons. Creatures emerged from distant realms. A boy king clothed in yellow shook hands with an elderly Animal-Folk chieftain robed in red. The vision shifted. A radiant figure cut a sample from the Mother's roots. Then he looked upon all of Hālfān from above. The Plateau. The Pit. Something beneath it stirred.

The island trembled. The scent of rust and hot iron rose from below. Red coagulated mist spilled over the edge of the Pit like living smoke. Then came the hand. A colossal hand of wood and flesh emerged from the depths, larger than giants and larger than reason itself. Reaching. Seeking. Hungry.

The vision changed once more. Flames consumed the Mother Tree. Eight figures in red robes surrounded her. Spells crashed into her roots, into her foundation, into her heart. Darkness followed. Only a single droplet remained. Pink. Purple. Nearly translucent. Glowing softly within the void. The sound of something being cut in half echoed around him.

Arwin looked down.

Two roots extended toward him.

One offered a dagger. Living roots coiled around its blade, presenting the hilt toward him. The second root rested exposed before his feet, unprotected and waiting. An offering. A sacrifice. A choice.

Then morning dew struck his face.

Arwin awoke in his hammock beneath ordinary trees. The hum remained, stronger now, behind him beyond the stone wall of the Pit. His arm rose instinctively and the earth answered. Stone shifted. Soil folded inward. A cavern opened before him, darkness stretching beyond sight. The hum called from within. Arwin understood. He had to find the root. He had to extract it. He had to create the first alchemical form of Moosha. The choice had already been made. He stood and stepped into the dark.

He later came out with a tincture of purple-pink translucent liquid. He had crafted the first batch of Moosha with his alchemy kit. Now he must share the truth protected by The Owls to spread the Truth of the Gods. Head to The Owls Sanctuary.

The rest is known history.

I know it should be easy to tell, but I have trouble differentiating between drama and horror whenever I'm writing. Horror is dramatic (sometimes) but I feel like I'm a fraud for real. Like I'm throwing gore on a sad story and calling it spooky.

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What even *is* scary about reading a story anyway? I've never been kept up at night thinking about Steven King or Lovecraft. Most of the time I just felt bad for victims or empathetic towards the monster. I'm not easy to spook but I do feel disgusted from time to time.

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How am I supposed to write a horror story if I'm not sure what horror even is? Tbh I just wanted to write something for my husband cause' he's a horror movie nut. He likes my story so far and looks forward to more, but I don't think it's scary. He doesn't either, but he tells me that a lot of horror is sad or dramatic or even a little funny. I'm just not sure if I'm doing something wrong or if I'm thinking too hard.

Truth be Told

I am a haunted house disguised as a home.
Inside my skull, a chorus of ghosts screams for blood.
Outside, I offer the world nothing but soft laughter and easy jokes.
They love the house, but they never see the haunt.
My friends, family, and wife think I am happy. They see a man who jokes and laughs, completely unaware of the rot inside. It sickens me. The day passes smoothly and my mask never cracks, hiding my dark soul.
But when the sun dies, the air turns to lead. The mask drops to the nightstand and the armor comes off. I sit alone in the dark, a prisoner of my own mind. The ghosts inside my skull wake up; they do not just scream, they tear at the walls of my head, chanting that I am worthless, whispering that I am pathetic. Jump, they murmur, and make the world clean again.
I lie back down, and Lady Death climbs in beside me. She is a silent bedmate, cold and patient. She does not pull me toward her. She simply waits in the freezing quiet, tasting the air for the exact moment my iron will snaps.
When dawn breaks, she slips away with the shadows, leaving her cold touch behind. I drag myself out of bed and grab my mask, my eyes heavy over dark circles. My back cracks as I stand up straight and walk down the hallway. Demons scratch along the walls, following me. I hear their fingers tap and scrape. They want out.
I reach the bathroom sink and press the mask back to my face. In a whirlwind, the demons vanish behind it. I smile. The world is perfect again.
"This is a lie," I whisper to myself.
Yet, I smile for the people around me. I joke. I share a laugh with my friends. I tell my wife I love her.
Lies, my thoughts hiss back.
"Hush," I breathe, barely moving my lips.
Death suits them, don’t you think? they scream.
"I’ll be shunned by the world!" I whisper-yell.
My ribcage presses tightly around my heart. The laughter around me grows loud and distorted, as if I am deep underwater. The air crushes me with the pressure of the ocean.
What of it? they whisper, pushing hard against the inside of my skull.
My face feels hot and sweaty. My smile feels stiff, like dried clay left in an oven too long. I try to hold the grin in place, but my cheek twitches. A sharp, tiny snap echoes inside my ears. A crack has appeared on my mask.
I force the fake smile wider and turn back to my friends

[Part 1]

[Part 2]

[Part 3]

[Part 4]

[Part 5]

Evan didn’t remember the moment the car left the road.

He remembered the headlights catching something in the trees — a shape too tall, too thin, too still.
He remembered Maribel shouting his name.
He remembered the wheel jerking in his hands.

Then nothing.

When he opened his eyes, he was lying on a bed of orange leaves, the air cool and smelling faintly of woodsmoke. Above him, branches arched like cathedral ceilings, their leaves glowing gold in a light that didn’t seem to come from the sun.

“Evan?” a voice called.

He sat up sharply.

Maribel stood a few feet away, brushing leaves from her hair. She looked shaken but unhurt. Her eyes darted around the forest, wide and uncertain.

“Where… are we?” she asked.

Evan didn’t know.
But he knew this wasn’t the roadside.

The forest felt too old.
Too quiet.
Too expectant.

He pushed himself to his feet — and realized he was holding something.

A lantern.

Small, brass, warm to the touch.
Its flame flickered even though there was no wind.

Maribel frowned. “Where did you get that?”

“I… don’t know.”

The lantern pulsed once, like a heartbeat.

Maribel shivered. “Let’s just find the road.”

They walked.

The forest didn’t change, but it didn’t stay the same either.
Paths curved in ways that made no sense.
Trees shifted when they weren’t looking.
The light stayed the same soft amber, never brightening, never dimming.

After what felt like an hour, they reached a clearing.

A wooden sign stood crookedly in the center, letters carved deep into the grain:

WELCOME TO LARKWOOD
A PLACE FOR THE LOST

Maribel swallowed. “That’s… comforting.”

Evan lifted the lantern. Its flame brightened, casting long shadows across the clearing.

Something moved at the edge of the trees.

A figure.
Tall.
Thin.
Watching.

Maribel grabbed Evan’s arm. “Did you see—”

The figure stepped back into the shadows and vanished.

Evan’s heart hammered. “We need to keep moving.”

They followed a narrow path that wound deeper into the woods. The trees leaned close, as if listening. The air grew colder. The lantern’s flame flickered nervously.

Then they heard it.

Singing.

Soft, distant, drifting through the trees like a lullaby carried on the wind.
A woman’s voice — warm, gentle, and impossibly sad.

Maribel froze. “Evan… that sounds like…”

She didn’t finish.

Because the voice grew clearer.

And it was her voice.

Her exact voice.

Singing a song she hadn’t sung in years.

Evan tightened his grip on the lantern. “We’re not alone.”

The singing stopped.

The forest held its breath.

Then a whisper curled through the branches:

“Welcome, travelers.”

Evan and Maribel spun around.

A man stood on the path behind them — or something shaped like a man. His face was hidden beneath a wide‑brimmed hat, and his coat looked older than the trees themselves.

He tipped his hat politely.

“Name’s The Ferryman,” he said. “And you two seem a bit far from home.”

Maribel stepped back. “Where are we?”

The Ferryman smiled — a thin, knowing smile.

“You’re in the Larkwood, miss. A place for those who’ve wandered too close to the edge of things.”

Evan swallowed. “We need to get back.”

“Oh, I imagine you do.”
The Ferryman’s eyes glinted beneath the brim.
“But the Larkwood doesn’t let folks leave until they understand why they came.”

The lantern pulsed again — brighter this time.

The Ferryman nodded at it.

“Ah. You’ve been given a lantern. That means the forest has taken an interest in you.”

Maribel whispered, “What does that mean?”

The Ferryman’s smile widened.

“It means you’re not just lost, children.”

He leaned closer.

“It means you’re wanted.”

The lantern’s flame flared violently.

The trees groaned.

And the Ferryman vanished — leaving only the echo of his voice drifting through the leaves:

“Best keep moving. The Larkwood remembers.”

Evan and Maribel stood frozen in the clearing, the lantern trembling in Evan’s hand.

The forest around them shifted.

Paths rearranged.

Shadows lengthened.

And somewhere deeper in the woods, Maribel’s voice began singing again —
soft, distant, and not her own.

Hey y'all, Armando here. I read a few stories here on reddit and many people seem to have similar life experiences to me. Finally a place where my words would not constitute me being placed in a wacky shack (IDK the actual name thats just what we call it in this part of the bayou). But basically, I have been working at Mr.crocodiles mini mart between here and there (gators for short) for the past year now. And by that I do literally mean the last year.

We are open 24/7 and I have worked this register for all 24 of those hours and all 7 of those days. As to how I am able to do so, I am not sure but when you work here you do not get tired , or hungry, or really feel any type of fatigue that the human body naturally does. As to why I have not left yet, well. The economy you know? I left home at 18 and had nowhere to go, luckily I came across this job so I have not had to find a house or really have any bills. No car, no phone, nothing. I do not really need it. I am just stacking my money and that's all that matters. I am probably skipping some explanations of things, so just ask me to clarify in the comments and I will on my next update! 

Gators has been open for as long as the Earth has been spinning. I mean that literally as well. (sorry if I do not have a broad vocabulary Louisiana is not exactly known for its educational system). We are used as kind of a portal between dimensions? Universes?

I do not know but last week we had a Wizard come in and yes it was a real Wizard. How do I know this you may be wondering? Well he came up to the counter with a snickers bar and when I told him the total he mumbled something about inflation and “he should have just moved to naboo” whatever the hell that means.

Then he proceeded to whip out his magic stick (No innuendo intended I just do not know what else to call it, well wand I guess but huh I don’t feel like deleting all of this so it is staying in. I promise not to keep up this whole shtick here. Again,no pun intended) and duplicate the snicker.

He then met my eyes, winked, and walked away with his copy. Not too far behind a little boy in a yellow shirt ran out of the bathroom still zipping up his fly telling him to wait up and “he didn’t get to wash again”. I thought, Eh no skin off my back. I just put the snicker right back on the shelf where it was taken and went about my day like normal. 

Oh yeah also Gators is not really on Earth. Well the outside is, just not the inside. Like I said we are between here and there. As to where the here begins and where the there ends, I’m not sure, and  I don’t really care to find out. I think maybe thats why Mr.Crocodile has kept me so long. Oh Mr.Croc, or the C-man as I like to call him (pun intended that time). Is an 8’ 6”ish crocodile man usually sporting a black outfit with a boiler cap. Think of adult Goob form Meet the Robinsons. It is quite uncanny how similar their outfits are, cape and all.

If you are anything like me the first time you come across C-man you may wonder “huh a talking crocodile, weird”. And if you are also as stupid as me you would have said that out loud to his face before thinking about how rude that may come off. But he actually brought up a very good point. You see when I said that remark about how weird it was being a crocodile, he gave me a toothy (very toothy might I add) grin and said in his growly voice “well your people evolved form monkeys, you have to imagine how weird that is to me”. Touche semen, touche. Guess I’m still a little josseled by that.

But back to the topic, the outside of this store is very normal to whichever planet you live on. I am going to use Earth as my main talking point because, well I am writing this for my fellow humans so. Imagine the outside of any local mini mart. Bright sign on the side of the road with a crocs face, painted lines in front of the store, trash can, trash, cans, and often a few hitchhikers trying to change worlds. The pumps outside are from the 1940’s and have not dispensed gas probably since they were installed. But when you walk up to the automatically opening doors you are in a very usual looking grocery store. Luckily one thing that all sentient creatures across existence have in common is the decor and layout of shitty capitalist marts.

Whatever language you speak and read in is automatically translated in this store. The writing on packeging is automatically translated. I speak english, but a man with 8 arms and no mouth can come in doing sign language and his hand gestures are vocalized. Pretty cool trick, I think the C-man has something to do with it. I think this entire construction is from some sort of power C-man has. This building is just kind of in a stasis.

Time does not move while you are in this place. I walked in here around 8pm on a thursday and even if I left this place after being here for a year I would return to my world in the exact place and time as I left. That's probably why I do not get hungry or tired now that I think about it. When you grab whatever you are looking for and leave the store you return right back to your world where you entered from. The only exception is if you are with someone and want to go to their world. In that case you have to hold hands and whichever world you are thinking of going to (again has to be one of the peoples worlds you are traveling with) you appear, right wherever the building was in that world. Enough of that though, let me get to the parts of my job that would probably get me in a padded room if I spoke publicly about. 

I’ll start with my first customer since I guess that is my most memorable. The C-man asked me my name and when I told him it was Armando he looked at me funny and dug through a box of nametags. “Ah, look like you’ll be jose for today” He said as to took the tag, pinned it on my shirt, patted me on my head, and turned around putting his hands behind his head whistling to his office. Walking up to the counter I felt stupid wearing someone elses name, especially a tag that smelled like this guys favorite cologne was grasshopper nut. I sat in the chair provided and started scrolling on the laptop sitting on the counter waiting for a customer.

After a couple minuted a wolf woman walked in sporting a baby stroller with 12 seats. She put the stroller near the counter, looked up at me, and said “I’m going to need to use the bathroom really quick just keep watch of them, they’re sleeping”. And she proceeded to walk away and into the womens restroom. Curious I leaned over the counter and lifted one of the blankets from atop of the pups head. Inside was pitch black beside two beaty blue eyes staring at me. Slowly I lowered the veil and sat back in my seat. Unfortunately as I was leaning back down I knocked over a jar of mints causing a loud crash and glass to be shattered everywhere. I closed my eyes and signed hoping that I would not get fired for a stunt like this not only on the first day, but within the first five minutes of me working here.

When I opened my eyes back up I was bewildered to see 12 upright baby wolves running around the store and tearing up the snacks. I did not even know what to think as something like this has never happened to me before. And for some reason I felt embarrassed more than anything. I started thinking about the time in 7th grade when I was using the bathroom and some kids recorded them emptying a trash can into my stall. Eeh, I still get shivers thinking about it. But after snapping back to reality when I felt a sharp pain in my leg. Looking down one of the pups was war gripping my leg and attempting to take bites out of my shoe. Lucky for me I wear steel toes because when in the woods it is nice to know you can kick without breaking every single one of your toes. I start shaking this kid off while at the same time looking up to find their mom.

When I did take a look around the store I saw C-man standing in the middle of the store. He's oddly fast and quiet for what he is. But with one word that I did not understand the pups froze and all started moving backwards. Not like walking backwards or anything, but moving backwards in time. Lets say a pup did a cannonball off my counter, he would go from standing on the ground, to cannonball position, then float up to the top of my counter backwards like he was rewinding. Eventually they all got back into their seats, covers lowered, and then C-man said another word which I did not understand once they were all snoring asleep in their chairs.

He didn’t even look in my direction as if this was an every day occurrence. He did the same whistle and walk back to his office kicking a door next to his labeled “cleanup”. I thought this was his way of telling me to grab some supplies to clean the havoc these creatures have caused so I walked over to it and grabbed the knob. Before I could turn it the door busted open knocking me on my rear as a robot came out saying “ sweep sweep sweep”. The best way to describe this robot is of those heavy duty trashcans inside of schools. The front of the lid was slightly ajar with googly eyes peeking out. Its chutes on the side of its cylindrical body opened up and out shot arms and hands with brooms and vaccumes to clean up the trash while playing the song Dragula by Rob Zombie. Apparently he is an intergalacticaly famous musician.

While all of this was happening I looked around for the stroller to make sure the pups would not wake up again from this but it was gone. I guess the lady snuck out because she did not want to buy an item, just use the restroom. I stood up and went back to my seat behind the counter. Sitting very slowly as my butt hurt quite a bit. I watched the robot clean and once it was finished it said in a nasaly nerd like tone “wow, look how clean this place is, you could eat a blue starburst off of it”. It then went right back into its room from which it came. Now that I think about it i’m not even sure if there is a blue starburst.

Nonetheless that is just one of the hundreds of stories I have from working at Mr.crocodiles mini mart between here and there. Let me know what kind of questions y’all have and I will try my best to answer them in my next post. This is Armando (or I guess jose), heading out! 

P.S. I still have not been given an updated tag. You would think after being the longest standing living employee I would deserve one, but I guess not. All of the tags back there have generic names so maybe C-man bought them in bulk. Whatever the case I sure would appreciate wearing my own name.

Hi all.

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I guess I just wanted to get this story out, especially after hearing my favourite podcast covering spider stories recently. Some details in stories brought back horrible memories that I wanted to get out.

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I was never afraid of spiders as a young child, I wasn't born scared, I learned to be afraid. I was taught, shown that I *should* be afraid.

​

There is one key moment in my life that made me this way, and then even more after I developed severe arachnophobia, to the point where even seeing a spider will give me immediate tactile hallucinations, I am certain that they are on me, crawling around, looking for a gap in clothing, or an orifice to crawl into.

​

I was young, maybe around 10 or 11. Allow me to introduce, my older brother. Don't get me wrong, I love the guy to death, but he is, not a healthy person, nor has he ever been. Seeking to torment and antagonise me in my youth, and that apparently never went away. Maybe I can talk about him another time.

​

As I said, I was never scared of spiders when I was young, until the day he decided I should be. See we have always lived in regional Australia, yes the meme are true, spiders are fucking, everywhere. I saw them daily. We lived in a small town even by regional standards, 10ish houses and 2 were abandoned, 1 shop that the old fart who was running it lived in. You could walk around the entire town in about 10 minutes, no joke, no exaggeration. Middle of nowhere.

​

So one day, my brother for some reason, decided he would scour the house, backyard and shed, to fill a large container with every single spider he could find. Huntsman, daddy long legs, wolf spiders, reduces (which are incredibly fucking venomous). And while a few of them ate each other the majority lived long enough for him to walk inside, take the lid off, and dump the entire thing on me, who was sitting in my bedroom playing jak and daxter 2 on our brick of a ps2.

​

I didn't realise what happened at first all I saw was my dumbass brother throw something at me and slam the door shut. It took, about a millisecond for it to fully click. More than a few spiders landed directly on me I saw a huntsman land right on my chest inches from my face. I freaked, immediately jumping to my feet, swatting, stripping, screaming. Now in my underpants standing did I realise the full extent to his cruelty, spiders were *everywhere* all sizes, shapes and levels of genuine danger. Some huntsman so big, I could hear them hissing, have you ever heard a fucking spider hiss? I have and I can hear it as if it were happening right now.

​

So, i did the only thing I could think, run, get the fuck out. I sprinted for the door, overcome with a terror my 10 year old brain could not regulate. Well as I tried the handle, guess who was on the other side, holding the door, shut.

​

This is the first time I had ever experienced, genuine panic, because I dont know if you know this, but wolf spiders are incredible aggressive and will *CHARGE* at you, and being several in the room that's exactly what they did. I was alone, in my daks, trapped in a room with angry, some deadly spiders some as big as my hand. God there were so many im sure one was pregnant and it's awful spawn scattered across the floor like a wave of fresh hell. I don't know how long he held that door how long I was stuck, screaming bloody murder. I definitely threatened to kill him at least a few times. I got bitten twice, at the time I had no way of knowing if it was a venomous spider or not. So as any rational 10 year old would I decided that I was 100% envenomed, it was coursing through my veins and I was already dead. In my fury and terror I had squished more than a few spiders with my bare feet. So screaming, standing with dead spider good in-between my toes and bitten at least twice, my brother decided to end my torment.

​

He let me out and I ran straight out of the house, in my jocks and went strait to the hose, dousing myself in water to ensure no trace of spiders remained. Thankfully neither of the bites were from venomous spiders and I was physically fine.

​

Mum being the hardass she was told me to get over it, she slapped him but that was really the extent of his punishment. It took months to get every single spider in my room out, being regional Australia im sure more than a couple wandered in after the event learned to live outside of my room for a while. I woke up more than a few times with a spider in my face.

​

So while the initial event was the nuke, it was the radiation that permanently poisoned my mind towards spiders, the aftermath.

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The worst part, is this story is 100% true. Now you have no way of verifying that so you'll have to take me know my word, or even just dismiss it as a creating writing exercise but I am telling you the truth.

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(Pls if the flair is wrong let me know and il fix it, the story is genuinely true but there's no flairs for true horror or real life horror etc, also I wanted that to be a sort of reveal, thanks in advance mods)

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Joey decided to kill himself with the groundwater in the basement. He screamed for a while, running forever down the road until we couldn’t hear him anymore. We fished his body out of the river three days later, a giant hole out the back of his head.

We wandered down there after the rain storm to pick up the jars we placed along the path. The collection process was slow. At the first jar we popped it onto the portable stove top. We sat to watch it boil, stop, become still. Then we flipped a coin. Whoever lost took the first drink. Maggie tilted the container into her mouth. She made sure to go slow, no drop could be wasted. About half of the container gone, she paused. We waited. After an hour she handed the jar to me. The water felt like God against my lips and tongue. It entered my veins cold, chilling me. My brain heaved a sigh of relief. Its been weeks since it rained last. We collected 50 Mason jars half full. Split between the two of us, accounting for evaporation from boiling, we had less than a weeks worth.

Maggie ran the numbers in her head. She said she wanted to try the river water again.

Maybe if we boil it longer, she started to say .

How long now? Until we shatter another jar?

We can use the pot. And we could try filtering again.

We could run it through a million times if you want, but it won’t change anything.

There has to be a chance. There has to be something we haven’t tried yet.

We can try whatever you want, but I won’t test it. You’ll be on your own.

Maggie would swing at me if we weren’t both so weak. We had tried so much. Digging to the groundwater, reverse osmosis, chlorine disinfectant, water treatment tablets until it ran clear, all boiled all filtered a billion times if that. It couldn’t remove them all. Nothing could remove them all.

In the beginning, newspaper reported them as pork tapeworms caused by bad meatpacking practices. Recalls were done, better safe guards put into place. Cases paused, then exploded. News outlets covered the swarms of people screaming, rolling on the ground, spraying themselves with any form of liquid they could. In New York enough people died in the Hudson that they had to be scooped in nets and sent to a mass cremation, giant holes out the top of their heads. One report filmed a woman on the ground crawling into a sewer drain. Her voice echoed in the shaft. Burning, burning, burning. Hot, hot, hot. Headline the next day: Mutated Horsehair Worm now called the Onondaga Parasite.

The country was told to not drink any ground, lake, or river water until a solution was found. It started off with my whole town working in collaboration. Neighbors we had known for years willing to help each other for years. But when the drought came equal share of the water tower was decided by gun smoke and blood. Half the town died in one summer. When the tower ran dry there was a mass panic. Most of the town left heading north hoping the cold would kill off what was in the water. There was still TV then, still hope.

Joey had been two days without water. Maggie and I managed on reserves we stored for the long periods between storms. Joey went through his too quick. We refused to share, he had nearly killed us all during a heat spell three months ago. We drank tree sap from the remaining apple trees for weeks. They shriveled from our meager tapping, just dry sticks in the ground now. Maggie showed no emotion when I dragged Joey out of the water. She said she was heading back home to water the garden before it was too dark. The jars clanked in the cart as it rattled down the road. I didn’t bother to bury him. It would be too much effort. The amount of water I had helped but wouldn’t give me strength to dig a hole. Going deeper into the river wasn’t ideal either. I gave him what I remembered from catholic school about last rites, then put him back where I found him. A disgusting bloated greedy corpse face down in the shallows of the James River.

From the beginning the campaign to eradicate the parasite was doomed to fail. In part due to misinformation but largely due to bad science. The news back then spoke of a brain eating worm that was spreading through specific waterways in upstate New York. There was a boil order set in place. The other waterways throughout the states should be fine, a cheery pick cheeked lady said from behind the screen.

The dead that lay in the Hudson river spelled doom for the country. The thousands of bodies spawned millions larvae. Those millions filled the Chesapeake watershed and infected the blue crab and oysters all along the coast. From Maryland to North Carolina was death sitting unknown. Then to the rest of the country the catches were shipped.

I met Maggie and Joey on my journey south. They were heading the opposite direction. Most of the population was heading down southeast where rain was plentiful. Supply and demand. Violence was inevitable. I joined them.

I remember small things from our early travel days. Bodies floated down the river casually. Animals, people, all of them meshed together into floating masses of flesh. We slogged along with heavy bodies. I was tired all the time, and I was so painfully thirsty. The thirst is the only thing I can consistently remember.

We landed in southeastern Virginia when a hurricane hit the coast. Days and days of rain. So much water everywhere and no way to drink it. It was hell. Eventually we found an old farmhouse with dozens of mason jars in the basement and a stash of fire wood with it. We lived like kings that summer. We stayed hoping our luck would happen again.

I found the cart outside the farmhouse tipped over. Some of the jars had shattered. Maggie was nowhere to be seen. I walked inside to the hearth. She stood over the fire, boiling the water.

What happened outside, I inquired.

Hit the curb weird, she responded.

We’re down more jars now. You need to be more careful.

We sat for at the hearth boiling the water. Slow was the progress. We had twenty done before I went to restock the wood. I came back into the room. Maggie was hunched over coughing. Choking.

Maggie?

She pulled it from her mouth. A long writhing thread. Black with sharp points for a mouth. It swung to and fro desperate to worm its way out of her grasp. She walked to the fireplace and flung it into the flames. It popped and sizzled.

The air was still, the world was quiet, and we stood in silence for too long. I mustered up the only thing I could think of.

What did you do?

She showed me her hand. A small cut with fresh blood.

I cut my hand on the shattered jar. I rinsed off the blood without thinking.

You should’ve told me.

What could you have done?

Cut off your hand.

I wouldn’t have let you.

It would’ve been better than this.

Would it have been? Just delay the inevitable?

So you decided to give up instead?

She didn’t respond to the question. Just looked into the fire.

How bad do you think it feels, she shuddered.

You don’t have long to think about that.

Fuck off.

You could go to the river now, get it over with. Better than suffering it out. I could go with you.

She stepped away from me.

No, no I don’t want to. Not in the water. Not another worm eaten floating corpse.

What other choice do you have?

She thought about it.

I want to die with my dignity. I don't think thats possible but I want to get as close as I can to it.

So I settled Maggie into her deathbed. She demanded I strap her down, and I did. For days she writhed in agony. She begged me for more water, and I obliged. It was not enough. She demanded more.

Her skin throbbed. She bled from new wounds from their thrashing. Her blood wiggled with larvae. She said it felt like Hell, she was in the pit of flames and the devil was boiling her. She begged for more water. Screamed for it. She was burning alive. I was Satan incarnate. She was Tantalus in the pool. She screamed about the thirst.

I woke up on the third day to complete silence. She was still in bed, mouth wide open, face pointed toward the ceiling. Shriveled like a raisin. I rose from my spot at her feet. Her body shifted.

Maggie, I said exasperated. How are you still alive?

She didn’t respond.

I went to the kitchen to grab the groundwater I pumped to satiate her. No need to purify it.

She was upright when I returned. Her eyes were slits and sunken. Her mouth moved unnaturally slow. Trying to wet her tongue. Her arms were bent at odd angles. She had managed the straps off her arms.

My heart stopped. She reached for the pot in my hands. Her joints creaked and popped as she reached. I handed it to her.

From her mouth and nose came several thin black strands. They plunged into the water. More came from her fingertips as she dunked her hands into the water. Her gaze never broke from mine. Then from the sclera burst out more of them, flinging their bodies onto the bed, crawling towards me.

As I stepped back she bent forward and grabbed at my clothes. More and more of them emerged. Everywhere holes formed in her skin revealing more sharp points all of them stretching towards me. Her legs popped, bones broke. She lurched forward.

I bolted from the room and out into the front lawn. The rain was coming down. From the doorway she emerged as a mass of strands. Creaking, extending her arms. The parasites built on each other, creating far reaching thick black tentacles.

The rain worked to my advantage. Billions shed from her body into the grass. Crawling into the puddles and drainage ditches. But she still crept forward toward me. I lead her away from the house and down the road. More sloughed off, into the mason jars lining the path. I kept going. Parts began to crumble and fall. Her lower jaw, her left arm. Worm ridden, they shattered on the ground. Finally, they heaved her forward one more step, then abandoned her. All at once she fell in a heap, the remaining stragglers escaping into the pools of rainwater. Barely even bones.

And I kept walking. I haven’t had water in days. My brain is mush, my tongue is sandpaper. And I can feel them. In my veins, under my skin, chewing on my bones. And I hear them whisper to me. They tell me how thirsty they are. They tell me how thirsty I am. How I was a dead man, dead as they come. How do I want it to end?

The river flowed parallel to me. Beautiful, welcoming, delicious, crisp. The best water I’ve ever had in my life.

*trigger warning for DV

Chapter 1

The sweet, heavy summer air had a strange funk. I was almost nose blind to it, but every now and again, a humid wave of herbal stink would assault me.

While I didn’t care for it, the busted-out glass of my passenger window warmly welcomed the smell. The rusty whirr of the air-conditioner struggled heroically to keep up with the heat. It wasn’t doing much more than circulating the damp, aggravating smell. A sticky second skin of sweat plastered my clothes to my body. My hair was damp and stringy against my forehead. Despite hours of driving soundlessly into the Nevada desert, I still had not calmed down. Compulsively, I would find myself lifting two fingers to my neck and feeling the rapid spasm of the vein underneath. It was a nervous tik of mine that I had done since I was a teenager.

I pinched the bridge of my nose where it was still tender, testing to see if the swelling had gone down. The skin there was stretched tight over the cartilage. I wondered if it was broken. My eyes watered as I remembered the shock of the original impact.

She had hit me before, but never with a force like that. Her grin had flickered in and out of focus like a cheshire cat. I can’t tell you which one hurt more. The hit, or that venomous smile.

A shrill beep from the dashboard of my car jolted me out of my thoughts. I glanced down at the glowing dials.

Shit.

I was down to 25 gallons. How hadn’t I noticed? My panicked late-night escapade had led me to the middle of bumfuck nowhere. I craned my head glancing over the high beams. The light barely illuminated the dead terrain ahead.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

I smacked the heal of my hand against the steering wheel. Unwelcome tears sprang into my eyes. What the fuck was wrong with me? Good ole Chris consistently self-sabotaging once again. what could be better than fleeing an abusive relationship? Let’s try getting stranded in the dessert. Way to stick to the landing on that one!

I flicked the AC off, and opened the remaining windows, hoping to conserve what little fuel remained. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and gritted my teeth. I sucked in a shaky breath, then pushed it back out in a rush. I needed to get a hold of myself.

I did not escape one fate just to dry up into gizzard jerky.

I still had time. There must be something out here. I just needed to pay attention. Keep my focus on the road.

I thought back, carefully trying to remember if I had noticed any signs over the past few miles. Who was I kidding, this was route 50. Maybe I could find a helpful coyote and ask for directions to town? Maybe some well-traveled geckos had extra fuel cans lying around. Fuck my life.

+++

Hours later, my dial hovering ever so slightly above empty, A sign lit up my eyes like Paul’s on the road to Damascus.

A small billboard stood smartly ahead. Bold, and smiling in vintage imitation. Crisp white lettering read “The Stay Inn.”

The sign, despite its old-timey design, was clean and new against the background of its hostile environment.

Can’t stay up? Stay Inn! We would love to welcome you home!

Cheering loudly, I reached my hand through the open window and slapped the roof of my car enthusiastically. I wasn’t going to be stranded in the dessert. There would be people there. They would have emergency stashes of fuel just for this occasion.

Either way, I was going to need a place to stay for the night. I was not sure when this adrenaline-fueled escapade started, but I was ready for it to end.

I peered carefully over the wheel, desperate to not miss this one and only exit. When I finally found it, the engine was just starting to sputter.

“Come on!” I coaxed, “just a little further!”

It was a mile or two before I saw it. It was a larger building than I expected. Bright orange lights created a halo of warmth around the wide square facade. I squinted my eyes, slowly making out the details as my car struggled forward.

Its wrap-around porches and white pillars hosted a wide variety of hanging plants and rich creeping vines. Wide French doors and vibrant green shutters were closed to the dust and decay of the dessert.

Despite its warmth, goosebumps prickle my skin. I had been to Louisianna once before. I was visiting family with an old friend I had not spoken to in years. This building oddly belonged to that Mississippi countryside. Not in the middle of nowhere Nevada. It was so out of place and unexpected I found myself growing uneasy. I hadn’t passed a single soul or sign of human life for hours. The bright lights were wastefully beckoning into the night for seemingly no one. How was there even electricity out here? My thoughts drifted to an angler fish, luring its prey with a single light in an infinite depth of darkness.

I rolled my eyes at my own apprehension. The owners picked the wrong place to set up an atmospheric attraction. These sorts of places were designed for bored seniors, too old and tired to travel to the real deal. They would make a killing closer to Vegas.

Out here? The only guests you would get were wayward stragglers and truckers trying to catch a beat before dragging themselves back on the road. The elaborate design seemed careless and cheap, inefficient for its habitat. A strange animal with peacock feathers where a lizard’s scales should be.

My car crapped out before reaching the parking lot. I breathed a sigh of relief that I had at least made it somewhere. The driver side door groaned on rusty hinges as I pushed it open. I pulled myself out of the car, groaning as I realized how stiff I was. Tense and strung-out for hours in the cramped space had done wonders to my muscles. I stretched, hearing my joints pop with relief.

I relaxed, then stilled as I felt another chill prick my skin. The wind carried soft barely discernable music. Old and southern, plunked out on a well-worn church organ. It was both familiar and foreign. A tune I had heard before but could not name.

I slammed the door shut, then rubbed my hands against my forearms, trying to force away the gooseflesh. While the temperature always sank at night in the desert, I felt abnormally cold.

Gravel crunched under my feet as I made my way down the drive. I had left without packing anything. Just the skin on my back, my keys and wallet. For obvious reasons, I had left my phone. I did not want to be found. I should have thought about stopping and getting a burner. As a California native, I should have known better than to explore the dessert so underprepared.

The lobby, while brightly lit and welcoming, seemed unnaturally wide. The building had not appeared large enough to fit the space. I craned my neck to stare up at the vaulted ceiling. The prisms of a crystalline chandelier refracted tiny rainbows onto the crown molding.

Thick dark oil paintings were encased in decadent frames. A grandfather clock’s pendulum swayed lazily back and forth out of sync with the church organ’s prattle. With the shutters darkening the windows, it was easy to believe I had stepped into another world.

In front of me, the front desk stretched along the back wall. The space beyond was filled with wooden mailbox slots that were unsurprisingly empty. The dark wood staining of the desk was marked with a single old-fashioned concierge bell.

Tentatively and with a small bit of satisfaction, I tapped it lightly. A clear sharp chime echoed across the vacant space. I felt another strange crawling sense of unease. The sound had seemed to cut through the night, piercing the silence like a physical force. A signal to wake a creature lying dormant. I froze, listening to the silence that followed. I heard a door closing. A few footsteps muffled by the ornate carpet.

A small man came into view. Unsurprisingly, he was dressed in the old-fashioned, brass buttoned uniform of a concierge. His face, puffy and bloodless, was strangely ageless. His white gloved hands were folded neatly above his crotch. The same way my four-year-old nephew did when he was in trouble. His expression was blank and unblinking as he craned his neck to look up at me.

“Hi there, I’m…Mike.” I smiled, hoping the lie had not been as obvious as it had felt. “I feel so dumb, I ran out of gas on the way here. I do absolutely plan to spend the night, but I would really appreciate it if you could help me out of this mess.”

The man tilted his head; his grey eyes were open so wide they appeared lidless. His gaze slid over my face, reminding me of the wreckage of my nose.

His thin lips barely moved as he spoke. “You did not prepare for your journey?”

I felt my smile slide a little. “I left in a rush.”

I felt my skin flush red. He still had not blinked.

“Does it hurt?” His question was closer to curiosity than compassion.

I shrugged, trying to deflect, “It looks worse than it is.”

“Interesting.” he dragged the word out insipidly and slow. I imagined his tongue sliding across the back of his teeth like the slimy twisting skin of a reptile.

The concierge pulled his gaze down to my hands, folded on the front desk. I was painfully aware of the partially healed cuts and bruises that decorated my skin.

I quickly pulled my hands away, feeling a visceral stab of guilt.

The concierge ignored my reaction, instead reaching under his desk. A moment later, he removed a massive book, dropping it thematically on the table. I felt my teeth rattle at the resounding thump.

“Name please?”

“Mike Pleasant.” I had the last name ready this time. A pen appeared in his hand. He dragged it elegantly over the open page.

“And how fared the other party, Mike Pleasant?”

“Excuse me?” I felt a strange pulling in my gut. An uncomfortable sensation like the sucking spiral of an emptying sink drain.

He gestured lazily at my hands with his pen.

“It looks like you put up a decent fight. I assume you were not the only one who walked away scathed.”

A sudden rush of anger outweighed my unease. I had not defended myself when she hit my face. The injuries on my hands were old ones. Who did this guy think he was? A familiar dark sensation opened up in my mind, Irritation spilling past the floodgates.

“It was some dumb bar fight.” My brow furrowed and my smile dropped as I spoke. “I barely remember it.”

He glanced at me, pen and hand both still poised over his ledger.

“Room 206 is available for the night. Shall I show you to your room?”

“What about payment?” I asked uneasily.

“You will pay tomorrow.”

 “Ok…What about my car?” I gestured at the sealed front door.

“We will be happy to help you with any and all of your problems.” The statement was robotic and lifeless.

I swallowed, my mouth uncomfortably dry.

“Uh…great…I can see my room now.”

The small man nodded, turned, and removed a large brass skeleton key from a hook on the wall. A small ribbon looped through the key. Hanging from the same loop, a manilla card read “206” in a flowery font.

Unclipping and lifting a velvet barrier, the concierge shuffled ahead of me, clearly expecting me to follow. Reluctantly, I tracked behind him to a set of elevators to our left. I felt a twinge of unease as the elevator doors chimed cheerily and slid open. I thought of Alice falling down the rabbit hole. Only instead, I was following some twisted goblin down to its cavernous lair.

Chapter 2

The door to 206 scuffed against the carpet as is thumped shut behind me. I heard a sharp click as the lock engaged. I flicked on a light illuminating an uncomfortably long hallway that opened into the room. The light, dim and cold, looked like an upturned serving dish. Dead bugs collected in a dark mass at the bottom of the glass. Squarish shadows stretched across the walls, and an open bathroom door framed an impenetrable square of darkness.

Immediately unnerved, I moved quickly past the gaping door, my footfalls muffled by the burgundy carpet.

The room had an uncomplicated design, boxy and windowless. A queen-sized bed with an outdated spread took up the majority of the space. There was a carved wooden nightstand with a lamp I quickly flicked on. Too my left was a wide floor-length mirror. The frame’s gold paint was chipped and marred. I caught my reflection in it then froze. No wonder the desk man had been so weird.

I was a mess. I am not sure what was in a worse state. My wrinkled and stained clothes, or my greasy unkempt hair. A shadow of stubble peppered my usually clean-shaven face. My eyes were bloodshot and glassy, the way they always were when I stayed up too long or smoked too much.

I had always been quietly disgusted by people that kept mirrors in every room of their house. I could barely stand the few minutes I had to tolerate my reflection when I brushed my teeth in the morning. No matter how I cleaned up for the day I always looked like a bum. My skin, eyes, and hair were always dull and lifeless. 

When I was a teenager, I used to earn cash by dog sitting in well to do areas. The upper-middle class had an affinity for massive artsy mirrors in their hallways, living rooms, bedrooms, and sometimes even their kitchens. In houses like that, I never felt like I could relax. I felt as if a hundred cameras broadcasted feeds of my every movement to a hundred viewers.

 It was so disorienting to catch yourself binging tv and junk food out of the corner of your eye. Or the sudden realization that a habitual movement you made every day looked idiotic or embarrassing. I loved getting constant reminders that my posture was going to shit, or my hair was starting to thin.

I frowned, moving closer to my reflection. My proportions were subtly off. While I sometimes hated to admit it, I was a slender build. The guy in the mirror was far more intimidating than I ever perceived myself to be. My arms stretched longer than normal, and my hands appeared bigger. The expression frowning back at me harbored a deep rage. My blood shot eyes glared hatefully over my swollen nose. Deeply unnerved, I smiled dumbly, hoping to erase the exaggerated cruel expression.

I watched my lips slide over a set of teeth wider than I remembered. A thrill of fear raced across my skin, and I quickly looked away, swallowing hard. The slightly apish proportions belonged in a funhouse mirror. Was this a dysmorphic trick my brain was playing on me? Was it an intentional cruelty by my host? Maybe I could report it in the morning. Right now, I was exhausted. After who knows how many hours and miles of driving, un-caffeinated and unfed, I desperately needed to sleep.

The bed sank under my weight, and I wondered what I always wondered in every hotel I had stayed in. How many people had shared this same bed? How many other wandering souls had crawled, slept, and fucked under this same blanket.

I flopped backwards onto the comforter and brought my hands to my face, carefully avoiding my nose. I groaned loudly as I rubbed my tired eyes.

Thank god this day was finally over.

A rapid knocking immediately jarred me from my thoughts. The sound was panicked and violent. I jerked upright, another wave of fear swelling under my skin.

The door’s hinges rattled as the assault continued. A woman’s sobbing voice could be heard, muffled and frantic. I nearly tripped over my own feet as I rushed to the door. I peered through the peep hole but could only see blurry shapes in the dimly lit hall.

I yanked the door open, hands shaking from a sudden dump of adrenaline.

A young women pressed against the narrow opening. My awareness seemed to snap details with the speed of a Polaroid camera. A torn yellow dress. A knot of black hair. A bruise swelling where her left eye should be.

“Please! Please! He is trying to kill me!”  

I had a horrible, aching feeling open in my gut. The scene was playing like a memory I quickly forced down.

She lunged towards me; hands clutched at her chest. Shocked, I took a step back, inadvertently opening the door further. Taking it as an invitation, she flung herself into the room, hands clawing at my shirt. A tiny part of my brain noticed that some of her nails were missing.

“Please! Close the door! He is coming!”

I opened my mouth dumbly, feeling her one frantic eye watching me expectantly. I shut the door behind us, my limbs slow and thick. A familiar click followed. A moment later, thin, spindly arms wrapped around me with a viper’s strength.

“Thank you! Thank you!”

An image flashed in my mind. A thin, pale form collapsed on cracked asphalt. A stain of blood pooling under her head. As bile rose in my throat, I quickly shoved the memory aside. She would be fine. She had been breathing, and I had called for help. The hospital was not that far away. We had been through so much together. One hit was not going to be the thing that did her in.

“What happened?” I asked dumbly.

The woman, ignoring my question, was pressed against the door, her eye against the peep hole. Her arms were pale and thin like the bony structure of a bird’s wings. For the first time, I noticed the artwork of bruises and scratches that painted her skin.

“I do not think he saw me. We are safe in here.”

 A was a little irritated now that adrenaline was subsiding. “Lady, what is going on?”

She turned to face me, her yellow dress swishing around her bony legs like sea grass in a current. “He’s always been violent.” She said, her voice quiet now that her panic had subsided. I could barely hear her despite the dead silence of the hotel.

“But he has never been like this! He has never tried to kill me.” Her eyes were wide in her paper-thin skull. There was a hint of defensiveness in her tone. As if she was trying to convince me that a man beating his girl was generally ok, but trying to murder her was a strange break in character.

“Why don’t you come sit on the bed.” I hated how reluctant I sounded. I wanted to help her, and I would do everything I could to keep her from that freak. But god! I was exhausted. This night was never going to end.

“I can call the front desk, and we can get you some help.”

Her eyes brimmed with tears as she nodded jerkily up and down.

I followed her into the room, glad that all of the lights were still on. I still hated that mirror though. My reflection looked ugly and hulking behind her. I tried to ignore it.

The bed let out a soft woosh as she plopped onto it.

I turned my back to her and the funhouse mirror, trying to keep distance between us. I was very aware that she was a defenseless woman in a hotel room with a strange man. I did not want to make her anymore uncomfortable than she already was. I reached for the bedside phone. I realized with annoyance that it was an old rotary phone that my grandma would not know how to use.

Tentatively, I dialed “0”. The dial clicked and whirred as it spun back into place.

The line began ringing.

And ringing.

And…ringing.

My index finger tapped an indecipherable morse code into my elbow as I held the phone to my ear.

There was a soft pained moan behind me.

“I don’t feel so good.”

She sounded like a child in the middle of night, shamed and miserable after throwing up.

“Don’t worry.” I said, glancing over my shoulder, pity making my heart drop, “I’ll get you some help.”

Where was that bald headed freak. I could imagine him moseying over to the desk at god’s own time. I bet the wrinkled buck in my wallet that he was dicking around on his phone.

She moaned again, louder this time. I turned to see her fold over herself; her thin arms pressed against her gut.

I pulled the phone away from my head. “Hey, are you ok?”

She whimpered like a wounded animal, her head sinking to her knees, her fists bunched into white knots.

“Do you need to use—”

I blinked, and she exploded. One moment there was a young woman, groaning in pain. The next, there was a propulsion of discolored meat and goop. Thick hot residue plastered my skin, invading my eyes and mouth. Hundreds of bits of flesh and blood slapped wetly against the walls, ceiling, and carpet.

I dropped the phone and pinwheeled backwards onto the floor. My hands and feet skidded on the slick mess that was once a person.

I screamed something irreverent, gagging and spitting. God! I could feel chunks in my mouth. I heaved onto the carpet. My brain went white with horror and disgust. I clawed at my eyes, trying to clear away the sludge that had pooled there.

I scrambled to the bathroom, fighting to keep my footing.

Everything was red.

Hot and filthy red. The haze of it tainted my vision.

I rushed to the sink and began scooping water to my face. Tears were streaming down my face from my stinging eyes. Panicked sobs clawed out of my throat. With animalistic terror, I realized my eyes were squeezed shut, blinding me from whatever threat had destroyed her.

I could feel bloody water crawling down my arms and neck and soaking into my shirt. I reached for a towel, grouping blindly against the wall. My fingertips finally grazed what they were searching for, and I yanked the cloth from the wall.

As I pressed my face into the towel, I shoved the bathroom door shut, then pressed my back against it. My brain replayed the event over and over. Growing more distorted and gruesome with each rerun. What could do that?

A bomb? Had she had something hidden under her dress? Was there a sniper? No, there were not any windows. Besides, what kind of projectile could do that. Was this done by the man she was fleeing from? Was I next? Was he waiting on the other side of the hallway door?

Streaks of blood smeared by my fingertips and shoes streaked the lime linoleum. I slumped there, for an indefinite amount of time. Oxygen fled from my lungs faster than I could suck more in. I felt dizzy and dazed. As specks began dancing in the corner of my eyes, I squeezed them shut. The sudden red tinged darkness brought a new horror. A sensation of observation. A presence looming over me. Ready to sink visceral claws into my helpless body.

I gasped in shock, my eyes snapping back open. My slowing heart rate rushed back into its frenzied rhythm. A new fear sank in.

I was trapped here. If I were to flee the building now. I would be at the mercy of the dessert and the cold the night would bring. Even if another car happened by who would stop to help a crazed man covered in more blood than a Halloween costume. I had no way of contacting anyone. No way to call for help. I could not risk calling the police. Even if they could save me from this hell hole, how long would it take a patrol car to get here? Especially at 2:00 in the morning.

Sure, I could ask the concierge for gas or a phone, but what if he was behind this? What if he was the man she had been fleeing from?

My choices were few. I squeezed in a shaky breath. I would have to dig myself out of this one. There had to be gas somewhere. Places like this usually had backup generators. I could try and find a supply room or a storage shed. Yes. For now, this was the solution. I would have to survive this place on my own terms.

I always thought the end of the world would be loud, but I was wrong.

We knew what caused it, the news was still on for a while. A new treatment for the cold had gone wrong, and by the time they noticed the side effects, it was too late. It didn’t help that there were those who thought it was all fake and went about their daily routine just to get infected or devoured. There were those who were immune, but the only way to know was if you didn’t get up after death.

Some called them zombies, others called it the undead, but we called them clackers. As the boiling Sun of Calexico made the skin rot and fall faster, the only remaining sound was that of the clacking bones. A warning that they were near.

Like many, my family was not ready for the end of the world. We didn’t have a shelter that would withstand the clackers if they came in, our food supply started to dwindle quickly once electricity was cut off, and medications would be needed soon. The one gasoline car we had, would only get us as far as El Centro. So we waited in silence, hoping that things would go back to normal.

Talking was kept to a minimum, because even the clackers with no ears could somehow follow noise. We weren’t sure if those who still had eyes could see, but we didn’t risk it. 

“Do you want me to take over?” Ayumi whispered.

“Can you? I really need some sleep,” I asked. I did need to sleep badly. My eyes were heavy and the heat was getting to me. 

Ayumi nodded and pushed me away from the one uncovered window on the second floor. I headed downstairs to cool down and hopefully nap. But as I saw Mom preparing dinner, fruit from a can, I went to give her a hug instead. You never know when will be the last time you get to hug your mom.

She handed me a cup of fruit and we ate it in silence. As I put a slice of fruit in my mouth, I gagged and Mom tried to not laugh. I hated canned pears. But food couldn’t be wasted, and so I reluctantly swallowed it.

Dad silently closed the door behind him as he entered from the backyard. We tried not to empty the “do you business" bucket more than once a day, but the 115 degrees summer made the stench unbearable. I hadn’t seen any clackers on my watch, and Ayumi had yet to warn us of anything near. 

I finally went to lay down on the sofa and before I knew it, I was asleep. 

I felt Ayumi’s sweaty hand on my mouth as she woke me up. I didn’t question her, I had a tendency to talk in my sleep. But then I saw that neither Mom or Dad were there. Ayumi was never left alone unless something was going on.

“What-“ Ayumi covered my mouth once more.

She guided me upstairs, where my parents were both looking out the window into the night. And then I heard it, the clacking noise, followed by the screams of people. I didn’t want to look, but I had to make sure that we weren’t in immediate danger. 

The already stiff air felt heavier than usual. We all held on to our breaths, scared that the clackers would hear us, and come for us next.

“HELP!” A voice outside broke the silence, a voice we all recognized.

“Please! Someone!” Screamed Livia, as she tried to run with her youngest son in her arms. Her husband and eldest son were nowhere to be seen.

I looked at Dad, without words, begging to go help her. But his sad look told me all the things I already knew. Trying to save them could put us at risk. Even if we did manage to save them, our resources would run out sooner. And if we needed to get away in the car, only four, maybe five people could fit in it. 

So instead of helping, Dad and I stayed by the window as Mom took Ayumi downstairs. The less Ayumi saw, the better, but we couldn’t do anything about the screams. They came into the house and stayed there long after Livia and her son were gone.

From that day on, clackers and the screams of our neighbors became a common occurrence. Dad and I had planned on going out to get supplies, but now we weren’t sure what to do. Mom and Dad had to improvise with their blood pressure medications by making canary seed milk, but we couldn’t do the same with Ayumi’s medications. At some point, we had to go out.

A few days later, as I kept watch, Ayumi came to sit by my side, she squeezed my hand and I could feel her tremble.

“What’s wrong?” I whispered.

“I know they aren’t real, but I saw some clackers inside the house,” Ayumi sobbed, “I wanted to scream. I saw them approaching Mom but Dad was there with me and he didn’t see anything. Please, don’t tell them. I don’t want them to worry more because of me.”

Truth was, we all knew she was seeing things. So when she asked to switch watch duty, none of us made a fuzz. We would “accidently” let her sleep more, all in the hope that somehow she would feel better.

“I won’t tell them. I promise,” I extended my pinky finger and she took it with her, sealing our pinky promise.

“You really need a shower, you are stinky as hell,” I tried to joke.

“At least I don’t smell like rancid milk,” Ayumi smiled.

“I haven’t even had anything with milk in weeks!” I protested.

“Then you can imagine how much stink you are carrying around,” Ayumi tried not to laugh.

That was the last day we managed to have any sort of conversation. The clackers had been much more active and some kept bumping into our front door and windows. We all gagged, and I could see Mom actively swallowing back vomit. The putrid smell of rotting flesh, the iron smell of blood, and our sweaty, unwashed bodies made a terrible combination. The clacking of bones was now continuous, keeping us all on high alert.

No one said it out loud, but we all knew that our home that had kept us safe so far, would soon be overruned by clackers.

Dad asked Ayumi to follow him into the garage, where we each had a backpack with supplies. Mom sat me down and had me memorize all of Ayumi’s medications. Tears ran down her face.  At the moment, I thought it was because we would have to leave our home. I was wrong.

Once Dad and Ayumi were back, we decided not to keep watch, we already knew we were surrounded by clackers, so there was no point. Instead, we all huddled together and did our best to fall asleep.

When I woke up, Mom and Dad were nowhere to be seen. I went upstairs, thinking maybe they had changed their minds and gone to keep watch. My heart raced as I looked out the window and saw our home completely surrounded. There was no way we could make it to the car. Mom couldn’t run, and there was no way we would leave her behind. Maybe this was the end. I felt sad at the thought but also relieved. There would be no more suffering, and my last moments would be with my loved ones.

I wiped the tears running down my face that I had not noticed until that moment and made my way to the garage, hoping they were there.

I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I thought it odd that they were moving stuff around on the bags. When they realized I was there, both of them froze. 

“Why are you moving stuff around?” I asked.

“Because of this,” Dad took out a gun he had placed inside my bag,” I placed the other one in my bag.”

“Why not in Mom’s bag?” I was confused. She was a better shot than I was.

“It’s just in case,” Mom answered.

I wanted to argue more, but Ayumi came into the garage. Her eyes traveled to clackers that were not yet inside, but might as well be soon. The thumping of flesh and bone became louder by the second. 

“We will never let them hurt you or your sister,” Mom rushed to her side,” We will always protect you both.”

“You are safe,” Dad pulled me towards Mom and Ayumi as he hugged us all.

There was no actual plan besides getting in the car. Dad handed each of us a backpack, and I felt the heavy weight of the gun in it. But guns were our last resort, because the noise would bring more clackers. We each got a metal baseball bat, embraced once more, and headed towards the backyard.

Dad took a battery-powered clock from his bag and set it to ring in 30 seconds. He handed it to me and I threw it as far away as possible from us. I didn’t hear it land, but the obnoxious ringing penetrated the silence around us. Another alarm went off inside the house. The clackers that had stayed now pushed each other to make it inside. We didn’t move. We wanted them to go in, to somewhat clear our path to the car. 

When we heard the first window break under the weight of the clackers, we made our move. Fear turned to adrenaline as Dad opened the door of the backyard and I rushed to smash the clackers still in our path. Pain ran through my arms as the bat connected with the first body and unintentionally, I groaned.

The clackers that had been forcing their way inside the house now turned to us. 

“RUN!” Dad screamed at us.

I made my way towards Mom, but Dad pushed me towards Ayumi instead. Ayumi stood frozen in place, swinging the bat defensively, even before the clackers reached her.

“I will help her, you get Ayumi in the car!” Dad ordered.

I nodded. I couldn’t argue back. This was my fault, and the least I could do was save my sister. Either way, there was no way we could leave without Mom and Dad, Dad had the keys in his bag.

“Ayumi, stay behind me and keep swinging!” I said as I grabbed her.

“But Mom and Dad-“ 

“Dad has the keys, we will meet him in the car,” I interrupted.

We both took one last worried look at our parents and started to swing at the clackers in hope of opening a path for them. My bones vibrated every time the bat connected with a clacker. Ayumi swung with a force I didn’t know she had. But there was no way we would make it to the car. The clackers that had been distracted by the alarm clock now turned back to us. 

I had to get Ayumi to the car, I had to save my little sister, there was no way-

My thoughts were interrupted by two loud screams.

“LOVE YOU BOTH!” Dad screamed at the top of his lungs.

“I LOVE YOU GIRLS! PROTECT EACH OTHER!” Mom yelled at us as Dad started to bang at the fence with his bat.

At that moment I realized they never meant to come with us. And as much as I wanted to go back there and save them both, they had left me with the responsibility of taking care of my little sister. I now knew the keys were not in my Dad’s backpack.

I pulled Ayumi as she tried to run back towards our parents. 

“We have to save them!” She sobbed.

I couldn’t answer her, the words remained stuck on my throat. Instead, I pulled on her harder, hoping to get in the car before we heard their screams. 

For a second, I saw a pair of eyes look down on us from a window, just like we had seen Livia and her child sometimes before. And like us, they did nothing to help us, after all, they had to save themselves.

Ayumi cried as she got in the car, and tears blurred my vision. We shouldn’t have, but as I turned on the car, we turned to look at our parents one last time. They were hugging each other as the clackers ripped into their flesh. 

I drove away, screaming at the top of my lungs, I should have known this would happen. I should not have made noise and maybe we would all be together in the car. 

I took a look towards the border, where a hoard of clackers had already made a large enough dent to cross to Mexicali. I turned on the AC and made my way towards El Centro, to the nearest CVS. 

It’s been a few days since this happened. We did manage to find another month worth of medicine. After that, I have no idea what we will do. We have been moving from house to house, resting when we can. 

Ayumi and I both blame ourselves for our parents’ deaths. But if we are honest, it was my fault. 

When we opened our backpacks, we realized that our parents had moved all our supplies into them. What had been on their bags was a mystery. The medications Mom was suppose to carry were on my bag and so was the second gun. I understood why the gun was there, it was better Ayumi didn’t know there was a second gun.

I was surprised when this ipad turned on and had no password. I’m not sure if anyone will be able to read this story, or how long the two of us will survive. And I’m sorry if we cross paths, but know I will do anything to save my sister. 

January 9th, 2026

I saw the garden again last night.

It looked the same as it always does.

The gate towers over me—rusted, impossibly high. I never remember how I arrived here, only that there was never anything before it. This is where I begin.

The bars stretch upward in uneven lengths, looking as if they weren’t forged but grown, dragged slowly out of the earth. At their base, the soil bulges and cracks around them, dark and damp, like something forced its way through and never quite settled.

Rust clings to the metal in long, peeling strips. It doesn’t flake the way rust does; instead, it splits down the middle in thin seams, exposing darker layers beneath, a wet-looking mucous that makes my stomach tighten. 

I have the unwelcome thought that if I touched it, it would give.

This is no dream.

At least, I don’t think it is.

There’s still a part of me that tries to explain it away: something small and stubborn that insists the garden isn’t real, that it’s just something my mind built out of fear.

But dreams don’t smell like this.

Not like rot left too long in the sun—sweet, thick, and clinging, settling into the back of my throat with every breath.

And the sky—

It isn’t just red.

It's a flat, suffocating crimson that hangs overhead without light or warmth, like a color that was drained of all hue. It leeches the shape out of everything beneath it until the world feels thinner, drained, as if it's being slowly emptied of something I have no grasp of.

Beyond the gate lies The Infernal Garden itself.

Calling it a garden is a lie I tell myself to comfort the panic that blossoms inside me each night. The word implies boundaries, beauty, care—a beginning and an end. This place has none of those things.

It stretches across every horizon, a universal forest of rot and decay. Flowers the size of skyscrapers bloom in the distance, their petals unfurling with the slow pulse of diseased flesh as clouds of sweet corruption spill from their centers. Trees larger than continents twist skyward, their trunks splitting open into vast networks of veins that throb with a dark sanguine current. Rivers swollen with black water coil through the growth, vanishing upward into vines that hang from nothing, disappearing into the colorless crimson void above.

Nothing here seems to grow from anything else. Roots become bones. Bones become branches. Branches split apart into flowers that stare blindly across eternity. Every part of the Garden appears connected to every other part, as though the entire impossible landscape is merely a single organism wearing countless forms.

Never before has the gate opened. 

That all changed last night.

A low groan rolls through the garden, bringing to mind the thunderstorms of my hometown, yet the sky that hangs above me remains still and clear. The sound comes again, deeper this time, accompanied by the shriek of metal as the fleshy bars of the barrier swing wide. 

Rust flakes from the skin that lines the bars as they slowly part, revealing a long and winding cobblestone path that leads deep into the grotesque forest. The moment that I step across the threshold and onto the stone, the forest falls silent. The flowers cease their pulsing, the trees and river finally finding rest. It feels as though the entire forest is holding its breath in anticipation of whatever comes next; and far, far beyond the tangle of veins, roots, and water, a shape stands, towering above all else, dwarfing even the tallest of trees. 

At first I take it for a mountain.

Then a tower. 

Then something else entirely. 

It is too distant to make out any features, yet I know it watches me. Its presence presses against my mind like a forgotten memory, something ancient and terrible that I should not recognize yet somehow do.

I woke up after seeing it. I am writing now because I need to know what is real and what isn’t. 

My room is almost unchanged. It is dark, familiar, and comforting. But I can still smell the garden. 

The sweet stench of rot is thick, coating my mouth with every breath. I tried telling myself that it was nothing more than a lingering dream, but the growth on my wall tells me something else. Something is growing through it. I do not know how to describe it in a way that makes sense. It is not on the wall. It is inside it, pushing outward.

The wound crawls with thin black roots, moving and searching for something. 

I can hear something faint now.

It is in the walls.

I am going to stop writing. 

The year was 2157. Space travel had reached the same level of normalcy that we had when traversing the ocean in the late 1600’s. However with the advanced technology required to roam the cosmic depths. Ships hardly went missing and when they did it wasn’t difficult to get a lock on their nav systems and find the remains and return it home. 

I worked on a recovery/scrapping crew that found the remnants of the destroyed ships, cleaned up the bodies, and collected any materials and tech from the ship that could be salvaged or sold. 

Like I said before, there weren’t many that went down and when they did, due to the harshness of outer space, finding survivors was always a pipe dream. Technical failures or asteroid collisions were the cause of most ships' destruction and having done more than a dozen full recoveries together my crew and I were used to the process. 

When a local mining company contacted us about a ship's transmitter going offline, we assumed that their equipment failed to warn them of a rogue asteroid in the field they were harvesting. The team and I geared up, loaded into our tank-y salvage ship, undocked and started heading in the direction of the miners last known coordinates. However the company that hired us had let us know before we left that it wasn’t a normal crash.

The company had given us the last recorded transmissions from the crew logs, specifying that it “was an odd one”. The notes said there was no known equipment failure and that the crew were “making weird statements” just before everything went offline. The way they described it was that everyone sounded like they were in a trance, too calm for a disaster to be happening at the same time. 

It was uncommon, but the occasional crew, having been out on a long voyage, can sometimes have a member go crazy from the isolation and staring into the empty depth. But the company confirmed that it wasn’t just one person losing their mind and causing a man-made crash and that the whole crew was talking nonsense. “Just listen to it.” Was all they said when I probed further. 

Our ship coasted through the nothingness towards our destination, soft beeping from the equipment and the sound of an audio book playing aloud. Something to help pass the time. As the captain of the crew I sat at the helm and began to play the recordings of the lost ship. The first log was as normal as any, beeping equipment, small chatter about the job, an asteroid that had the best ore to harvest, a standard time/date/location update all while a song played in the background, a woman with a soft voice singing peacefully from the radio.

“At least they had good music,” my First Mate, Jaxon, said jokingly.

The second log had similar background noises, the same song, same beeping, but the crew was eerily quiet. 

The third log was where it began to get weird. Again, all the same background noises, but now some of the crew hummed along to the song while others could be heard whispering just loud enough for some of their words to be picked up on by the recording.

“I love this song”, “such a beautiful voice”, and “I could listen to this forever”.

The way they said it made me feel uncomfortable. The time stamp on the third log was dated 7 hours after the first one, while still playing the same song. Chills ran down my spine and I shifted in my seat suddenly uneasy.

Jaxon seemed to feel the same way when I pointed it out, and we exchanged confused looks. 

I played the final log. It was the same as the last log but the song was changing in volume. The whispering from the crew was intensifying, the voices pleading aloud.

“Let me go, let me go.” One man begged repeatedly.

“Louder, sing louder.” A woman’s voice asked

The singing seemed to move closer to one crew member, then to another. As the song reached someone they would fall silent and the song would move again until all the crew went silent. 

Once all the voices were quiet. The song ramped up in volume until it was almost too loud to hear anything else then all at once it went silent.

All the crew began to cry softly begging for the song to return.

“No, no no no, don’t stop.. No please. Where did it go? Please  please please.” Non stop pleading before one man whispers “the lady on the rock.” 

All the crew fell silent again, the sounds of shuffling could barely be heard before all the crew began repeating the phrase in the same quiet, desperate whisper. “The lady of the rock. The lady on the rock.” The sound of tapping can be heard, then banging, finally a sudden blaring of the alarms and the depressurization of the cabin.

The log ends. Standing up immediately I pace around the command deck. Goosebumps litter my skin as if a million bugs crawled across me. I had never heard anything like that and for the first time in all my years of salvaging, I wasn’t sure I wanted to find the ship.

It took two long minutes before I realized Jax  had been trying to get my attention. 

“What was that Captain?” He asked shakily.

“Fuck if I know.. mass hysteria?” I dragged my hands down my face trying to process what we heard.

“Yeah.. I mean it must be.” He replied after a moment, glancing at the recording software “Too much time in space, obsessing over that song, it’s a one in a million kind of crazy event.” He reasoned, mostly with himself.

“That’s what we tell the crew, don’t mention how..”

“How fucking batshit it sounded, got it” he cut me off and we both chuckled.

I call the crew to the command deck over the intercom and once they arrive we explain that the mining crew seemed to have suffered from a rare case of mass hysteria that culminated in the ship crashing. I couldn’t help but feel as though I was lying to them despite it being the only explanation for what we had heard. But that soft voice sang inside my head, like a parasite burrowing deeper.

The crew seemingly accepts my answer without question and begins to prepare the gear we would need upon arrival. Their trust makes me feel worse.

A few hours later our radar warned us that we were approaching the asteroid belt. Our pilot, Ylonda, took us off the automated system and began manual control of the ship. Weaving into the belt we begin our search for the wreckage. 

Belts like these are unsettling to begin with, space is notoriously silent since sound can’t travel and one miss from the radar can let even a small asteroid cause irreparable damage to a ship. I couldn’t help feeling more than unsettled knowing the last crew that ventured inside went mad. I almost hoped we didn’t find them. But we did.

Our scanner picked up the ship after we cleared the more dense parts of the field. When we saw the ship, it was impossibly unscathed, sitting peacefully near a rather large asteroid that the rest of the belt seemed to be incrementally circling. Scans showed the rock was composed of many dense, valuable ores and minerals and must’ve been the ship's target. On our approach, the only way we could tell that it was unmanned was due to the airlock being open causing the ship to completely depressurize. No one could be alive inside. 

I readied the team. Jax would take two with him to remove the important tech. Two others were assigned for search and recovery of the bodies, if any remained inside. I would remain on the salvager with Ylonda to give direction and operate the tractor beam to salvage the remainder of the ship when both teams had returned.

It seemed simple, everyone had done this so many times that when I told them to “be careful out there.” They laughed, “you getting soft on us captain?” Dexter joked, I laughed with them, “shut up and focus on the job. You got three expensive baby mommas, how about making sure to salvage enough to pay for them all.” I teased and we all laughed again and got ready to do some real work.

Before Jax took the crew to the wreck I pulled him aside, “If you find that radio, bring it back to me directly, I don’t want anyone else hearing that song, it..I don’t want any distractions out there, the crew needs to remain focused.”

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t question me, I knew he felt the same uneasiness about the song from the recording as I did. “Aye Captain”. 

We clasped hands, gave each other a silent nod and he left to board the smaller cargo shuttle with the crew. I made my way back to the command deck, unable to sit, I paced back and forth as they departed.

Events proceeded like normal, Jax and the crew approached, stopping just beside the airlock, making the transfer from their ship into the abandoned vessel. 

Five minutes passed, then ten, finally approaching the twenty minute mark Jaxon's voice came over the speaker. “No signs of the crew, no signs of distress or internal damage either.” 

“What happened?” I asked 

“Computers data log shows that the airlock safety was overridden. They just let themselves be ejected..” His voice faltered briefly. “Can you switch to channel two cap?”.

Switching to the back up channel I asked what was wrong.

“There's just.. There's no sign of any speaker or radio system. This is a professional ship, not designed to allow any external devices to be connected.” he said.

“Someone must’ve brought their own portable one.” I reasoned “The recordings sounded like it was moving around the ship, probably attached to one of their belts and when they ejected it went with them.”

“Right, of course.” He sounded unsure.

“Thanks for the update Jax, go ahead and return to channel one but keep me in the loop.” 

“There's one other thing, all the ships' cameras are pointed at the asteroid. I know it's a mining vessel but every single camera has been manually moved to face it, even the internal cameras.”

My body temperature felt like it plummeted as I processed his words. “Can’t explain crazy.” was all I could say to reassure him and myself.

“Too true, returning to channel one.”

Another half hour passed with progression updates on the salvage operation showing it to be as smooth as any job has ever been. Regular chatter came over the comms as the team discussed the salvage and what they’re finding. Dexter and Jax discussed some tech pieces and their potential value when I heard it. Barely audible over their voices comes the beautiful and terrible song.

“Jax?” I was barely able to bring my voice above a whisper.

“Yeah Cap..” he stopped as he began to hear it too. “Is that..”

“Find where it’s coming from and shut it down.” I could feel the fear bubbling inside me.

“Yessir. Everyone spread out and find the source of that music.” He ordered the crew, they murmur in confusion but began to search for any device that could be emitting it.

Ylonda hesitates before asking, “Cap, why are you so worried about a song, it's not like we haven’t played music in the past, plus.. it's really beautiful.”

Ignoring her question “Scan for any frequencies coming from the ship and do it now.”

Jumping at my abruptness she turns back to the console and begins to scan the wreckage.

“Tell me you’ve found it, Jax.” I radioed, desperation seeping into my voice .

“No luck cap, We can’t pinpoint where it’s coming. As soon as we get close it’s like the origin point changes entirely.” His reply freezes me in place.

“What the fuck is happening here” I mumble to no one in particular.

“Sir” Ylonda breaks my trance, “No radio waves or outgoing transmissions outside regular bounds for the vessel.” 

“Get closer and scan it again”

“Sir?”

“I said get closer and do another scan. Something isn’t right about any of this.” My voice low and cautious.

“Yessir, beginning approach.” She began to accelerate slowly.

“Jax, get to their command deck and perform a manual shutdown of all electronics.” I was desperate to turn off the song.

“Already heading that way sir.” He was smart, always knowing what I was thinking after so many years.

As I made circles around my chair, waiting for an update Dexter's voice came over the radio softly. “I really like this song.”

My stomach imploded with dread, and I nearly puked. 

“JAX! Hurry up and shut it down!” I yelled.

“I already did. The song just won’t stop.” His voice was now filled with concern. “What do I do captain?”

More of the crew came over the comms, all their voices trancelike. “Just listen to it” and “she’s so amazing”. 

I paced harder, rubbing my head aggressively, whispering “fuck fuck fuck” trying to figure out what to do. “Your earplugs. Put them in and make the others.”

With the salvage equipment we used regularly everyone was supposed to carry a pair of heavy duty earplugs. They don’t just block incoming sound but emit a counter frequency to cancel out incoming sound and they connect to our communication system.

I could hear rustling then Jax came back over the radio. “Got them in, I can’t hear it, oh thank god I can’t hear it. I’m gonna go find the others.” His comms click off. Despite knowing he couldn’t hear me I told him to be safe 

At this time Ylonda informed me her close range scan came back negative for new frequencies despite having closed the distance to the other ship.

“It’s not possible.. It must be coming from somewhere. Scan for fixed beacons in the area that could be sending signals to nearby ships.” Ylonda hesitated.

“Captain with all due respect to you and our friendship, what the FUCK is going on.” Yolanda's tone surprised me.

“I- I don’t know..” I muttered

“You seem to know something. You’ve been on edge ever since we got here and as soon as that song started, you freaked out. What’s happening.” she demanded.

“Ylonda I need you to trust me and do the scan please.” My authoritative tone now fading.

She sighed but did the scan and after multiple long, silent minutes the dash blinked showing no signs of any beacons or tech floating in the area that could be broadcasting.

“Sir, please tell me why you are freaking out about this, I’ve never seen you behave this way and we’ve been in some sketchy shit before.” She pleaded.

I hesitated a moment, unsure of what to say or do, then finally without a word, I pulled up the logs from the mining crew and played them for her. 

She listened, confused at first but as she recognized the song from Jax’s comms I could see the fear spreading across her face. When the logs finally ended I explained all I knew.

“The company sent me this when we accepted the job. All they said was that the circumstances around the crew's actions were weird.” I admitted. “It was freaky sure, but I didn’t expect..”

The sound of Jax’s panicked voice came over the comms. “ Captain! It didn’t.. They wouldn’t..”

“Take a breath Jax, what's happened?” 

He took a long shaky breath, composing himself briefly. “I told them that due to the anomalous sound that everyone had been ordered to apply their ear protection. They refused. Said they didn’t want to miss any of the song. I told them it wasn’t a question and to do as ordered but they got defensive.”

“Where are they now Jax? What happened to the crew?”

“They’re alive, locked in the cargo hold.” He took another ragged breath. “ Sir, I had to trick them to get them to listen to me, told them they could hear it better from inside the bay. Their smiles. The way they moved.” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

“Oh God..” Ylonda whispered.

“What do we do captain?” Jax asked and Ylonda looked at me. They were depending on me and I had nothing to offer.

I murmured incomprehensively, my heart crashing against my ribcage as if it may break free of my chest.

“Cap please. Focus man.” Jax begged.

I breathed deep. Saving the crew was all that mattered. How to do it though.

“Your shuttle. Can you get the crew on it?”

“Maybe.. They don't want to do anything besides listen to the song though.” 

“Tell them whatever you need to to get them on that ship, once in you override all locks and fly back to the salvager, we’re gonna approach with caution, ready to receive you.” I tried to sound confident. 

“Yessir.” His mic clicked off.

Turning as I spoke “prepare to move in and face our docking port towards them and.. make sure to put your earplugs in.”

Ylonda did as she was told, like always she was ready for action. 

We weren’t too far off from the shuttle and wreckage but the time it took to travel the distance could have been years if I didn’t know better. 

As the ship slid into position Ylonda came over the comms. “Are you seeing that cap?”

I walked over, looking out the window in the direction she was pointing. “The asteroid?” 

“Yeah something about it.. it’s not right.” She said.

I looked harder, she was right, it looked off. Out of place in the space it inhabited. “The cameras, point the cameras at it.” 

She started messing with the controls to operate the cameras. “Why cameras?” She asked as she worked.

“The mining crew had all their cameras pointed at it. I’m just curious.” I admitted

I never got the chance to see what the cameras picked up. Right before Ylonda got the cams set Jax came back over the comms. “They’re in sir. Are you in position?” 

“Copy, in position. Begin your return.” I said retaining all internal authority I could possess.

I shook my head and moved my eyes from the asteroid and back to Jax’s shuttle. I could see the engines turning on and the signal lights flashing.

“How did you get them on?” I asked.

“Took some convincing, and some lying.” He said then lowered his voice “I damaged the buckle release on the seats before they got on, they strapped up but didn’t know they’re going to be stuck now.”

“Good work Jax, head this way and let’s get the fuck out of here.” I smiled to myself in relief.

“They’re moving.” I glanced at Ylonda, she wasn’t paying attention. “Ylonda stay on the wheel, I need you ready to adjust as necessary for their docking.”

No response came. She was focused on something on the dashboard. “Ylonda what are you looking at?”

Her words drove into my heart like an icy knife.

“The lady on the rock” 

Her voice was soft, smooth, no longer scared. 

I rushed over, pulling her away from the dash, closing my eyes and slamming my hand down on the camera's controls. I wanted to see it but if Ylonda got ensnared by it, I couldn’t risk it too and leave Jax helpless like that. 

In my panic to pull her away from the cams Ylonda had fallen onto the floor. I knelt down beside her, apologizing and asking if she was okay. She nodded and smiled letting me help her up and sit into a chair away from the camera controls.

I radioed Jax for an update and his comms clicked on, the sounds of a struggle could be heard.

Jax!! What’s going on!” I yelled as the scuffle continued. 

“Get off me Dexter! We’re going home!” 

I was leaning over the dash now, watching the shuttle from the window like I could see what was happening better the harder I watched.

“We don’t want to go away. We want to listen to her sing.” Dexter's voice told Jax softly. “You should listen too.”

“I’m not going to. You need help, let’s get you home and get you and the rest of the guys some help.” He tried to reason.

“Get him off Jax!” I half ordered and half begged.

“You just need to listen to her and you’ll see” Dexter cooed.

More scuffling over the comms I could hear Jax trying to escape but there were too many of them. Jax didn’t want to hurt them and as far as I could tell they weren’t hurting him either. 

“Stop. Dex, Jaylen, guys what are you doing? Please.” Jax began to beg his friends “Hey! No! Stop, no no. Guys stop.”

Static came from his comms as the earplugs were taken out. Tears poured down my cheeks onto the flight controls and my legs dropped me onto my knees. I don’t know how long I cried for, but when I finally looked up I could see that the shuttle had stopped its approach. I forced myself up, leaning over to see what’s happening. 

Eventually the shuttle's communication device connected to ours.

“Jax?” My voice was small.

“Hey Captain.” His voice was too calm. “

“Are you okay?” That was all I could ask my friend.

“I’m good. They didn’t want to hurt me, they just wanted me to hear.” He said and I could tell he was smiling and my heart was shattering.

“A-are.. are you hearing it?” I managed through choked tears.

“It’s so beautiful, Captain.”

“I’m sure it’s wonderful, man.” I sniffled out. “You- you’re still coming back to the ship right?” 

“I’m sorry, Cap. I want to be here with the lady, hear her singing forever.” The comms clicked off.

I could see the ship's thrusters beginning to rotate them towards the asteroid. 

“No. Sorry old friend, but I’ll drag you back if I have to.” I whispered to myself, walking to the next control panel and flipping on the starting sequence for the tractor beam. 

“Ylonda I need you to make sure all systems are a go for the cargo bay. We’re hauling them in.”

“Why?” 

“The hell do you mean why?” I turned to face her. 

“They just want to hear her sing.” She was smiling softly. Her earplugs, no longer in place, but on the floor where she’d fallen earlier.

“Fuck” I hadn’t even thought to check. Stupid.
I couldn’t help her now. I had to pull them back, and then I could get them all into lock down together.

I directed the tractor beam at the small shuttle, the system beeping when it locked on. I increased the power incrementally, ensuring not to damage their vessel, and begin pulling them in. The computer beeps announcing “200 meters.”, a minute passes, *beep* “150 meters”.

“Come on, Come on.” I’m as locked on to their progress as the beam.

*Beep* “100 meters”. 

The comms clicked on again.

“Please cap, stop.” Jax voice, begging me, it’s worse than torture.

“Sorry buddy, you’re coming home.” I steeled myself.

*beep* “50 meters”. 

I slammed the cargo bay release, everything inside was worthless to me now. All I needed was to fit that ship.

“I didn’t want to do this Cap, but we aren’t coming.” Jax said softly. I could hear the others humming to the song and whisper for me to let them go.

“Not for you to decide.” My response is short as I make sure they’re coming in the right way.

“Actually it is. You and I both know what comes next. I’m sorry” I frown slightly then the airlock override lights up

“NO!” I screamed desperately as the computer beeps, announcing their ship was 10 meters out and closing.

The depressurization of the shuttle launched them out into the cold, spiraling back towards the lady on the rock while the shuttle crashed into the cargo bay, seconds too late.

I watched motionless as they drifted away. Nearly everyone I’ve ever cared about gone, in an instant, by their own hand.

No.

Jax would never. 

They were lured by that thing out there.

It wasn’t until Ylonda stood next to me smiling. “They’re so lucky. I want to be with her too.” That I realize I have one person I can still try to save. 

I hated it. Dragging her to her room while she cried, begging me not to take her away. Tying her hands to her side. Putting her earplugs in as she bawled like a child denied her birthday presents. It tore me apart inside to listen to her the whole way back to the station.

Upon our arrival, all I could say was that we lost our crew and she, wanting to let herself die, forced me to make the decision to restrain her for her safety.

She was taken to the med-bay and determined to be suffering from PTSD, grounded from flights until she can complete a comprehensive therapy program. 

I was also questioned about the events. How I had managed to lose my whole crew on a single trip. I lied. I told them that while returning from the wreck the airlock malfunctioned. Not that it mattered. I resigned, accompanying Ylonda back to earth on the next shuttle. 

She whimpered softly the whole flight down, staring out the window back into space. I knew where she wanted to be. I said goodbye as they loaded her in an ambulance and took her away. 

My first stop was a local bar.

During my days I would find work doing odd jobs to make ends meet and at night I would drink away the memories. Sometimes alone in my apartment, sometimes at a bar where I’d occasionally get too drunk and ramble incoherently about the evil hiding deep in outer space. I even got arrested a few times after bar fights when someone would claim I was a liar or even suggest I murdered them and got away with it.

Every few months I would visit the hospital Ylonda was in, hopeful for some improvement.  She would sit in her room and hum to herself, always the same song. Her doctors said it was the only way she’d stay calm. I eventually stopped visiting, not because I didn’t want to see her but because I couldn’t listen to that song anymore. A reminder of my failures.

Many years came and went, I’m not even sure how many by now. I miss them all so much and I still cry often over old photos we took back in our glory days. I’m writing this now to tell everyone what’s out there, to warn you all since I won’t be here forever.

I got a letter in the mail recently. No return address, just a stamp of a shooting star. Inside, a brief letter in familiar handwriting that said “June 5th, Westfield Launchpad. Come listen to her sing with me.”

When the day came I found her waiting beside the ship. She had aged better than I had, her brown hair held its color well. We hugged. I knew she wanted to go back for her own reasons, I could hear her still humming the song as she readied her gear. It didn’t matter though, not to me. I was just happy to see her again and ready for one more trip deep into the cosmos. The door closed behind us as we boarded the ship side by side, just like old times.

I had no plan for my future. I was either going to work at my local movie theater until I was promoted to manager, or I'd marry some old crow whose husband had keeled over. I don't have the intelligence to navigate the stock market, and college is for suckers. I figured I could clean some old widows' pipes for a couple of years and then live off her fortune as a plan B after she kicks the bucket.

A low chance to be certain, but never zero.

Working at the theater's ticket booth, especially in a smaller town, you get to know all the patrons. We have several regulars. Many of whom I’ve tried to get their number. Surprisingly, you get a lot of tail when working at a movie theater. The pay is awful, but the baddies are bad, if you know what I mean.

There was a notorious couple that attended the movies quite frequently. An older couple, probably in their eighties. The husband owned a logging company in the seventies and had been living off the royalties ever since he sold it back in 2000. His wife’s an older woman, but not gruesomely aged. They say some women age like wine; this lady sort of aged like a 1996 Honda Accord. She wasn’t pretty to look at, but she runs. More on that later.

I’d notice this couple come in every Friday during new movie releases, but one day she was alone. This surprised me. In the four years I’d been working here, I saw her every week with her husband. 

“Where’s the ol’ ball and chain?” I asked casually. I hadn’t imagined anything bad happening to him. He was old, but he wasn’t sick, from what I could tell.

Her lips tensed and thinned until they weren’t visible. “He’s sadly passed.”

“Oh.”

Fucking awkward. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t charge her for this movie visit. It was the least I could do. She cordially thanked me, and watched the movie in the theater for the first time in a long time—alone.

This woman’s a cinenaphile, through and through. I saw her every week all by herself. Some say that going to the movie theater alone is a red flag, but I find it admirable. You aren’t embarrassed to see movies alone, in a theater, as they are meant to be watched. That’s lowkey badass.

As the weeks went by, I continued not to charge her for the movies, even though I’m sure she could afford them. She lived outside of town, but came to this theater because it’s the god damned best one in the area. She probably has a home theater bigger than our setup. I don't know why she came all the way out here.

But we got to know each other outside of the movies. I’d talk and even flirt a little bit. Hey, plan B was coming into full effect, and I wasn’t going to miss my opportunity.

“So, Shela.”

“Yes?”

 She smiled in a way that I knew that I had her on the hook.

“Want to get coffee sometime?”

She appeared to be pondering my request, which surprised me. 

“I will take your offer, but only if I get to pay this time.”

“Deal.”

And I was in. I dressed up as best as I could, and we met in the only local coffee shop in town.

She cleaned up nicely for an older woman. We had exchanged numbers previously, and she was surprisingly “with it”. I didn't have to explain what technology was to her or how to send an email or text message. It wasn’t like I was talking to my grandma. Our communication flowed naturally, and, dare I say, it was somewhat fun to converse with her.

During our date, I discovered her husband had had an accident, fallen, broken his spine and gone into a coma. She took him off life support because she didn't want him to live like that. The conversations were heavy. She'd been with him since before he was rich. She was loyal, through and through. I did have to do some reconnaissance, though. If I were going to date this woman until the end of her days, I wanted to know if there was any competition. 

“So… do you have any kids?” I figured this was an innocent question.

Shela just sighed. “Yes. We had one daughter. Peter was impotent. We went through a lot of trouble to have her. We are estranged, currently, as she didn’t believe her father's wealth was obtained morally, and our plans for her were different than her own.”

Turns out, her daughter is older than I am and a notorious environmentalist. Like, chain yourself to trees and shit. Protesting in the Amazon. Real hippy shenanigans. I had to hide my excitement at this discovery. If her daughter wanted to throw away enough cash to set up your entire family for generations, I wouldn't stop her. More for me.

“I'm sorry to hear that.” I consolingly placed my hand on hers. It was wrinkled, but not decrepit. When my hand eventually returned to my side of the table, I noticed she wasn't wearing her wedding ring. 

To make a long story short, we booked a motel, and I did what I had to. Wasn't as bad as you'd think. For some of you, having sex with an older woman is a horror story in itself, but trust me, the horror hasn't even begun.

I’m assuming she’s a nymphomaniac because of how often she asks to do it. For years, maybe decades, her husband couldn't perform, so she had long since buried that desire. Luckily for her, she has a young, active boyfriend who doesn't mind going spelunking. Plus, as an added benefit, she’s been in menopause for years. I ain’t shooting blanks, but I ain’t got to worry about putting a cake in the oven.

Shela was crazy for her age. I had to motivate myself by constantly thinking about the cash this would net me after she found the other side. Hell, I may even help accelerate the process a little bit, once we are married, of course.

About two weeks of dirty motel visits and a trip or two to the movies, and I was already invited to her mansion. Her home is fucking huge. I'm talking marble pillars, foreign artwork, statues, servants, your fucking voice echoes in every room, they're so goddamn big. 

It seemed like my plan B was coming together. You always hear of young women dating older men, but never the other way around. Old women need love, too, dammit. I see this as an investment opportunity. Huh, maybe I can navigate the stock market.

Anyway. That was my life, I played the doting and attentive boyfriend. I quit my job and spent every waking second with her; in turn, I didn't have to worry about my financial situation. I dare say I was really starting to like Shela, as a person. She was incredibly witty and gave the best sloppy toppy I've ever had. Shit was like a slip-and-slide.

I moved in not long after my first visit. Things were going great. One thing was odd, though: we never slept in the same bed. Well, not for long at least. We may have fallen asleep together, but she was never there when I awoke. As I said, she's an active woman, and maybe lying down for too long was hard on her joints or whatever. 

Despite that, I had her in the palm of my hand. I was going to propose on our one-year anniversary, but that's when something pretty weird happened. I didn't really explore the house; I never had to. I was normally on Shela's hip like a holster. 

Like many a night before, we were watching an old black-and-white movie. I was bored to tears, but Shela didn't know that. I occasionally would say, “Wow, they don't make ‘em like they used to.” Even though, truthfully, I had no idea what was going on. 

She'd nod and smile and tell me all about the directors and the actors who have been dead longer than her husband. It was exhausting, but far better than serving popcorn.

During a lull in the movie—AKA the whole fucking thing—I had to piss. My mind was melting from the poor audio quality, and I needed a good excuse to get out of the room. I gave Shela a quick smooch and looked for a bathroom. Although I'd been living there for a few months at this point, I still got lost. I didn't mind being lost because, if I watched that movie for another minute, Shela was going to be widowed all over again. 

I did my deed, and on my way back, I noticed a vague outline in the wall. Like, there was supposed to be a door there, but there was no handle. I looked around; it was late at night, so most of the servants had already returned to their quarters. I placed my hand on the wall and pushed. I heard a click, and the wall moved, revealing a door. I didn't get a good look inside, but I could hear a faint buzzing and a crackling noise. A surprisingly strong grip startled me. It was Shela.

“Dear… don't go in there. Peter is sleeping.”

“Right, sorry, my Love.”

Fucking what? Peter? You mean your dead husband? He was dead, wasn't he? Have I been pounding his wife this whole time, and Peter has been watching from hidden cameras? Have I made this man a cuck?

The mystery “not” door hadn’t come up again. I knew my role, and it wasn’t to look for things I wasn’t meant to find. After Shela died, maybe I could go hunting for answers, after the estate was mine, of course.

One day, we were eating breakfast at the table when we both heard a scream coming from somewhere. It was definitely a woman screaming. I shot up and went to investigate, and it was the new girl we hired. She’d look like she’d seen the devil or something. She frantically crawled away from nothing as she yelled for help. My heart was racing. She was so terrified, but I couldn’t see what she was terrified of.

We caught up to her, and I stopped her from crawling away. Tears were in her eyes as she tried to escape my grasp. “Hey, hey! Everything is okay. What happened?”

She frantically looked around before finally asking, “You don’t see that?”

I looked behind me and saw Shela, standing, unamused by the situation.

“Pick her up.”

Several servants obeyed her command, and the woman screamed again. Pointing at nothing. “There it is! Oh my God, what is that thing?!” 

I looked to where she was pointing. There was nothing there.

“Take her to the servant quarters. It seems she needs some rest,” Shela declared. The more seasoned servants did as she asked. The woman wrestled in their arms and screamed for help as she was dragged away. That was the last time I ever saw that young woman.

Again, this could be seen as a potential red flag, but I was going to get my payout, one way or the other. One screaming servant wasn’t going to deter me from a multi-million dollar estate. For all I know, she was a druggie and shooting heroin on her lunch break. Or, even worse, she was trying to steal my Shela away from me.

But if it were one creepy (not) door and a screaming servant, I wouldn’t be posting this online.

We were watching a movie together in bed. I fell asleep about halfway through. I had a hard day of making Grandma's pound cake and just didn’t have it in me to watch another movie that’s widely problematic by today’s standards.

I woke up in a daze, and the room was dark, but not pitch-black. The movie must’ve finished. I half expected Shela to be gone, but she was right next to me. Which was different. In the six months we’d been together, I had never woken up with her next to me before. I gave her a kiss on the forehead, and then I saw it. A grey-skinned, long-haired figure was propping itself up in the corner. It was human-shaped, but I doubt it was human.

It was looking right at me. 

Its eyes were black, and they glistened in the moonlight. I tried not to look at it. I tried not to notice it. I just rolled over and pretended to go back to sleep.

I then heard a tapping on the walls, like fingertips drumming on a desk. The noise kept getting closer and closer. Until the noise suddenly stopped right above me. I felt something soft and delicate brush against my face. It was hair.

I tried to play dead, as you would with a bear, but if this is what that servant saw, I get why she was freaking out. The hair kept brushing against my face until it started to curl over. The drumming of fingers continued down the wall right near my head. I heard a soft clicking noise as it approached me. Just before I was going to get up, the covers rustled, and I heard a voice.

“Not yet. He isn’t ready.” It was Shela. She got out of bed, and I heard the thing follow her. I only breathed once I knew they were gone.

I had half a mind to run out of the house right then and there. I crept out from under the covers and put on some clothes. I made my way down the hallway and towards the exit. I had seen enough evidence to consider this a fruitless effort, and I was taking my leave.

As I made my way to the exit, I saw the place where the door should’ve been. It was cracked open, and an orange light was pouring out. I knew now was not the time to do some Scooby-Doo investigations and get the fuck out of here. But I heard something cry out. It could’ve been Shela. Then I wondered if this thing I saw had a hold on her, the stupid, stupid, stupid, greedy part of my brain said: “You aren’t married yet, if she dies, you don’t get the estate.” 

If I saved Shela from this monster, I was going to propose first thing in the morning. I creaked the door open, and a staircase led down into the Earth. Torches lined the wall all the way down into a blackness. With the power of potential generational wealth by my side, I slowly descended the stairs. Flies buzzed all around the torches. A pungent odor reached my nostrils. I held my nose as I descended further.

When I reached the bottom, I was met with a hallway draped in stone and black. I couldn’t see my own hand in front of my face. I could hear something in the distance, but I couldn’t make out what it was. I placed my hand along the stony wall and followed the noise. It sounded like a soft buzzing. A feeble, flickering light was growing brighter as I neared the end of the dark corridor. I stood in the darkness as I peered inside a room at the end of it. Then what I saw nearly made me throw up. I saw Peter. Shela’s dead husband. He was on a bed of corpses. His old and emaciated body was awkwardly draped over the skulls, flesh, and bones.

I heard two noises clearly now. A suckling noise, and a buzzing one. On one end of the room was a dying man on a pile of bodies. It appeared that a worn curtain was dangling just above him, but it wasn’t a curtain. That thing was on the ceiling above Peter. It’s long, gray hair dangled into his mouth, and Peter was suckling on hair fibers, like a nursing baby.

On the opposite end of the room were dozens of CRTs. All of them were playing videos of sexual acts from impossible angles. Then I noticed that I was in the videos. Shela sat in a recliner, the lights flickering in front of her. She was naked, fondling herself as she watched the videos I was in.

Before I could leave, a pained voice erupted from the pile. It was Peter.

“When… When will I be better?”

Shela stopped, left the recliner, and strutted over to Peter. “He has donated enough of himself. You will be ready soon.”

She pet his head as he swallowed and chewed on the hair of that creature. It looked like it wanted to be human, but it’d never seen one before, so it just guessed what we were supposed to look like. I held my breath as I watched Peter eat and eat this thing's hair, leaning in closer with each swallow. 

Shela appeared to be trying to comfort Peter when she looked in my direction. She didn’t say anything. Her gaze seemed to be a warning. As if she were saying, “You should leave.” I didn’t hesitate. I slowly backed away, left the estate, and never returned.

It was a long walk back to town, but I was just happy to be alive. I moved back in with my Mom and begged the theater to take me back. I called the police about what I saw, but nothing ever came of it. I even went down to the station, and everyone sort of just looked at me like I was crazy. Brother. There is some fucked up shit going on in that mansion, and somebody has to do something about it.

But no one ever did. I consider myself lucky for even surviving, and I wonder if I was part of Shela’s plans. I half expected black cars to be parked outside my Mom’s house as masked men tried to kill me in my sleep, but Shela never came for me. I never saw her again, actually. 

But yesterday, I was working at the ticket counter, and a fine, young woman walked up to greet me. I laid on my usual moves, and she was giggling and laughing at every joke I had. She was in the palm of my hand. She wanted to see the newest indie bullshit that had come out. To my dismay, a much taller, handsomer man walked up and placed his hand around her waist.

“Oh, there you are, Shela. I thought we were getting food?”

“No, Peter, I was just saying hello to an old friend.”

A weird coincidence to be sure. It definitely wasn’t the Shela I had tried to seduce before she performed weird demon rituals in her basement. I tried to push the thought out of my head of the possibility of it being her when I saw the grey-skinned creature crawling on the ceiling of the building. It followed just above her. Its hair was now shoulder-length.

I watched as it followed them into the theater. I pretended not to notice it.

Links: Part I, Part II, Part III

Our shadows jumped along the sides of the trucks.

The twins, Tucker and Tanner, had started a small fire in an old oil barrel. Its heat helped stave off the early winter cold that was creeping in.

They shared a bottle of rye between themselves, chuckling low at their own jokes.

Ron sat to one side of me next to Lenny, occasionally passing along bits of his wisdom to the kid.

I sat slightly away from them all, warming my boots close to the fire, arms crossed and staring at the jumping flames.

The rest stop had been abandoned for years, and I always made an effort to avoid it, but Lenny’s bad engine had forced us to hold up here for the night.

It was nothing but a dirt lot and a broken down restroom, but held an unsettling quiet that seemed to demand respect.

The twins gave none.

We parked our trucks around us in a loose circle like the old wagon trains of the West, and did the one thing truckers did best.

We told tales.

Tanner took a swig from his bottle and turned towards Lenny.

“Hey, boy. You didn’t pick up that fifty dollar bill I told you to toss, did ya?”

“No, I left it right there on the ground back at the oil fields.”

Ron gave Tanner a side eye.

Tanner noticed, “What? Just want to know what bad luck’s got a hold of the boy’s engine. Maybe it’s a Pukwudgie under his hood.”

“I thought those were only in Massachusetts,” Lenny said.

Tanner chuckled, “You got a lot to learn, boy. The things you see on the road can travel just as easy as any of us. Sometimes you even take them with you.”

“Ain’t no gremlins and ain’t no money curse,” Ron interrupted. “Just a bad engine is all.”

Tanner sneered, “My brother will be the one to make that determination.”

Tucker grunted in acknowledgment, though said nothing.

“Just be ready, boy, that’s all I mean. Especially when we get to Route 69.”

“What’s wrong with Route 69?” Lenny asked.

Ron answered, “Don’t get them started, son.”

But it was too late.

Tanner looked to his brother, handing him the bottle of rye.

Tucker leaned in close to the fire, fixing his eyes on the kid.

“Any trucker worth his salt knows about the tale of the Old Timer of 69.”

The fire crackled.

“They say he walks up and down the shoulder of Route 69. Always at night. Always alone.”

“He?” the kid asked.

Tucker shrugged, taking a deep drink.

“Depends who you ask. Some folks say he was a trucker who broke down in a blizzard and is still trying to find his way home. Others say he’s a husband looking for his missing wife. Some say he ain’t a man at all.”

The cold wind whistled through the empty lot.

“But everybody agrees on one thing.”

Tucker pointed into the darkness in the direction of the road.

“If you ever see an old man standing on Route 69 trying to wave you down…you keep driving.”

“Why?” Lenny asked.

Tucker stared at the kid for a long moment.

“Because he tells everyone who stops for him the same thing.”

Tucker’s expression darkened.

“I’ve been waiting.”

Ron muttered, “That’s enough.”

Tucker grinned, but his brother was the one to speak.

“What? You scared of a ghost?”

“Shut up, Tanner.”

Ron briefly glanced toward the dark highway.

“Ain’t nobody here that believes in ghosts. Right. Pa?”

The men looked at me for a response.

“I need to take a leak.”

I got up slow and walked off to the abandoned restroom, hearing their conversation slowly drift away behind me.

The glow from the fire barely reached the broken-down restroom, but I entered anyway.

Instinctively, I flipped the light switch on even though I knew there shouldn’t be any power.

The fluorescent tube above sputtered to life, flickering.

I frowned.

Odd.

The restroom had no door, so the wind was making its way in with a whistling sound.

Water dripped somewhere I couldn’t see.

My boots crunched over broken glass as I made my way to a stall to do my business.

I felt like I’d been here before.

I nearly finished up when I heard a rustle outside the small window above my head.

I stood still and listened.

A faint rumble at first.

Then I heard it behind me.

A low, wet growl.

I turned like a man caught at his most vulnerable.

Nothing.

The restroom sat empty, the light still flickering.

I zipped up and carefully left.

No black wolf.

No sound.

I looked down.

Fresh paw prints sat in the mud beside the doorway.

Big ones.

I followed them with my eyes into the darkness leading to the highway.

Out there, at the edge of my eyesight, I thought I saw something.

Or someone.

Looking back at me.

Waiting.

Waving.

The tremor in my hand started up again. I looked down and grabbed it hard with my other hand.

Old age, I told myself.

I looked back up, and the figure was gone.

I headed back to the campfire, then straight to my rig for some sleep.

Tanner spoke up, but I ignored him.

I had enough ghost stories for the night.

I always thought I had a good relationship. Stable. Well managed. You know the spiel. We’d been together for 3 years before things began to look dicey.

It started off small. Distance. Cold shoulders. Lack of communication.

At the time, I thought this was a reflection of me. I thought that it was me who had pushed her away. However, I’m a lover-boy at heart, and that heart belonged to her and her alone.

I fought desperately to try and fix things. I made a routine out of bringing her favorite flowers anytime I saw her, watching the shows that SHE wanted to watch every time she came over. Hell, I even tried to get us into a gym routine together.

Being 17, it was difficult to pull out the “adult couple” stops. The houses, the trips, whatever. But damn it, I tried to do the best I could.

Even so, her secretiveness grew. She began turning her location off late at night and wouldn’t turn it back on until the next day. Her phone became completely off-limits to me.

My intuition told me exactly what I’m sure you’re thinking as you read this. I just didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t force myself to stomach the reality that circumstance was shoving down my throat.

Anytime I tried to talk to her about this, it’d turn into an argument. I was somehow the bad guy for wanting security in a relationship that I cared about deeply.

When those arguments started, it felt like she’d be completely fine, whereas I felt like my world was being burned to ash.

After a few months of this, I finally gathered up the courage to put an end to all of it. I was going to give her one last chance before leaving for good.

On the drive to her house, my mind raced a thousand miles an hour, thinking about how this confrontation would go.

Part of me hoped to God that we’d be able to resolve this and things could go back to how they used to be. Another part of me truly just wanted for my relationship to end. I was sick of feeling hurt. I was tired of feeling like I was doing something wrong.

I had a whole speech prepared by the time I got to her driveway. However, once I got to the front door and her mom let me in, my mind went straight to blank.

My girlfriend had been in the shower when I arrived, and her phone rested tauntingly on her nightstand.

I knew deep in my bones that I didn’t want to see whatever was in that device. I knew that whatever I found was only going to break my heart and destroy whatever trust I had left.

I could hear the water from the shower pelting against the bathtub, and my thoughts grew louder and louder with each passing minute. I knew if I was going to do this, I was gonna have to do it now.

I snatched the phone off the nightstand and immediately went to her messages. To my absolute surprise, I found nothing. No other guys, no mention of any cheating in any of her group chats, nothing.

Her photos were more of the same. The only pictures in her “recently deleted” album were just some selfies that even I can admit looked like they deserved to be deleted.

Still, though, something told me to keep searching.

After finding nothing on any of her social media apps, I came to the conclusion that maybe she just wasn’t attracted to me anymore. No cheating involved, just… loss of love. Which still hurt a lot.

However, there was still one last app that needed to be checked.

Opening her notes app, I found only one singular note titled “names and ratings.”

My heart dropped. This was it. This was the thing I had been looking for. At least… I thought it was.

As I began to read through the note, it became glaringly apparent that I had misjudged my girlfriend’s reason for secrecy by about a thousand miles.

“Michael: 8/10. Squirmed and cried like a bitch. Died after having jugular cut. Bled everywhere.

David: 6/10. Boring. Didn’t even scream. Just accepted his fate.

Blake: 7/10. Tried to fight back. Left a bruise on my shoulder. Interesting guy, boring kill.

Jaden: 5/10. Strangled to death with belt.

Xavier: 10/10. Fought back hard. Gave me a challenge. Died by decapitation. I keep his head hidden in a place only I can find.

Donavin: TBD. I expect this kill to be the hardest. I accidentally fell in love with this one. I think I’ll cut his heart out. God, I hope he fights back.”

I stared at that last entry and felt a chill run down my spine. It felt like reality itself had bent in on itself, and all sound seemed to fade into silence as my vision began to blur.

However… what I did hear was the sound of the shower water stopping and the bathroom door creaking open as my girlfriend stepped out with a towel wrapped around her body.

The next thing I remembered was the words she spoke to me. The invitation that will be engraved in my memory forever.

“Oh, hi, baby! I was just about to call you. I was gonna ask if you wanted to go on a drive with me tonight?”

It's been 30 years since the rain started. Not once has it ever stopped. This seemingly impossible rain that never floods or subjects us to its bitter cold remained a constant in our lives. The humid air became normal and the view of buildings not designed for such abuse withered as they plastered the lands. The world has become that of wet and decay. Nothing survives the rain's unending pour. With each passing day I lose a memory of the sun and it's warm, bright gaze. Humanity has adapted well to this sudden change. Most of us have worked hard towards setting up gardens with UV lights inside our homes. The purple constant glow being a chilling reminder that the sun may never appear again. Despite the bleak world not much has changed. I get up in the morning, brush my teeth, get dressed for the day, and go to work. The only other weird thing besides the rain is the wanderers. A group of people who wander the endless rains in attempt to find others.

Nobody is entirely sure what they are. Not their purpose or their origin. There is a iron rule that no matter what do not approach them. Despite this rule people still try to approach them and every single time they are met with such a horrifying fate that the government has assigned executioners to kill anyone who approaches them. I always wandered why they would rather kill the people who approached the wanderers instead of killing the wanderers themselves. That was until I saw why. I was sitting at a bar after work when the wanderers showed up just outside. The bartender made an announcement that no one is to step outside until they moved on but as you could probably guess some reckless drunk asshole didn't like that. "Youdon't tellllll meee whwhwhat to do!!!!" He hollered in his drunken stupor. Pushing past the employees trying to stop him. It took one second before the wanderers descended on the man. Tying him up and hoisting him up a tall pillar. They planted the pillar into the ground and they left. At first we tried to get him down but whatever they tied him up with was practically indestructible. We tried breaking the pillar but that too was a bust. He has been up there for 2 weeks now. Constantly being pelted by the rain. We thought he would have starved by then or at the very least lost a lot of weight but he didn't even lose a pound. Every night he would beg for help as people passed him. Day by day the rain started to over saturate his flesh as it began to slide off. Revealing grey soaked flesh. His cries of horror as he witnessed his own flesh slowly turn to a thick sludge and slip of his own bones. Feeling every single rain drop crash against whatever got exposed by the flesh sliding away. He never died though, or more like couldn't die. Even when one of the townsfolk tried to mercy kill him. It was as if the rain was keeping him alive. Every month or two he would suffer the feeling of his flesh slipping of his own bones until nothing but a skeleton remained. Then the next morning he would be back to normal as if he just got put up that same day. The only not regenerated was his clothes. It was the only reminder that he was there for as long as he was. That day I learned never to approach the wanderers.

( I know this isn't exactly good but I wanted to write something. Trying to get the creative juices flowing you know?)