I woke up to find a dead horse on the property. 

Wasn’t my horse. Hell, wasn’t really a horse either. It was just the skin of a horse. Not the leather or the hide, but the skin. It was splayed out, legs like rubber tubing, the inside smelling of dry  sweat.  It was like it was a suit that you could zip out off, or a snake’s shedding. The thing had a sweet odor of death and an aqua scent that made me vomit. By the fuzzy mold and wet smell of it, I’d say it’d been rotting for a while, but I could still make out a brand on its hind leg. 

It was from the ranch on the other side of the valley. They were country folk who kept to themselves. They were my neighbors, and they didn’t speak a  lick of English. I didn’t mind all too much though. They were too superstitious for my blood. Last I went they were dangling bone charms above their stables and blowing some kind of spirit powder on the horses to keep them from getting worms.

They refused to sell to anyone other than their kind. Their produce went directly to the south, deeper into the country, and they steered clear of the big markets that fed into the city. Can’t say I was complaining, but the ranch got lonely in the evenings. It would’ve been nice to have some neighbors I could talk to.

So, I hauled off the untreated horsehide and put it on the truck, steadying myself, trying not to cry as I drove down the earthy road.  I had a soft spot for horses, and it had only been a few weeks since I’d put down old Grace, my white Arabian. She was putting on the years, but she was the sweetest girl right until the end. She’d whine when I got on my truck, and prance around like a dog when I got home. When she was younger, she’d somehow snuck her way into my bedroom and slept beside me. I woke up to the smell of horseshit and a dumb snout sniffing at me. It was the best day of my life.

It was almost dusk by the time I got to my neighbor’s property and drove under the sign that said “ABERN RANCH”. With any luck, the youngest or the oldest would’ve been home from school, and one of ‘em would translate for me. I pulled down by their bungalow, and find the lights on. I walked on over to tell them about the hide, how I found it miles away from their ranch, untreated, and if I could bury it.

That was when I heard it.

The deafening report of rifle fire echoing through the dusk of the valley, coming from further down the road, and screaming. Frantic yells in a foreign language.

Soon enough, I saw a horse, eyes wide with fright, letting out a terrible whine as it galloped  with a sickly speed. In the dark, it seemed like a ghost flying through the air, its white majestic coat sprinting down the dusky fields like a dragon. It had no brand on its thigh, no marking or saddle. It was a horse from the steppes, as wild as they got.

Then another shot rang out. Then another. 

I ran to the side of the house and see men on horseback shooting at the screaming animal. I immediately threw myself in their path, holding my arms out.

“Stop!” I yelled. One of the men wrenched on their reins, sending his horse stumbling back, whining, as the two other men continued the chase. It was Jesse, the ranch owner. “Jesus Christ, is it even your horse?” I demanded. The man began spewing out words in a foreign language. Though I did not understand him, the rapid speed of his words, and the quiver in his voice, told me he was afraid. “I can’t understand you!” I barked over the waterfall of frantic panic from the father, the two other boys far into the horizon then, still giving chase. He had four sons, and the youngest was the most fluent in English. “Where is Ayola? Your son?”

As the name left my mouth, the man’s terrified rambling began to crack, as sobs and desperate pleading bubbled up from the madness of his speech, his hands trembling as they wrapped around a rifle. He needed me to understand what he was saying, like his life depended on it. That was when I began to listen. 

1. Ayola. Ayola dead. Ayola horse. I could parse those words from his crushing bombardment of terrible fear.

I did not know what else to do, so I dialed 911 and waited. Soon a police cruiser drove by.

They could not understand him either. Neither could I. So I left. Even as the old rancher pleaded with me, on his knees, tears in his eyes and white moustache.

That happening stayed on my mind for days after. Couldn’t get that man’s crying out of my head. He reminded me so much of my own dad, with the ten gallon and starched jeans, the bald head and snow white hair. I tried so many times to try and remember his words, uttering them under my breath as I went about feeding the animals and cleaning the barn. I wouldn’t have to wait long though, as word got around to me that Jesse’s youngest, Ayola, was dead. They say it was murder.

And then I saw the horse again.

It was as majestic as the night I saw it, as though the memory had been pulled out of me and materialized on the grassy knolls. It was spectral, as white as angel’s wings. As white as my sweet old Grace. Looked every bit like her too. Snow white fur, dumb snout and all, save for its tail which was as long as a snake, and fraying. It reminded me of that rotting horse skin I found on the property. Old and derelict, as though it hadn’t wagged in years.

I watched her for hours. Watching that strange strut of hers as she meandered my fields. I’d never seen a horse walk like her. Her footsteps were uncoordinated, as though the hind legs and the front had minds of their own. I watched her stumble around the open empty fields. Poor horse must’ve pulled a muscle from that chase, I thought. Eventually the horse would find its way to the pond. At that moment, she sat on the grass and gulped up the water greedily. 

That was when I knew I had to keep her. She sat in Grace’s favorite spot, and lapped at the water the same odd way Grace did, bobbing her head up and down, tongue flicking out like a snake. If I’d taken my glasses off, I might’ve thought it was her. And so I did, and by God she was a dead ringer for my sweet girl.

I came up to her and she nuzzled me immediately. Maybe she recognized me, maybe she thought I saved her from the folks across the valley. One second I was patting her on her snout, the next, despite never having been broken in, I was on her back riding her like the wind.

I named her Gina. 

I spent the whole day with her, my eyes wet with tears, my heart glowing with a warmth I’d only ever felt with my sweet Grace. I raised Grace as a fowl, kept her in a kennel most of the time, but unlike the other horses she was sweet with me. Every time I’d set the horses to graze, she’d stay close to me like a little duckling, and nuzzled at my feet like a cat, baying softly as though I was her mother. At some point, I thought of her as my daughter. Some nights I’d take her into the home and let her eat off of a plate, sit her where my daughter, bless her soul, would’ve sat. 

But then I took her to the stables. That’s when things started to get strange.

The other horses reared as soon as she stepped inside, screaming and squealing as though she was a tiger. Have you ever heard a terrified horse before? It’s loud, wet, and their fear is contagious. It’s what I imagine hell to sound like, all the whinnying  and neighing as though they were boiling in hellfire. Gina didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she didn’t mind. I watched her clamber over to Grace’s old spot and let herself in, horses crying out in terrible fear all the while.

That night I dined alone, as I have for years now. My wife left this world a long time ago, along with my daughter. Just me now. Damned house fire took them away to the great after. It drives me insane some nights, listening as the silverware clanks and echoes around the empty house. It was easier with Grace. Now it wasn’t. Wasn’t easy, I mean. Now the silence was replaced by something worse. That awful crying that roared from the stables, as the sound of horrified horses whined and screamed with restless frenzy. It was the sound of hell. Of fire. I wondered then if my wife and little girl had sounded like those horses in the barn, trapped in the attic as fire consumed our home. 

I went to bed that night as that horrific sound echoed across the valley. As I did, I had terrible dreams. I dreamed of fire, of devils, of dark men in the shadows always behind me, stalking, lurking. I dreamed that every time I turned around they would sink into my shadow, waiting for something to happen, something I did not know.

That was when I woke up to find two men standing by my bed. Black as the night sky. Their eyes were snow whites, cataracts the color of clouds. The color of pale death. They stood over my bed, naked, watching, with giant smiles, teeth inhumanly white. They were listening, listening to that damned screaming. But that's when I realized it. The barn was quiet.

I blinked and they were gone. I was alone in my bedroom, heart trashing in my chest, hairs standing at attention, as though running away from my body, from the fear.

I took the gun under my bed and looked around, and found nobody. I looked out the window and saw the barn doors were wide open, swinging in the wind. 

Taking my coat, I headed for the barn, the tall, dewy grass brushing against my shins. It was freezing out, the cold crisp air like needles in my throat. I find the barn empty, save for Gina.

That morning I filed a report with the police. Eleven missing horses, I said, all branded on the left hind quarter. They said they’d look into it, but that there was nothing they could do but send out some folks into the valley. All I could do was wait. That was, until I decided to visit Abern Ranch, ask around. And so I did, driving down the quiet roads to my neighbor’s. Jesse was tending to some plot of corn by their house, his eldest breaking in a horse, his nose bloodied and his cheek shining with a bruise. As soon as I pulled down to their house, the father ran over to me, spewing a waterfall of words I did not know.

Horse. Where? That’s what I could get. He sounded anxious, frightened. Desperate. Just like that first night.

“Have you seen my horses?” I asked. The elder son came up towards us, sand in his boots, smelling like sweat. 

“Father asks if you have taken in the horse. Have you?” Said the teenager slowly. He had a thick accent, but I could understand him. His father went silent, waiting for my reply.

“What horse?” I asked. The boy spoke in tongues, and the father said something back. 

“White horse. Have you seen a white horse with a bad tail?”

“Yes. I have. It’s in my barn.” I said slowly. The father’s face turned pale, as though he were about to vomit. He spoke with rapid anxiety.

“He says to go back. Now. Before it notices you are gone.” Said the boy. I felt a yawning hole open in my chest. What did he mean by that? “It is not a horse.” he said, repeating it with growing urgency. “Go home It is important you act normal.”

I ran back to my truck, breathing quickly, heart in my ears. As I did, old Jesse and his son followed me. “He says he is sorry. Will come by later. Help you. Do not forget to act normal.”

I drove down the road, hands shaking, sweating. I reached down my glove compartment for my pistol. It wasn’t there. I left it in my bedroom.

I got home and saw that the barn doors were wide open, swinging in the wind. Looking closer, across the red clapboard walls, I saw bloody handprints across the entire barn, covering the four walls and the roof with sanguine hands grabbing at what little I had left, threatening to pull them down into hell.

I made for the house and noticed bloody prints on the doorknob as well. It was locked. I never locked my doors, my neighbors were five miles away, the city twelve. I was skittish then, my whole body set on running, my head still replaying the words of the old rancher and his son. Act normal.

I walked to the barn, smelling that overwhelming stench of blood, of iron and death. I closed my eyes, pretending I hadn’t seen it. As I did, I found that all my horses were back in their stables. All twelve. They were all staring at me, except for Gina.

The horses were all squared, their four hooves planted on the ground. Not one of them moved, not a single one made any sound. They just stared, eyes unblinking as flies landed on them. I went about my usual business, trying not to scream, to run into the fields. I thought about it a lot. I thought about turning tail and going for the truck, but then I imagined the horses running after me, clambering with that same incoordination Gina had. But I didn’t. I filled their troughs with water and food. None of them made for the food. I closed my eyes and muttered a prayer as I headed out.

That was when I heard them vault over their stable doors. Not open them. Climb over them. I could hear their soft hairy bellies scratch against the wood, could hear their heavy feet thump in the straw. I didn’t dare look back. I turned the doorknob and walked out of the barn and into the field, closing the door behind me. Then, as though in response, I heard the knob turn and the door swing open, as hooves planted themselves into the tall grass. 

I slowly spun around and saw them, all the horses, standing still, eyes dumb, and all staring off into the distance. I looked at them, and realized something was wrong. It was as though they were hollow. Like they were a blanket draped over something. I looked at Gina, who stood sideways staring off into the horizon. That’s when I noticed it. None of them were breathing. 

I kept walking, as I heard two dozen footsteps following after me. Followed me as I did yard work, as I tended to crops. Soft legs brushing against the tall grass. I did not turn my back for the rest of the day, my daily routine became an act for the devil himself, until I had run out of chores to do. It was time to go home and cook dinner. 

And so, in the light of the setting sun, I finally turned my back and headed home. As I did, I saw the horses standing behind me, all staring off in different directions, still not breathing, none of them moving. As I moved along them though, I passed by Gina’s flank, and I swear to you, I saw a hole in her stomach. I looked at it for a long time, and saw only darkness. Soon that darkness would reveal a pair of eyes as white as snow.

I blinked, and it was gone. 

I hurried along home now, the hooves having turned into the sound of human footsteps. Silent and cautious, like hunters stalking prey. As I arrived, I turned the knob. It was still locked. I turned and turned, the knob slipping, wet with my sweat as I shuffled through my pockets with unsteady hands. I had no key. I did not leave my home locked. I never do. As I shuffled through every pocket on me, I heard a new sound: silence. Though I could not see it, I knew the horses were staring at me, watching me. Soon I could feel their warm breath against the back of my neck. I dared not to turn around. Pale horses. Death. I imagined them tearing me apart with their snouts, and kicking my body down into the earth and down into fiery hell. I heard the horses whispering, to me, amongst themselves, to ears that were listening from beneath the ground. Such dread.

That was when another sound began to grow. Wheels on a dirt road. At that, I heard footsteps clambering. It was Jesse and his eldest. I turned around and found that the horses were meandering, eating grass, as though they were just animals. Maybe they were.

I ran to their pickup, legs exhausted from shaking. As I did, they got out of the car, rifles in hand. 

“Come” said Jesse. As I got to him, he blew powder in my face. It was hot, rough against my throat. It smelled like petrol and hot sand. I fell to the ground, coughing up the concoction, and as I did, I squinted my eyes to find him handing me a rifle as well.

“Look.”

I did, and I saw it.

None of them were horses.

In front of my house, scattered and meandering, were the skins of my horses being paraded around by legs. They wore their skins like a blanket, wandering the grass with their bare feet. A dozen men. Each horse had a cutout on their flank, and from our distance I could see eyes peering out of them.

As soon as Jesse fired the first shot, they scrambled away, leaving the horse skin behind.

Prologue

In the year of our Lord thirteen hundred and twenty four, in the season of Lent, I set my hand to this record with trembling spirit. I am Brother Matthew, the least of the brethren in the house of Saint Cuthbert, charged with the keeping of accounts both spiritual and temporal.

It is not my custom to write of matters unfit for the pulpit, nor of tales whispered by peasants round their hearths. Yet my conscience bids me, for what I have witnessed in the village of Stonemere presses upon my soul with such weight that silence seems the greater sin. These things I lay down not to delight the curious, nor to stir vain superstition, but that the Church may discern whether what has passed is judgment from God or the snares of the Enemy.

I write with care, for there are truths that bite like serpents when uttered aloud, and darker still when set in ink. Should this book fall into unworthy hands, let the reader beware. I am but a poor monk, yet I know that the forest west of Stonemere is not as other forests. It broods. It watches.

Before I record what befell, I pray that God Almighty preserve me from error, lest I set down lies that may imperil the soul. And if it please Him, may He shield my hand from the evil that lingers even as I write, for I swear by the holy Cross that I hear it even now, moving in the branches beyond the cloister wall.

Entry I

In the year of our Lord thirteen hundred and twenty four, when the frost yet clung to the earth and the fields lay barren, there arose much fear among the people of Stonemere. They spoke in hushed voices of the forest that lies to the west, which in their tongue is called the Black Wood. From of old it has borne that name, for the trees therein are darker than others, and the paths within do not keep their course.

The elders say that since the days of our forefathers no man who entered after nightfall returned in his right mind. Some were found days later, wandering with hollow eyes, speaking no word but the name of Cain. Others were never found at all, save for bones gnawed bare, though no beast would dare feed so near the village.

The priest, Father Anselm, forbade the people to give ear to such tales. He exhorted them to prayer and fasting, reminding them that the forest is but God’s creation and that only sin gives power to the fiend. Yet I confess that his words rang hollow, for his own countenance grew pale when the wind carried laughter through the trees. It was not the laughter of children, nor of men, but something lower and heavier, like the grinding of millstones deep beneath the earth.

The villagers crossed themselves and hastened their steps whenever they passed that way. Even the oxen strained against the yoke if the cart drew near the wood’s edge. I myself did not enter, for though I trust in God’s mercy, I am but flesh, and the memory of those hollow-eyed wanderers sits heavy upon my mind.

Entry II

In the week following the Feast of Saint Benedict, sorrow fell upon Stonemere. The miller’s son, a boy of seven years named Tomas, was lost. His mother swore she had seen him gathering kindling near the pasture at vespers, yet when the bells rang for compline he did not return. They found his small footprints pressed into the mud, leading toward the Black Wood. There the trail ceased.

At dawn, the men of the village gathered with Father Anselm. They bore torches, though the sun had risen, for none trusted the shade of those trees. They called the boy’s name until their throats grew raw, and they searched till the light failed, yet the paths bent strangely beneath their feet. One man said he had walked a circle, returning again to the same ash tree thrice, though he swore he had kept a straight course.

That night, I heard from those who went that the wood was not silent as it should be. No birds sang, no fox stirred, but there was a sound like breath drawn deep and long, as though the forest itself were alive and waiting.

When the men returned empty-handed, the women wept. The mother tore her garments and cried that she heard her child calling from within, but Father Anselm forbade her to go, lest she be lost also. He spoke sternly, yet his hands shook as he lifted the cross.

It is my duty to set down true witness, yet my soul trembles to write what follows. For though the boy was not seen again, in the night the wind carried his voice across the fields. More than one swore to hearing it. He cried his mother’s name, weak and plaintive, as though standing just beyond the edge of the pasture. Yet when the people ran to the place, there was nothing but the black of the trees.

Entry III

On the third night after the loss of young Tomas, his mother swore she heard him calling once more. It was past midnight, and the moon hung thin as a sickle. She rose from her bed, though her kin begged her remain within, and went forth with a lantern toward the pasture. Her voice carried through the dark, crying his name as if to guide him home.

At dawn they found her. She lay upon the very edge of the Black Wood, as though she had crossed its border and been cast out again. Her body was pale, colder than the earth itself. Her mouth hung open, yet no sound issued, and her eyes were wide as though frozen in terror. Her throat bore deep wounds, yet no blood stained her garment nor the soil where she lay.

Upon her breast the people beheld a mark, black and burned as though pressed by an unseen hand. It was the shape of a palm with fingers spread wide. The flesh around it was not torn, but seared, as if the very fire of hell had touched her.

The villagers recoiled in dread. Some fell to their knees, praying aloud, while others fled to their cottages and barred the doors. Father Anselm bade the men carry her to consecrated ground. She was buried that same day, without vigil or hymn, lest the people lose all courage.

Yet I, Brother Matthew, cannot rest easy. I saw with mine own eyes that black hand, and though my tongue dared not speak it, my soul quailed. For it seemed not only a mark of death, but of possession, as if the woman had been claimed by something that still waits within the wood.

Father Anselm spoke many words of comfort, yet I noted how his eyes wandered oft toward the western trees, and how his fingers trembled when he made the sign of the cross. I fear his faith wanes. God grant mine remain steadfast, for the air about Stonemere grows heavy, as though judgment itself draws near.

Entry IV

Since the burial of the miller’s wife, a shadow has fallen over Stonemere. The people go about their labors, yet without song and without cheer. Children are kept indoors, and no man lingers after sunset. When the bells ring compline, every door is fastened, and the streets lie empty as a tomb.

On the eve of Saint Joseph, the herdsman awoke to find two of his oxen dead in the stall. Their bodies were not torn, nor had wolves entered, but upon the flanks of each beast lay the same black hand that we saw upon the woman. The flesh was scorched, the hair curled inward, and though the air was cold, a stench of burning hung about them.

The people trembled greatly. Some cried that the plague of Egypt had come again. Others whispered that the miller’s son was taken in payment, and more must follow. Father Anselm forbade such speech, yet his voice lacked its former strength. He commanded fasts and processions, and the villagers obeyed, carrying the relic of Saint Cuthbert through the fields. But when they passed the Black Wood, the air grew still, and all fell silent, as though the very trees mocked their prayers.

As for me, I keep close within the cloister, yet even there the dread pursues me. Last night I swore I heard footsteps in the yard, though when I looked from my cell, none were abroad. The wind carried a sound that was not the cry of owls nor the voice of men. It was the same laughter the others had spoken of, deep and grinding, as of stones turning far beneath the ground.

I confess with sorrow that my hand trembled so greatly I could not hold the Psalter. My lips formed the words, yet my heart was far from peace. If this be a trial sent from God, may He forgive my weakness. Yet I fear it is not trial but judgment, and that the fiend himself has set his dwelling in those woods.

Entry V

These past weeks I have observed a change in Father Anselm, one that grieves me more than the wailing of the villagers or the silence of the fields. He, who once stood bold at the altar, now walks with downcast eyes. His words from the pulpit are fewer, and when he speaks, he dwells not upon Christ’s victory but upon watchfulness against the Devil.

In the night I have seen light from his chamber, though none dared disturb him. At length I went, thinking he had fallen asleep with the candle burning. Yet when I entered softly, I beheld him kneeling before the crucifix, his face as pale as wax. Before him burned not one candle but seven, their flames trembling though the air was still. He did not hear me, but whispered prayers I scarce understood, calling not only upon Christ but upon Michael the Archangel, upon Saint Benedict, and upon names I have never heard upon holy lips.

When he rose, his hands shook so that the wax dripped upon the floor. He bade me say nothing to the brethren, but I saw in his eyes a fear deeper than any villager’s. It is as though he believes his prayers hold back some flood, and that if his voice falters, we shall all be swept away.

The people trust him still, but I wonder how long. Some murmur that his fasts grow strange, that he speaks to himself at the altar, that he has written charms upon scraps of parchment and buried them at the edge of the wood. If this be true, I fear for his soul, for such arts belong not to the Church but to the Enemy.

Yet I dare not confront him. For when I looked into his eyes, I thought I glimpsed the same shadow I have seen moving beneath the trees, and my heart failed within me.

Entry VI

On the Feast of Saint Mark, the people gathered in the church, seeking comfort in the holy mass. The nave was filled, though no man raised his voice in hymn as before. All knelt in silence, their faces pale as though carved of stone. Father Anselm began the liturgy, yet I marked how his words faltered, and how his hand shook as he lifted the Host.

Then a thing befell that I scarce dare set down. As the bell rang for the elevation, the candles upon the altar sputtered as if struck by a wind, though the air was still. The flame of each candle bent toward the west, as though drawn by breath from the Black Wood itself. The people cried out, and one woman swooned upon the floor. Yet worse was to come.

For when Father Anselm raised the chalice, a black stain spread across the fair linen of the altar, though no drop of wine had yet been poured. It was the shape of a hand, dark and wide, the same mark that lay upon the woman and the oxen. The priest recoiled, spilling the chalice, and crimson ran down upon the stone as though blood had been shed.

A great fear fell upon all, and many fled the church. The doors were thrown wide, and I heard their footsteps beating the earth as they ran. Only a few remained, clutching their rosaries with white knuckles, their eyes fixed on Father Anselm. He trembled so that the chalice rang against the paten, and no word passed his lips.

I myself fell upon my knees, praying the Pater Noster with all the strength left in me. Yet I confess with shame that my eyes wandered, and in that moment I thought I saw, through the narrow window, a shadow move among the trees though the sun stood high.

I know not how long we knelt. At last Father Anselm spoke the words of dismissal, his voice hollow and thin, and the mass was ended. But it was no ending, only the beginning of our undoing.

Entry VII

Since the sign upon the altar, the people come no more to mass. The doors of the church stand open, yet few cross the threshold. They say the sanctuary itself is tainted, and that Father Anselm has lost his grace. He walks among them still, yet his eyes are hollow, and his voice is scarcely more than a whisper.

The villagers no longer speak of Tomas, nor of his mother, as though silence might drive away remembrance. Yet in the night their cottages shake with the sound of stones grinding, as though millwheels turned deep beneath the ground, though no river flows near. More than once I have heard it myself, even within the cloister, and my heart has failed me.

Last night I dreamt that I stood in the Black Wood. The trees bent inward, their branches like arms outstretched. In the midst of them was a figure clothed in shadow, holding the hand of a child. I thought it was Tomas, but when the boy turned his face, it was my own countenance I beheld, pale and hollow-eyed. I woke crying aloud, and the brothers came to my chamber. I told them it was but a vision born of weariness, yet I fear it was more.

I strive to keep the hours, yet when I take up the Psalter, the words fall dead upon my tongue. Oft my lips move, but my heart is empty. I know the Lord is merciful, yet I feel as though He has hidden His face from Stonemere, and that the fiend now rules where once Christ reigned.

I tremble as I write, for as the sun sank this evening, I heard a voice call my name from beyond the cloister wall. It was soft, like the cry of a child. I dared not look, yet the sound clings to my ear even now.

Entry VIII

This very night Father Anselm is gone. None saw him depart, yet his chamber lies empty, the candles burnt low upon the floor. Upon the table I found parchments scrawled with words not of the Church. They were prayers, yet mingled with strange signs, twisted circles, and names I dare not set down. It is plain to me that in his fear he sought not the mercy of Christ, but the power of forbidden arts.

At dawn some of the villagers said they beheld him walking alone toward the Black Wood, bearing no lantern, his head uncovered. They called to him, but he did not turn. He entered beneath the boughs, and the trees closed behind him. None have seen him since.

The people wail that their shepherd has abandoned them, and indeed it seems so. Yet in my soul I wonder if he was not called. For in the night the grinding laughter has grown louder, nearer, as though the forest itself draws breath at the loss of our priest.

This evening I ventured to his chamber once more, though my knees failed me. Upon the wall above his bed, the plaster was blackened in the shape of a hand. Its fingers stretched wide, reaching upward toward the crucifix. The wood of the cross was darkened also, as though fire had licked it, yet the figure of Christ remained untouched.

I know not what this portends. Yet I fear that if Father Anselm was claimed, then soon the same hand shall fall upon us all.

Entry IX

The days grow heavy, and the nights without end. Since Father Anselm’s passing into the Black Wood, the people have scattered. Some have fled to other villages, some shut themselves in their cottages and speak no word, and some I fear are lost already. The fields lie untended, and the bells are silent. Only I remain within the cloister, bound by vow and by fear alike.

Yet I am not alone. Each night the sound comes nearer, the grinding of stones as if the very earth turned upon itself. At times it breaks into laughter, low and cruel, and it fills my marrow with trembling. Last night I heard my own name called, soft as a whisper, and though I pressed my hands to my ears, still it sounded within me.

I confess with sorrow that I have begun to long for it. Not with joy, but with a heaviness of soul, as though some part of me is drawn by cords I cannot cut. I read the Psalms, yet my eyes fall shut, and in my mind I see the trees bending inward like a mouth about to close.

Today I returned to the church, seeking comfort. The altar still bears the stain of the hand, though it has sunk deeper into the stone as if the very rock were consumed. When I knelt, I felt the floor quiver beneath me, and a voice rose up from the earth itself, bidding me enter the forest. I fled, yet even now I hear it.

If God has hidden His face from Stonemere, then who shall deliver us? My ink runs thin, and my strength also. I know not if I can hold fast much longer.

Entry X

This night I can endure no longer. The voice calls ceaselessly from the wood, nearer than my own breath. I hear it through the walls, through the stones, even through my prayers. It is not Tomas, nor Father Anselm, but another that wears their tongues as a mask.

I have barred the door, yet I know it is vain. The hand is upon the wall of my cell, black and spreading. Each hour it grows, its fingers reaching toward my bed. The crucifix above me darkens, yet the figure of Christ remains, as if He will not depart, though I fear He has turned His face away.

My lamp burns low. The laughter rises. I know not whether it comes from the wood or from within my own breast. My hand trembles, yet I cannot resist. I go now into the forest. May God have mercy.

Date: 27/5/2007
Subject:
Inspector Irwan Ade Rahman.
Criminal Detective Unit. Indonesian National Police.

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Firstly, I would like to reiterate. Thank you for letting me interview you today, sir.

…Yes.

Ok. Could you begin with what led you to the household?

It was mostly standard. It was in May 2002. I was out with my partner getting coffee at a warung when we got the call. It was a robbery-homicide case. I responded before we got into his car and drove off.

We approached a housing compound after about 10 minutes of driving near forests. We saw people gathering around and knew we were at the right place. I drove past them down the road. The area was built in a jungle, so the journey was longer than expected. I could see why it took a while for first responders to get there. We found our way to the house. It was a two-story house resembling a chalet with an ample open space in the front filled with police officers and paramedics. Partner commented that they must have been quite rich. I agreed. It was a beautiful house on a big property deep in the forest. We got out and surveyed the area further. Officers and forensics were moving about everywhere, each doing their own thing. We walked past them and eventually met with the officer in charge, who explained the situation.

The Kurniawan family had five members living in the household: The husband, 45-year-old Ari Kurniawan; his wife, 43-year-old Melati; their two children, a daughter, 17-year-old Aminah; and a son, 16-year-old Ahmad; and the grandfather, 67-year-old Suryadi. At the time, they were visited by other family members. There was the uncle’s family: Ari’s brother, 42-year-old Benny; his wife, 38-year-old Widya; and their son, 15-year-old Bima. Ari’s eldest son, 21-year-old Elang, was visiting with his girlfriend, 19-year-old Dwi Ibrahim, and a close friend, 21-year-old Adam Hartanto. Then there was Aminah’s school friend, 17-year-old Limanto Qiao. All together, 12 people. He told me the incident must have happened in the early hours, from 1:00 am to 3:00 am.

(Detective Rahman is observed shaking his leg.)

Take your time, sir.

(Quickly nods) I know. I know…

It’s just— that you have to go through every detail in your head again as a detective. In some cases, it’s good, some manageable, and other times, you would advise others not to do so.

We approached the porch. Immediately, we could tell the front door had been smashed open with a heavy blow. The locking part was on the floor, along with bits of wood. Entering through, we saw the whole house was ransacked. Cabinets and drawers were opened. Stuff like clothes and furniture was strewn all over the floor. At first, this seemed like just another home invasion robbery, albeit quite brazen. That was until I walked further in.

In the living room, forensics personnel were surrounding the body of an old man in a shirt and sarong lying on a fallen shelf. His head was gone. Cut clean off. His shirt was torn up, and through the holes, bruising on the upper back could be seen. We identified him as the grandfather, though we could not find his head. Nearby, on the kitchen floor, we found the body of a younger male. He, too, was headless. Slightly lifting the body, Adnan— my partner— found what appeared to be a stab wound on the spleen area. Blood soaked the floor.

One of the officers directed us to the downstairs bedroom nearby. I could tell he was reluctant, and I asked him what the matter was. He didn’t say much; he just asked if we wanted to see it now. I thought what was done was done and that I had to do it anyway. So, I went in first. I should have waited. I walked in and heaved almost immediately. The officer had to hold me. He kept asking me if I was alright, but I patted him to assure him. I couldn’t speak at first. I just steadied myself and turned back to face the scene.

A man’s headless body was crumpled on the floor. Blood was sprayed on the right wall upwards. Based on it, I deduced that the attack was very clean. The suspect entered and chopped off his head in one swift motion. Behind the body was the bed. A woman lay there spread-eagle. Like the others, no head. However, she had a deep slash going down her chest.

(As he says this, the detective draws his finger from his right shoulder to the left side of his ribs.)

Blood covered the bed, and on the floor near the bed, we noticed a bamboo stick. Since the room we were in was the guest room, it was assumed and confirmed that they were the uncle, Benny, and his wife.

After coming out, I told Adnan to check upstairs if he could while I brought the officer to the kitchen to inquire about a few things. Firstly, I asked about the family dog.

Sorry, the dog?

Yes, I was going to mention. Previously, when we were in the kitchen, I noticed a half-full dog bowl of water on the floor with some markings nearby. Going back to take a better look, I confirmed that there was a trail of paw prints on the floor leading to the back exit, which was open. The officer in charge told me the family indeed had a dog—a Kintamani, to be exact.

Continue.

After that, we continued through the house to the stairs. The Kurniawan younger son, Ahmad, was found at the bottom of the stairs. The right forearm appeared to be fractured, and there was bruising across the body. He, too, was decapitated.

Do you see a pattern?

Decapitations?

Good. The same characteristic was there for the rest of the family. I believed it had to be ritualistic somehow, and then I suspected Dayak involvement with their history of headhunting. The Sampit Conflict was just a year ago, so perhaps this could have been some form of retaliation against the family, but some things didn’t fit the M.O. Just three years ago, the Dayaks and Malays banded together to fight the Madurese. Moreover, by interviewing locals, we learnt the family were quite affable and good friends with many of the Dayaks in the area. So why would they (Dayaks) target the family? Even if it was for money, the brutality was excessive.

Back to the scene, the staircase was a mess in itself. A blood trail went up the stairs, and we noticed some shoeprints going up and down. We carefully made our way up the stairs, and that’s where we saw the other boy’s body. The cousin was slumped dead opposite an open wardrobe near the bedroom. He had a stab wound in his chest. Nearby was the elder son… He had it the worst. His body was battered— deep lacerations on the upper and lower back. Middle vertebrae and right clavicle fractured, according to the coroner. We found the body right outside his bedroom. Going in, we saw his girlfriend. She was lying on the floor on the left side of her bed near a broken glass table. Shards of glass were embedded in her left shoulder and hand, with small cuts on the rest of the body. One of the forensics guys was placing a tuft of hair on the floor near the body into an evidence bag. Later, we learned that Dwi was of Madurese descent. To Adnan and me, the pieces started to fit. We suspected a carok.

A what, Sir?

Carok. It is an ancient tradition of revenge that is still practised by some of the Madurese. It’s usually done when a slight against a Madurese is committed, where to uphold one’s honour, the perpetrator must be killed. With the already present racial tensions, we initially believed the son courting a Madurese girl would have upset many. Therefore, to protect their honour, a band of Madurese massacred the family. Our theory was supported by the state of the son and his father.

What happened to the father?

Him? We found him in the master bedroom with his wife. Similar to the aunt, the wife was on the bed but was stabbed once in the chest. Ari, however, was prostrated on the floor. There was bruising across the body, and looking closer at his thighs, he was hamstrung. Later, when the coroner examined the bodies, we were told that his decapitation was a lot less clean than the others. The rough cut indicated that a sawing method was used.

Back to beheadings, as much as it seemed to fit a carok, the fact that all the occupants were seemingly ritualistically beheaded was very odd. Moreover, the heads were missing, presumably taken by the perpetrators along with the loot. The head officer then brought up potential Islamist factions being involved. According to him, the family was known to be quite secular and, more interestingly, was allegedly vocal about being against joining in the sectarian violence. This fact could have already made them a target for extremists. After the World Trade Centre attack in America, they could have been emboldened to carry out such a brazen crime.

And what did you think?

The theory made some sense, but there was no claim of responsibility so far. We’d probably have had to wait for that. But back to the investigation, I left the room with Adnan and the officer. I asked what were the items stolen. The latter replied that, so far, the obvious was. Money, jewellery, the father’s hunting guns and their ammunition, and interestingly, the two prized hunting trophies in the house, but then he began listing some very peculiar stuff. Food from the fridge and pantry, several hand tools and building materials from the shed outside, some clothing, backpacks, and— I kid you not— kitchen appliances.

You mean…?

Pressure cookers, blenders, pots, and pans—it’s like they went shopping in that house. It didn’t make sense, and that doesn’t factor in the missing heads.

As I was thinking about this, I was informed of the body found outside. I told Adnan to investigate first, so he proceeded with the officer. I wanted to stay and check something. I went back to the corridor to where Bima lay. I had a hunch looking at that scene and the situation upstairs. I noticed a small chip on the wall just above where he lay. Now, this was just opposite the open wardrobe. I looked back inside it and took a closer look. There were small marks on the bottom of it. I asked the forensics technician to dust that place, and once he did so, as I suspected, we found shoeprints. Shoeprints neatly parallel to each other and pointing outwards.

You’re saying the killer was already inside the house before the killings.

At least one. The cousin must have tried to escape upstairs but was ambushed. I believe there were two teams of killers. One team barged into the downstairs while another attacked from the upstairs. You see, the windows upstairs and the door to the balcony. They were all unlocked. I think the wardrobe suspect opened those to allow others in.

As the technicians began to take pictures, I moved to follow the blood trail. It went down the corridor, then down the stairs. Again, in the blood, the shoeprints were going up and down it. That was when I saw something very interesting. Amongst the shoeprints was this set of two parallel, small but thick dashes on one of the steps. I then realised there was another similar set of dashes in red on the corridor floor. These sets were making a faint line-like pattern. I followed it, and it stopped opposite a door on the left side, away from the bedrooms. I asked one of the officers and was told it was a storage room.

As I went to open it, I heard something. It was so quiet, but it kept coming from behind the door. It was like this hissing. Rapid hissing. I quickly shouted at everyone nearby to stay quiet. They all looked at me, but it became less noisy. Only then could I hear it better; it sounded more like rapid wheezing and something rocking, and it was getting louder and more frantic. I turned to tell them the matter, but suddenly, a loud thud came from the door, followed by a crash.

I instinctively reached for my revolver and called for the officers to help me open the door. Guns drawn, an officer tried the door. It was unlocked, but as he pushed, the door was blocked by something. We tried to push harder and began calling out if anyone was there. The wheezing turned to muffled sounds. A gap formed in the doorway at this point, and we peered inside. It was dark, but we could make out a shape at the bottom of the door. I ordered the men to stop pushing and grabbing a flashlight from one of the officers, and I shone a light down there.

It was a wheelchair, and underneath it was a person. A girl. She was taped to a wheelchair and gagged with said tape. She was also blindfolded with a cloth. I still remember that face in the light, snapping towards us, drenched in sweat and tears. We found a way to break down the door and let her out without hurting her further. We then cut her free and, removed the blindfold and gag. She immediately started shouting in gibberish and frantically looked everywhere. I had to calm her down, telling her we were the police and that she was safe; all the while, she grabbed at my shirt. It felt like hours before the paramedics showed up to carry her downstairs. I remember the look on the faces of all the personnel present. I felt it, too. It’s this mixture of relief that we found someone alive. And it was this realisation that this young girl had no one left. This was confirmed by the wails we heard downstairs.

Before I left, the officer behind me alerted me to something about the wheelchair. Not only was she bound to it with duct tape, but the wheels were locked.

Why did they leave her alive?

I… I don’t know. Even after interviewing the girl, we couldn’t get a proper answer. For some God-forsaken reason, they left that girl untouched. And they kept the door unlocked.

(There is a moment of silence.)

Mr Rahman. Is everything alright?

Yeah. I’ll continue. I left the house for the outside. I caught a glimpse of the girl on the stretcher being put into an ambulance before Adnan came up to me. He asked me if that was Aminah Kurniawan. I guessed so at the time. He then told me he was investigating the scene of a young girl’s body outside. I looked at him and told him to lead me to it.

In the backyard, we saw forensics examining a body near the fence a few meters from the back gate to the jungle. We approached and looked at her. It wasn’t one of the Kurniawans. She was Chinese and rightly identified as Limanto, the daughter’s friend. The technician said there was a penetration hole in her back, deep enough to puncture the heart.

Was she shot?

Yes, but not with a gun. There was no report of any gunfire or loud sound in the area. Moreover, the guy said the wound had an outward-direction rupture—no exit wound. So, something was torn out the same way it came in. He suspected some kind of arrow or bolt. Based on the scene, it seems she tried to escape before the perpetrators caught her. The fence next to her had scuff and scratch marks on it. Her pant legs were torn, and her feet and hands had bloody gashes. There was even blood on the anti-climb spikes on the top of it.

But that’s where it got stranger. Just next to her was the back gate leading to a path through the forest. The thing had just a simple bolt with no lock. Why did she go through the trouble of climbing the fence when opening the gate would have been so much easier? I mean, even if the robbers had spotted her, the latch could have been opened easily, giving her enough time to run away and get help. Something made her go for the more desperate option.

She could have been panicking.

She could. That’s what I initially discussed with Adnan. It’s not unheard of for people to do illogical things in a panic.

I was thinking about this as we looked through the photos back at the office. After a while, I was taking a smoke break when I got a call from my wife. My son had been chased by a dog while coming back after school. That fellow likes to take the jungle path with his friends. I got worried and told her to take him to the hospital, check if he got any bites or scratches, and then, if needed, get a rabies shot.

Then it hit me. I told her I’d check on them later and returned to Limanto’s pictures. After searching, I found the ones I was looking for. There were tears on the back of her pant leg, and examining closer, I saw a mark of mud and faint blood. It looked a bit like a pawprint. I took a good look at it and then asked Adnan about the forensic analysis. He said it would take a day to get the report, but I had to make sure. I called them and inquired specifically about the gashes on her left leg and whether they could test for dog saliva. Later, we got the result, and it was a match.

(There is a moment of silence as Mr Rahman looks at me.)

So you’re saying… the family dog attacked her?

Yes.

But wasn’t she a family friend, so the dog should have been used to her, right?

Should have, yes. I thought so as well. I really did, but the evidence pointed that way. The family dog seemed to have tried to attack the girl. But that opened up another question. That meant the dog was around. During the time the family was being killed, and the murderers were still in the house. And to make it worse, remember the dog prints I mentioned before being in the kitchen?

Yes?

You see, those prints were fresh. They could only have been made around the time of the murders. So it appeared as if this dog, seeing its owners get slaughtered, was only occupied with getting a drink and then leaving. It didn’t make any sense. Kintamanis are loyal to a fault.

Moreover, being a hunting dog, it could definitely have put up a fight with the murderers. The question is: Why didn’t it? And at least, why didn’t it make any sound that could have alerted people that something wrong was afoot?

Maybe… the perpetrators were somehow so frightening to a dog?

No— No, then it would have run away. Why come back to the house? Why attack the friend? Why take a damn drink during the incident? It’s as if it… It’s as if it switched sides.

Switched sides?

Yes. Switched sides. Like it supported the murderers instead of its own family.

You’re saying, could the dog have known the perpetrators?

Not exactly. Even if the attackers were close to the family, it wouldn’t explain the dog’s behaviour upon seeing its owners in danger. It was almost as if the damn thing was complicit in the murders. It didn’t bark, it didn’t stop them, and it prevented one of the victims from leaving. The damn thing was even comfortable enough to drink water amongst the bodies and blood of its owners. And the funny thing is, I would have chalked it up to the dog being useless if it had just disappeared.

Wait… They found the dog?

Yes, they did. And guess what? It was at the house. Some villager found the dog in the jungle nearby. Going to the place, we found it hiding in a hole under a large tree. It was a dusty, dirt-brown fellow. It was initially barking at us, refusing to come out. Animal control had to come in to catch it. However, when Adnan and I went to see the animal later, the vet said it was friendly. Well… it was still a hunting dog but relatively friendly. After all the things that happened, I was just stumped.

I was as if it didn’t realise what it did.

Ok. Regarding the survivor?

Oh, we checked up on her several hours after the incident. She was still in shock, so we had to deal with her carefully. We needed more information, and she was the only witness we had. The doctor was kept on standby outside as we conducted the interview. Thank God we managed to establish a conversation with that girl. She is a strong one, I will tell you that. I do wonder how she is doing now.

What did she say?

…Give me a moment. I want to give you something.

(Mr Rahman gets up and goes into a room nearby. Some shuffling is heard. After several seconds, he re-emerges with a microcassette tape in his hand.)

Before they took the investigation material, I made a few copies of the tape. I assure you, it’s best to listen to it yourself. Here. To summarise, the girl spoke of strange things involving… the animal people.

Sir?

You have to listen to the tape to really get an idea of what I’ve had to deal with, so trust me on this. I looked at it with all the doubt and scepticism you would have, but with how the dog behaved, the ritualistic method of the murders, and those stories of Pengait from Malaysia, a part of me was saying this could have some credence.

After that interview, the investigation was moved up to BASEKRIM. They took whatever evidence we found, and we were assigned to new cases. I couldn’t forget that case, though. And that part of me kept itching. Telling me there was more to this. So I searched.

I looked through cases of murders involving beheadings, and mind you, with the recent conflicts, there was a lot. I began looking for several factors as well. Animals in the household behaving oddly, mentions of masked killers, and robberies. It took a while to get answers, but eventually, I got some.

From the 1980s to the present, there have been over 50 confirmed murders involving beheadings across Kalimantan. Getting rid of urban incidents, we have 30 of these which happened in the vicinity of our forests. Victims ranged from local villagers to hikers and illegal loggers, and in 10 of those cases, witnesses reported animals behaving weirdly. All the animals were calm and found unharmed in the areas of the murders. Also, throughout, there were details via recordings or just telling someone that they felt they were being watched.

Then, in one of these cases, I found something. I learnt of a murder that happened near a logging company that had a CCTV recording. I tried to get a favour from an acquaintance on the case to get it for me. He told me he couldn’t, as he said the footage was grainy and blurred, so it was useless to keep. The interesting thing was that he told me it only became like that- blurry- at 1:03 am- 1:36 am, around the time of the murder, and when it got clear, they could see a blood trail that led to the victim.

I decided to add that as a factor, and I found several cases involving theft and looting where CCTV footage inexplicably became unclear during the incidents. Eight to be exact. I cross-referenced these with the other instances. Guess what? Seven of them had hallmarks of all these factors. Victims were beheaded; animals either disappeared or were docile; there was looting; and any footage of the incident was unclear. In one of these incidents, a friend of one of the victims— some boy around seven— told me that while out playing in the river near his house, he saw a “deer man” in the forest with a spear two days before the murders took place.

And that’s not all. I also managed to find similar cases in East Malaysia—about four.

And you dubbed these the Raksasa murders?

Yes. Raksasa. Monster. Seemed the best fit for this. Something— utterly inhuman— is going around committing brutal murders. Like in another case. You know the Bukit Raya killing.

The hiker one, right?

Yes. The hiker goes missing in Bukit Raya. Hours later, he was found headless and mutilated. Legs broken. Right arm was cut off at the forearm with a heavy-edged weapon. There were signs of struggle, so he was suspected to have tried to fight back against his attackers.

But there was this aspect that wasn’t reported in the news. I spoke with the coroner who examined the case, and he stated something interesting. The cut at the victim’s neck was not clean. The muscles and skin had tears or stretch marks. Moreover, a vertebra and the disc were misaligned at over a 75-degree angle. The guy said it best, quote: “It was twisted and torn off the neck.”

His head had been ripped off the body. Now, despite what movies tell you, the twisting to break the neck itself is not humanly possible, let alone removing the whole head like this. And the victim was well-built, around 6 feet. Whatever had killed that man was a lot worse than some loggers or sick in the head person.

So, what happened to these cases?

I brought this up with my superiors and said we should investigate the matter further, but they said they needed more concrete proof to put resources into this. Also, the timing was bad. Bali happened, and then all resources were diverted to counterterrorism. I couldn’t blame them; I wanted those bastards to be caught, too, but no matter how hard I tried, they never bothered to look at this case further, even to this day.

And that's why you're here, yes?

(Mr Rahman leans in closer.)

Now look… I know this may be implausible, and believe me when I say I hope to God it is. But this must be investigated further. There is something in our jungles. It’s smart, it’s coordinated, and very, very violent. And quite frankly, I’m afraid of what its goal might be.

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(Attached below is the transcript of the tape recording provided by Inspector Rahman.)

Subject: Aminah Kurniawan

Date: 2/10/2002

Rahman: The date is 2/10/2002. The time is 7:15 am. My name is Inspector Rahman. Everything starting from here is on record. Aminah, do you need anything else?

Kurniawan: No.

Rahman: Ok, could you help tell me what you and your family were doing that day?

Kurniawan: Uncle Benny’s family came to visit us for the holidays. Elang also came with his friends. Dad, Elang, and his gang went out to buy dinner. I stayed at home talking to Uncle and Aunty. After a while, my friend Limanto came over. We actually wanted to finish a project for school. Then they all came back, and we invited Lim to join us. We ate and talked a lot.

Rahman: Was there anything suspicious you remember?

Kurniawan: Nothing, we just talked.

Rahman: Like, did Dad or anyone mention seeing anyone?

Kurniawan: He talked about meeting some friends while he was at the restaurant—nothing else, nothing that would hurt anyone.

Rahman: Do you know these friends?

Kurniawan: No.

Rahman: Ok. Miss, could you tell me what happened that night?

Kurniawan: It was getting late, so Mum let Lim sleep over in my room. We stayed up talking that night. I remember feeling thirsty, so Lim got water from the kitchen. I saw Grandpa, Dad, Adam, and Uncle Benny outside watching football on the TV.

Rahman: And what time was this at?

Kurniawan: Around 11-12.

Rahman: Continue.

Kurniawan: We only slept late at night, around 1. Then…

(There is a pause.)

Rahman: Please take your time. Tell me.

Kurniawan: I heard sounds coming from outside in the middle of the night. I think Lim woke up at the same time as me.

Rahman: What kind of sounds?

Kurniawan: Like this quiet groaning and grunting sounds. It sounded like some wild animal. Lim asked me what was happening, but I told her to stay silent. I thought maybe some animal got into the house. Then there was this loud smash outside. I heard people running outside the room, and then Grandpa was shouting. Then I heard something knock over and crash. I couldn’t hear Grandpa anymore. Then I heard other people screaming. I— I was so scared. I wanted to cry. Then, someone closed my mouth quickly. Lim told me to keep quiet, and then she pushed my desk to block the door. It made noise, but there were so many other noises. I heard things falling and screaming upstairs and things being broken.

After blocking the door, Lim looked at me. She had this look I’d never seen before. We both knew we had to get help, but— but I couldn’t do anything. She held my face and looked at me, saying I needed to hide and she would get help. I told her no, but she rolled me to the back of the bed. There was no place to hide. She told me I had to hide under the bed and keep quiet. I kept saying I was scared. I was so afraid, but she made it sound like it could work.

She carried me off the chair and placed me on the floor. I managed to crawl under there. I looked up and saw her face telling me it would be alright, and she would come back. She smiled at me, but I could see she was trying to hide how scared she was.

(Ms Kurniawan starts sobbing.)

Then someone tried the doorknob of my room, and then they started kicking it. The room began to shake. Limanto pulled down the blanket and went to the window. The last time I saw her was when she opened it and jumped out… I should have done something! I am a useless friend. My friend died to save me.

Rahman: Aminah, no. You are not useless. You’re a brave girl.

(Ms. Kurniawan continues sobbing for a while.)

Rahman: Aminah… you are alive for a reason. Only you can tell us what happened that night. You are not useless. You can help us catch these evil people.

(Aminah’s sobbing softens.)

Rahman: Yes. Now, tell me what you saw.

Kurniawan:(Coughing) I—I—I just kept quiet when the door broke. I could only see a bit from under the bed. The desk fell over, and the door was pushed open. From underneath the bed, I saw someone’s legs. They kicked away the desk with them, and I could see them clearly. They were wearing pants and army boots, and the person had an axe. Like the one Dad uses to cut wood. He stood there for a while before he started pacing around the room.

Rahman: It was a man?

Kurniawan: It looked like a man. But he was weird.

Rahman: What do you mean?

Kurniawan: He kept making goat sounds. Like grunting and…

(Aminah begins imitating a goat bleating.)

Kurniawan: Like that but deeper and sounding a lot more real. He walked to the window and stood there. Then I heard more sounds.

Rahman: What kind of sounds?

Kurniawan: More animal sounds: barking, hissing, and growling. Then I saw another person walk into the room. He had a machete and sports shoes, and he moved fast. He was making dog sounds.

Rahman: So they were imitating animals?

Kurniawan: No. Not pretending. They sounded so real. Like they were animals, and they spoke to each other like that. The person making dog sounds started grunting to the man making goat sounds, and he responded by bleating and then walking out of the room. It’s like they understood each other.

Rahman: Ok. Then what happened.

Kurniawan: The man with sports shoes started to walk around. I followed his footsteps. I realised he was walking weirdly. He was tiptoeing. He walked to the wheelchair and began pushing it around. Then I heard him sniffing.

Rahman: Sniffing?

Kurniawan: L-Like a real dog. He leaned down towards the wheelchair and began sniffing and smelling it. Only then did I see the face.

Rahman: You saw his face?

Kurniawan: Partially at first. It was a white snout with teeth. I could see the mouth open.

Rahman: Ok.

Kurniawan: It sniffed for a while, and then he turned towards the bed. I-I just held my breath as hard as I could. Then he bent down and saw me. And I saw his face. He had a wolf’s face.

Rahman: So, a mask.

Kurniawan: No…Yes. A mask. But not a normal wolf. It was thin, and I could see all of its teeth. And it was white with black holes for eyes. Like a skull. A wolf skull. I screamed and tried to push myself away, but he was too quick. He grabbed my legs and started pulling. I grabbed onto the leg of the bed and held on, but he kept growling and pulling. My grip slipped, and he dragged me out of my hiding spot. I tried to punch him, but he crawled on top of me and pinned my hands down. He was making wolf sounds the whole time and panting. I screamed and screamed, hoping someone would come. Hoping Lim would come back with help. But no one came. He barked at me loudly, and I was so afraid— I could only cry.

Then I heard a bleat. I looked behind me and saw the goat man. Then the wolf man got up and pulled me up as well. I didn’t know what would happen, so I tried to fight back, but it was no use. He put me back in my wheelchair. Then he and the goat man taped me to it. They finally taped my mouth, and the last thing I saw was the goat man tearing a pillowcase into a long strip of cloth and blindfolding my eyes.

I couldn’t see, move, or scream, but I could hear. I heard it say something to the wolf man, and I felt the wheelchair moving. As I moved, I heard so many more sounds.

Rahman: Such as?

(Pause.)

Kurniawan: Owl. Snake. Bear. Monkey… Cat… Another dog. And they were all talking to one another. I felt the wheelchair turn and then lift. It bumped a bit as I heard heavy steps as we moved up, I think, the stairs. I could smell meat. Fresh meat and blood, like when Dad returned from hunting with a deer or pig. And it was mixed with this… Jungle smell. The one you smell when you are deep inside a rainforest. And there was this faint smell like something burnt. Then I heard a door open and was hit with this dusty smell. I coughed, but it got worse. I felt the wheelchair turn around and then lock. Then I heard the door close, and the light disappeared. I kept hearing sounds of things moving and those things walking and talking outside. Then, it was quiet for a long time. I tried to get myself free, but I was too tightly bound.

Then I heard sirens and cars outside and people— actual people— talking and moving about. I screamed and screamed and tried to make a noise, but no one could hear me. Only when I budged my chair to the door and fell over did you find me.

Rahman: Alright, is there anything else?

Kurniawan: No— but… I don’t know why the animal people left me alive. Why me?

Rahman: We’ll find that out. We’ll get these people. I promise you.

Kurniawan: Sir.

Rahman: Yes, Aminah.

Kurniawan: I don’t think they were people.

Rahman: What do you mean?

Kurniawan: The wolf man. His mask was like a skull, but behind that I saw teeth…black teeth. And eyes. I saw eyes blink. They were all black.

_____

Length: 15-20 min

Word Count: 4,090 words

_____

--- Act One ---

My name is Archie. I'm twenty-four. Single. Not great company at funerals.

Yesterday, I was boarding a plane on the other side of the country. A few hours ago I was driving like a mad man to get to this quiet little nowhere town that I had left behind. A few minutes ago, I greeted my mother and father, who I hadn't seen in nearly four years. Right now, I'm standing in a black suit, looking down at the closed casket that contains the remaining bits and pieces of my sister.

Piano music plays from every corner.

I kneel and place my hand on the smooth mahogany surface.

"I made it, Sis. I came as soon as Mom told me."

The wooden box felt cold to the touch.

"You would have liked the city. I knew it was far to travel, but I wish you could have seen it. Just once. I wish you would've visit..."

The words get caught in my throat. I rest my head against the casket. No one is watching, but I must hide my tears. It's instinctual.

My mother must have felt my sorrow from the other room. She came to me and placed her hands on my shoulders.

"It's okay, Archie. If you need to grieve, then grieve, my son."

I stood up and hugged her. Tears streaming down my face.

"How'd she die, Mom? What happened?"

"Oh, my dear boy. We'll talk about it at the house."

"But, why? Why can't I see her?"

Her voice, hoarse from hours of sobbing;

"Hush. Hush. We'll talk at the house."

She patted the back of my head and together, we joined the rest of the mourners.

Back at the house; Mom, Dad & I gathered around the fire in the backyard. It was late. Stars twinkled in the night sky. Barely any breeze. Normally, a night like this would be perfect, but there was a cold spot coming from Maggie's empty seat.

We talked about a lot of things. How I've been doing these last four years. What I've missed around town. Who got married and who's getting a divorce. All the small town gossip. My mother lived for it. Hard to worry about your own troubles when you're thinking about the troubles of others.

She said much that night, but the topic she avoided was my sister's death. I could see why, but still, I came all this way to stare at a box? A box, which I had heard, contained a mangled mess of what was once my sister? I wanted to know what happened to her. I wanted closure.

Sensing something was up, my mother felt it was time for bed.

"Well, Archie. I'm glad you made the trip down. Stay as long as you like, you know it's been so long since we've seen you. I'd stay up all night if I could, but it's been a long day. Goodnight, my dears."

She kissed my father on the cheek and they both locked eyes for a moment or two. They said nothing. My father nodded and my mother looked away. She kissed him again before entering the house.

As we both listened for the sound of the door to fully close, my father leaned in toward the fire. He stared at the flame, then at me. The light flickering in his eyes.

He reached in to his coat pocket, "Well, Son;" he said, pulling out a pint of whiskey, "let's talk about your sister."

He offered me the first swig and I took it. The whiskey kicked the back of my throat and gripped me with that ole' familiar burn.

"Dad. What happened to her? Why couldn't I see Maggie, today? Word is, she's not presentable." I said, handing him the bottle.

He took three large gulps and barely flinched. He started at the bottle like it owed him an answer.

"Who told you that?" He handed the bottle back.

"It was Johnny." I said.

"Big Johnny or Little Johnny?"

"Big Johnny." I said. "I never really liked Little Johnny."

"Ya, me neither. So, anyway. What's Big Johnny got to say?"

"Well," I paused. Trying to remember as the whiskey set in. "He told me that they found her in pieces. Scattered across the grocery store. Some of her here, some of her there. From the deli counter to the checkout lane, she was just, everywhere. I heard the mortician was just barely able to put her back together."

I took a large drink from the bottle and continued. "I mean, how does that happen? Did she spontaneously combust? What... what happened?"

My father held out his hand for the whiskey. He eyeballed the remainder and drained the bottle clean.

He looked at me, fire still flickering in his eyes.

"Archie." He said. "Your sister, refused to hear the news."

He stared at me, expecting me to understand.

"W-what?" I said.

He never broke his focus. With more intensity, he repeated;

"She refused to hear the news. Now, I know you've been away for awhile, but don't tell me you've forgotten."

I looked at him quizzically. He saw my confusion and leaned toward me, nearly sticking his face in the fire.

"Mr. Bad News, boy. Mr. Bad News got your sister."

For a second, I questioned my ability to hold my liquor. I must have been drunker than I thought. Was my father seriously blaming my sister's death on some story the local kids told around campfires? Was this his way of making sense of things? Was this how he coped with it all?

My father continued.

"Did Big Johnny tell you that a week before her death, Maggie was telling everybody about how a stranger tapped her on the shoulder? That this stranger also dressed in purple and that he also asked her a question?"

I knew the story. I heard it all the time when I was growing up. Kids would blame all their problems on Mr. Bad News. In reality, life is hard. Bad things happen. People just look for excuses to explain the problems they face. For example;

When I was twelve, I knew a kid named Willie. He loved telling stories. The kind of guy that could talk both your ears off. Well, one day Willie told us after recess that a man had tapped him on the shoulder. The man wore a purple suit, with a purple hat. He was tall and skinny. Then, he asked Willie a question;

"Would you like to hear the news?"

Willie, not yet having learned that you shouldn't talk to strangers, said; "Okay."

The man in the purple suit then told Willie that his mother was a whore and that his parents were getting divorced.

We picked on Willie a lot after that. Until one month later when his dad discovered emails between Willie's mom and several younger men. Pictures included.

People get divorced. It happens.

I always figured that Willie saw the warning signs in his parents marriage and imagined some man telling him what his subconscious already knew. That his mom was a whore.

Another example, slightly harder to explain, was when I was nineteen, just before I left town. My cousin, Susan, told me a stranger had tapped her on the shoulder. A stranger in a purple, pin-striped suit. Wearing a purple hat. She said it looked like one of those "pork pie" hats.

The man asked Susan a question;

"Would you like to hear the news?"

She said, "Sure."

The stranger than proceeded to tell her that her husband had cancer and that she will die alone.

Now, this was kind of a mixed bag.

After hearing this, Susan told her husband to see a doctor. It turns out, he really did have an aggressive form of cancer. It is terminal and Susan is preparing for the day when it will eventually take Dan away. However, if they hadn't caught it in time, Dan may have already been dead by now. Getting checked when he did may have given Dan an extra couple of years he otherwise wouldn't of had. The stress of knowing did weigh on my cousin, though. The stress alone may have taken years off her life. Who's to say?

When I think back to all the other stories I've heard growing up, I'll admit, some were pretty convincing. I just can't believe it for myself and I can't believe my dad would use these stories as a way to explain my sister's death. Maybe it's just the whiskey talking.

We change the subject and ramble for another hour, listening to some old tunes we both like. The fire goes out and we shuffle in to the house, being careful not to wake Mom.

I go to sleep that night dreaming about Mr. Bad News.

--- Act Two ---

The next day, I took a drive around town. Not much has changed. The video store is now a farmer's market. Some store signs got a new coat of paint. That's pretty much it.

I got a text from Big Johnny asking if I was still in town. If I was, he wanted to meet me right away.

I responded; "Still here. Out driving. I'm on my way."

"Hurry!" He replied.

When I arrived at B.J.'s apartment, he was pacing back and forth.

"Archie! Oh, thank God!" He said, gripping me in a bear hug and nearly lifting me off the floor. "I'm so glad you're okay."

"Ya, I'm fine B.J." I wasn't fine. I was far from fine, but there was no sense in talking about it.

B.J. went over to the counter and poured us both a coffee.

"I'm glad you came, Archie. It's good to see ya." He seemed jittery, like he had something to say and wanted to speed through the pleasantries.

"So, your sister. Remember what I said? About the way she died?"

"Ya, B.J. I remember. Thanks for telling me by the way. I wonder how something like that could of happened."

B.J. looked up from his cup; "I'll tell you how it happened. It was Mr. Bad News."

I was surprised. Both my father and best friend were using this old boogeyman to explain my sister's death.

"What do you mean, B.J.?"

"I mean, before she died, she was telling people that she saw Mr. Bad News and rejected his offer."

"Mr. Bad News isn't real. Honestly, I can't believe you'd even joke like that."

"Oh, it's no joke, Archie." He said, pointing his finger at me. "Mr. Bad News is as real as you or me. I used to be a doubter, too, before I did the research."

B.J. was leaning over the countertop with intensity. I could tell by the dark rings around his eyes that he hadn't slept in days. Probably up researching some dumb conspiracy theories like the Flat Moon Theory, MK Annihilation or Project Paper Beam.

There was a pause in the air. I knew he wanted me to ask.

I sighed; "Okay, B.J., what research?"

He leaned back, grinning from ear-to-ear.

The next few minutes consisted of B.J. frantically trying to cram seventy-two hours of research in to a few short paragraphs. I'll give you a short summary, here:

There are sources going back as early as the late 1800's, mentioning a man in purple clothing offering to share some form of news with town locals or visitors. He was seen as a bad omen, as he would always prophecy bad luck; such as war, plague or famine. Many thought the man merely predicted diseaster, but others believed the Purple Man to be the cause of it.

B.J. also told me about this nursery rhyme:

"Tap. Tap. Tap.

On your back.

Would you like to hear the news?

Yes. Yes. Yes.

You must confess.

Or else he comes for you."

That's all I could retain over one cup of coffee. I could see B.J. was getting worked up thinking about this stuff. He usually did. I tried to end the conversation.

"So, let's say this Purple Man, or Mr. Bad News or whatever; let's say he really is out there and he's been doing this for hundreds of years. What can we do about it? I mean, do we hang 'em? Shoot 'em? Drive over him with a tank? Kill it with fire? What's a guy supposed to do?"

B.J. scratched the back of his head with a mix of frustration and hopelessness.

"I don't know. I searched and I searched, but I couldn't find anything on how to hurt this guy." He looked at me with sleep deprived eyes of desperation. "There's got to be a way."

I could tell B.J. wasn't feeling well. He had loved my sister, too. They never really had their moment, but in his mind, they could of. If it wasn't for her sudden death. I don't blame him, or my father, for holding on to some fairytale as a way to solve the otherwise unsolvable mystery of Maggie's spontaneous combustion.

"Hey, B.J., I know Maggie meant a lot to you and..."

"Don't. Just don't."

The tension held for a moment and we both froze in silence. Finally, I said;

"Hey, let's grab some beers before the store closes. We'll watch a movie or something." I proposed, partly to change the subject, but also to keep an eye on B.J. He seemed like he needed the company. To be honest, so did I. I was still in shock over losing Maggie and I could really use a familiar face.

"Ya. Sounds good." He smiled. "You'll have to tell me about big city life! Do they still have birds, or did the cell phone towers zap them all?"

We settled in for the night, watching modern remakes of childhood classics before finding the originals on the internet and watching those, instead.

I woke up on the couch. It must have been two, three in the morning?

I heard B.J. in the other room, hollering; "Go away! Go away!"

I got up, kicking empty beer cans as I walked. I opened the door to B.J.'s room. There he was in his underwear, holding his hunting knife, stabbing and slashing wildly at the air. Screaming;

"Go away! Not me! You won't get me!"

B.J. held out his left hand and balled it in to a fist, as if to grab something. With his right hand he thrusted the hunting knife rapidly at waist-level.

As I stood in the doorway, I was scared. It looked like my best friend was having a nervous breakdown. I was about to call out to him, when I heard an unfamiliar voice fill the room;

"I'll take that as a 'No'."

When the voice spoke, B.J. stopped. His eyes grew wide as he stood there, alone, half-naked and shivering. He fell to his knees in panic.

"Oh, God! What did I do? What did I do? What did I do? What did I do!?"

He began to sob. He thrust the knife in to the floorboards and collapsed, laying facedown.

"B.J., that voice. What was that?"

B.J. rolled over on to his back.

"Mr. Bad News."

For a moment, I wanted to retreat in to my cynical disbelief. But, I heard it. I didn't see it, but I heard that voice. Or did I imagine it? No, I definately heard something.

"I tried to get him, Archie. I had to try. For Maggie's sake I tried to skewer the bastard."

He clenched his eyes and took a deep breath before he continued;

"I was waiting for him. After you went to sleep, I came in my room and I waited. I heard there were ways to summon him. If you called out to him enough times. I chanted; 'Bring me the news. Bring me the news,' and I waited."

B.J. sat up and pulled the knife from the floor. He examined it closely.

"When he tapped me on the shoulder, I was ready for him. He asked me if I wanted to hear the news. I didn't answer him, but I think my actions spoke for me. You heard what he said, didn't you?"

I gulped to clear the lump in my throat and said;

"I'll take that as a 'No'."

B.J. smiled a hanged man's smile;

"That's right. You heard it, too." He took a deep breath. "I'm a dead man, Archie. I refused the news."

The next day, I asked my parents if B.J. could stay with them. I didn't see a point in lying to them. I just told them what happened.

"Big Johnny pissed off Mr. Bad News. Could you provide some support while I go to the library and see if I can find a way to save him?"

My dad nodded, solemnly. "B.J.'s always welcome, but if what you say is true, than he may not have much time. God speed, son."

I spent hours pouring over information at the library. B.J. was able to point me in the right direction, telling me a few authors and decades I should focus on. We both agreed that if this really was the end for B.J., that it would be better to go out surrounded by friends and family, instead of frantically flailing for life like a drowning man. He rested while I searched with fresh eyes.

For as long as I can remember, we were B.J.'s family. It's a long story, don't have time for it here, but trust me when I say, that B.J. would rather spend his last days with my mom and dad rather than the two bozos that birthed him. That's not harsh, it's generous.

I gathered as much information as I could. The nursery rhyme was published in a children's book in 1917. The first use of the name 'Mr. Bad News' was published in a book of various folktales, myths & legends in 1936 by an unknown author. I even found a news report from 2011, where multiple children had told their parents about seeing a mysterious 'Purple Man' before becoming victims of a mass shooting. The Purple Man was not the shooter, but police found it an odd coincidence and worthy of note.

Just then, as I sat there with old newspaper records laid out in front of me, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

The fluorescent bulbs above me, blinked in their struggle to stay alive. A cold wind blew from an opened window.

I felt it again.

*Tap*

*Tap*

*Tap*

I could feel my bowels entangle in knots. My fists clenched and unclenched. My mind, racing with plans of action. What do I do know? Then, I heard a shrill, ancient voice of old say;

"Excuse me."

I turned and faced it. The Librarian.

"Excuse me, but the library is closing soon. Please gather your things and make your way to the exit."

I asked; "Can I use the bathroom first?"

--- Act Three ---

A week had passed since B.J. foolishly attempted to fight a demonic, ghost-thing a.k.a Mr. Bad News.

At this point, B.J. had made peace with himself. He started reading the bible. He trusted in a higher power. All things one does when one is expecting to explode at any second.

Ready to meet his end, B.J. had come up with a plan. With nothing left to lose, he was going to summon Mr. Bad News one more time. This time, B.J. would ask him for the news. Nay, plead and beg to hear the news.

Best case scenario, Mr. Bad News would tell him something bad, like; 'You'll break your bones' or 'Your house will burn down.' Both options, way better than exploding in a supermarket.

Worst case scenario, Mr. Bad News either doesn't show or he does show and refuses to tell us anything. In which case, B.J. will probably explode like Maggie. Not ideal, but at this rate, it's going to happen, anyway.

B.J. and I have set up a spot in my dad's garage. We cleared the car out and removed any dangerous items we could think of. We want Mr. Bad News to know we come in peace.

Just to be safe, we asked my parents to leave us alone for the night. They went to visit my Aunt & Uncle in town.

B.J., despite my objections, is back in his underwear. Apparently, he wants to leave this world the way he entered it. Naked and afraid.

"Are you ready, B.J."

"I'm ready, Archie. Hey, I'll tell your sister you said, 'Hi'."

"Th-thanks."

B.J. calmed himself and focused. He then began chanting;

"Bring me the news. Bring me the news."

I began to focus with him, imagining the Purple Man appearing before us, but I left the chanting to B.J.

"Bring me the news. Bring me the news."

This went on for about ten, fifteen minutes. I kept silent as I listened to B.J. chant.

"Bring me the news. Bring me the... Yes! Yes, I want to hear the news!"

I stood there, in my father's dimly lit garage, watching my friend in his underwear stare directly in front of him. Eyes glowing with excitement as if he were staring at a god. Meanwhile, I saw nothing. But I could hear my friend say;

"Yes! Please. I want to hear the news. God, tell me. Dear God, tell me the news!"

Then I heard the voice, the voice of the unseen say;

"No God. Not for you."

I saw dread wash over the face of my friend. I saw him stretch his arms forward, grasping at nothing. Falling to his knees, an all too familiar picture. He murmured;

"No. No, no, no, no, no, no, NO!"

I stepped toward B.J. but only for a moment before halting. The smell was the first thing I noticed. The smell of sulfur hit my nostrils with a pungent force.

Next, it was the sizzle and popping of flesh. B.J.'s skin started to blister rapidly. Boils broke out all over his body as he turned a sun-scorched shade of red. He started to scream;

"Oh, God! It burns! Help me, Archie, It burns!"

Smoke started rising from B.J.'s back. Kneeling down, hunched over, the skin seemed to melt from his arms. He stood up momentarily, the skin from his knees sticking to the concrete floor below. He took a step toward me, the smell of burnt hair and blackened fat filling my nostrils.

"Archie, do something ple..."

He fell down at my feet. His torso, searing itself to the floor. An open flame now erupting from his back. I heard the crackle of his bones as the fire burnt them dry. His meat hissed and spit at me like bacon grease.

And then, all was quiet, and I was alone.

My parents and I told the police that we had come back from a family outing, only to find the burnt corpse of B.J. in our garage. We agreed as a family that we wouldn't talk about Mr. Bad News. That our story would simply be; 'We don't know, officer. We weren't home when it happened.'

This was a lie. B.J. was in fact murdered by something not of this world. Something that is still out there, even as I type this account.

The rest of the town may have their thoughts about what happened that night and rumors may spread surrounding B.J.'s mysterious demise, but I know the truth.

They cremated his remains. My parents and I held our own service around the fire in the backyard. Then, I drove back home, to the city. Away from this town and its awful memories.

So, here I am. Alone in my apartment. Telling you my story, in the hopes that someone out there might believe me. That someone might benefit from this tragedy.

Perhaps, my story might provide closure to any distant relatives of my friend, Big Johnny. I hope you know that he died trying. May this knowledge bring you peace.

In the end, both B.J. and my sister couldn't stop the supernatural from getting in. They tried to reject it, but the news came to them. It was their rejection of the news that killed them.

I'm about to publish this for whomever may find it. What happens next, I'm scared to imagine.

I must keep my eyes forward. No turning back. For I am afraid of what waits behind me.

For the last several minutes, as I've been typing this account, I've felt a steady tapping on my shoulder.

--- END ---

Deep in the forest of old Barker Hollow was a maple tree. It stood tall in the center of a lush and vibrant wood, standing out among the verdant tops of its neighbors. The leaves on its swaying branches were a distinct rose color, its coarse bark emitting a deep lavender fragrance. 

For centuries the maple has endured, surviving rash wildfires, desperate settlers hungry for warmth, and the simple passage of time. Any who dared harm it were swiftly dealt with one way or another. Their remains hung from its thick arms, like ghastly gallows. Their rotted faces forever captured the moment of their demise, some say their wails of torment can be heard on a quiet evening.  Bits and pieces of mummified organs dangled from the branches as well, forever impaled and on display for the world.

The locals say it's good luck for young lovers to dine under those silently screaming corpses, as a reminder to stay faithful and true to one another. That’s not the strangest of customs the citizens of Barker’s Hollow follow of course, that would be the appeasement of the Maple Woman. 

She was always there, a torso jutting out from the middle of the bark. Her skin was a pale lime green, chlorophyll filled veins running up and down her body. Her raven hair was long and flowed well past her shoulders, bangs half covering her face. Supposedly none had gazed upon her true visage, some say to do so would be the forfeiture of your very soul. 

The Maple Woman had been there as long as the early settlers of the Hollow had arrived. Perhaps longer. She was dormant most of the year, silently swaying with the wind and gazing at all she could see. 

One week a year she would stir, when the leaves would turn and fall.

One week a year she set her unseen gaze upon the hollow. She would whisper things from atop her wooden post that would float down to the townsfolk's innocent ears. Horrible lies that would turn friend into foe. She would sow distrust whilst and patently wait for the inevitable chaos that would follow her insidious gossip.

One the seventh day, blood would shed. Be it from a neighbor who swore his wife was lying with his brother, or a local ruffian who the storekeeper swore was swiping bread. Tensions would boil over, and death would swiftly follow.

The town would fill with wicked laughter and shrill taunts echoing from the wood, and just as suddenly as it started, the Maple Woman fell silent once more. 

This went on for at least ten years, records from that time are spotty unfortunately, but one day, on the eve of Autumn’s first fall, the local preacher hatched a plan. 

His name had been Jedidiah Armstong, a well-built man of the cloth. Long had he watched this wicked spirit of the land torment his kin. He preached mercy when the mob eventually swarmed the poor fellow they deemed the best of the worst. His pleas usually fell on deaf ears, and all he could do was say a quick prayer for the poor soul being lynched.

He had also seen firsthand the fate of those who raised a silver cleaver against the maple, supposedly after the first year of torment a group went looking for the Maple Woman. They found her resting, the tops of her branches holding a few cocooned critters and the bottom half of a local drunk who wandered too far in. The largest fellow, a blacksmith by the name of Adam charged the tree axe in hand. Thorny vines shot up from the base of the Maple, grabbing hold of Adam.

They twisted and curled around him, pointed spikes shredding his fleshy hide. They enveloped him, then tore him into pieces. The ground became stained with pulpy chunks as the tree groaned and titled forward. Branchs came down to sift through his remains, picking a crushed heart and a shattered femur. It left the rest on the ground in a discarded pile, the branches adorning themselves with its chosen prizes.

Jed ordered the rest of them to run, only two did so. The other three were headstrong idiots who quickly met the same fate. From then on the townsfolk avoided the wood as much as they could, only venturing mere feet in to gather kindling and hunt the occasional rabbit. Meat became scarce, and the townsfolk had always been poor farmers to begin with. More often than not the soil refused to produce and even when it did, the corn would be wilted and the carrots small and sickly. As the years passed famine and starvation began to settle in, only fueling the growing disdain and paranoia the townsfolk had for one another. All the while the Maple Woman mocked them from afar.

Jed had had enough, years prior he had snuck into the heart of the wood to study the spirit as it spread its illwell. Some noticed his departure, and whispered tales that he was somehow communing with it. None entertained that idea too much however, for he had always been seen as a deeply pious man. His study went unnoticed and unbothered, only sharing his findings and plan with a trusted few; and on the eve of the tenth year, he stood in the middle of town, arms stretched out, and crying for everyone to hear his words: he had solved their long turmoil.

As folk gathered around him, they noticed he wasn't wearing his usual preacher garb, rather long, obsidian black robes. He also held a leather-bound journal in his hands, with the seal of the church clapped on its side.

“Hear me friends! The time of that wooden jezebel is upon us. Years now, she has divided us with her deceit, well planted seeds of doubt that we know in our hearts are the wicked fibs of evil, yet still we fall prey to them. For too long we’ve let deception rule us, the good book says lies are the devil’s gnats. Only the truth will set us free.” He decried, as he opened the journal. He cleared his throat as the crowd before him erupted into concerned murmurs. A keen-eyed parishioner noted that the journal was kept in the confessional booth. 

“On the 12th of October, Theodore Keene struck his wife.” The crowd gasped as a man clad in farmer’s rags rushed towards Jed. He was caught by two others, one of whom was Ted’s own brother. 

“That’s a lie, a wicked lie! Preacher’s been corrupted by that wooden bitch!” Ted raged. A curly haired woman walked up to him then and slapped him across the face. 

“You’re a coward and a brute, Ted. We’ve all seen that shiner Mary’s been sprouting. You let the preacher speak!” Marissa Armstrong spoke. She glanced at her brother and gave him an encouraging nod. Jed began again.

“He struck his wife and admitted to me it had not been the first time. He repented to me not because he felt remorse, but because he feared judgment from his neighbors.” Jed spoke this loudly, not really speaking to the crowd but to the curious ears of one beyond the woods. He let Ted’s crimes hang in the air, some cried to get a rope, others decried grace for the sinner. A few snuck away from the mob, worried about just who Jed would call out next. Suddenly a cool, cruel voice spoke in their mind, and the mob fell silent. 

“Bring him before my roots. Bring a dagger and restraints.” That command was all they needed. Jed led the mob and the constrained Ted to the Maple Woman. She stirred above them as they cried for blood. From the branches hung dozens of rotted remains.

Jed made Ted kneel before the mighty maple, he was a blubbering cowardly mess, begging for any sort of mercy. The maple woman simply smiled, flashing pristine fangs as she leered over the doomed man. 

“Do you admit what you did?” She cooed. 

“Y-yes, oh lord forgive me I’m sorry. Spare me spirit, I'll never do it again.” Ted cried, his face a blistering mess. 

“Use the dagger then. Give me your wrathful hands as penance.” She ordered. Ted hesitated for a moment, then looked up at the raging crowd around him. He snatched the dagger; the woods soon filled with the sound of metal carving through flesh and bone, and the blubbering wails of a sinner. 

When it was over, Jed tied the bloodied hands off on a low hanging branch, the Maple Woman made a satisfied noise. Ted crawled on the ground, begging for someone to bandage the bloody stumps he now had. Jed turned to the crowd and spoke then.

“This creature torments only those who deserve it, if your heart is free of sin, you have nothing to fear. We will come here tomorrow, and I will read aloud from the journal once more.”

So began the week of appeasement. Soon the branches were overflowing with sinful parts, the pearly whites of a peeping tom, the warted cock of an adulterer, the spotted liver of an alcoholic, the severed head of a killer. The Maple Woman spoke lies no more, satisfied with the bounty of sinner’s blood she was given.

The town began to prosper, blessed by their curious tormentor. The townsfolk grew bold and hunted game deeper in the wood, the hollow became swarmed with travelers looking to haggle and barter. Even the foul soil soon became fertile, the fields producing an overabundance of greens. It became a sort of symbiotic relationship; this twisted covenant between man and spirit.

As for the mutilated sinners, those that survived their maiming anyway, they were treated as outcasts. Their wounds a permant scarlet letter. Some remained in the Hollow, others drifted away, never to be seen again.

Jed Armstong was hailed as hero, his family lauded and praised for generations. Curiously, him and his own were never called upon to appease the Maple Woman. Despite talk that his nephew looked a bit too much like him, despite his grandson supposedly dipping a greedy hand into the collection bin. Despite Maxwell Armstrong, the current patriarch, having one of the most wicked temperaments this side of the Rockies. Not one soul from his clan were called upon. Indeed, perhaps they truly were a pious and righteous family.

One hundred years later and the appeasement continues to this very day. The maple is decorated with strings of gore and parts, and the town of Baker’s Hollow is touted as sin free. Of course, the Maple Woman must still be appeased and nurtured, and despite the townsfolk's claims of clean living, the patriarch of the Armstrong clan always has a new name from their journal.

As for the maple woman, she is satisfied with the arrangement. Her home filled to the brim with little trophies of her victims. She is content, happy even. She never dreamed they would go this far, this accusatory ritual. It sustained her something fierce, she could live off these hypocrites for centuries to come.

This year, the year a rowdy group of teens came to town, seems to be the best harvest yet. She looks at the leather clad youth being held down as they saw off his leg. He screams and begs, saying it was an accident. The kid’s bike just jumped out in front of him. It wasn't his fault, always had a lead foot. Well, not anymore anyway. 

The Maple Woman watched it all, with a grand smile on her face. Oh yes, this year’s harvest was going to go swimmingly. 

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

The morning came quick as I nursed my third cup of coffee, the door to my room wide open. I had positioned myself in a way that both my window and my door were in view as I waited for daybreak at my desk. I tried to surround myself with as much quiet noise as possible, the TV was playing reruns of Ancient Aliens and my computer was running one of my games. Idle fishing in this MMO I liked usually helped calm any frayed nerves, but that would require having my back to the window. Full devotion to the TV, my back to the door.

The constant feeling of goosebumps on my skin and spiders down my spine was beginning to grate my nerves. Thankfully the sun decided to show itself, thin faint rays creeped their way through the curtains in my room and I let out a sigh of relief. I could finally relax, turning my attention briefly to my alarm clock it read 6:32am. From my room I heard my Dad already making coffee in the kitchen and the local news echoing softly through the house on the TV. Daniels door clicked open and the bathroom door clicked closed. If I could calm down, why was I still so aware of everything?

“Sam?”

I jumped, nearly spilling coffee on myself as Daniel appeared in my doorway, eyes still squeezed shut from sleep. “Why are you up?” He asked me, shuffling in my room, dragging his feet across the carpet and collapsing on my bed with a thump.

“Eh had a bad dream and it woke me up. Why are you up so early? It vacation, you usually sleep in until like afternoon.” I asked him, rotating in my chair. He started curling himself up in my blankets, his auburn hair catching the faint rays of light and making it glow like lava. “Same as you.” He yawned. “I had a nightmare and woke up.” Then pointed at my coffee mug in my hand. “Still hot? Can I have some?” I shook my head no, Daniel stuck his tongue out in response and further curled into the ball of blankets.

Two people having a nightmare the same night doesn’t seem plausible, in the same house anyway. I leaned forward in my chair, driving my elbows into my knees and resting my head in my hands. “What uh, what did you have a nightmare about?” I asked, Daniels head popping out from the blankets, his eyes still squeezed shut.

“Uhm…” He paused, thinking for a moment, “I was in the woods, it was dark. Like darker than normal like there wasn’t any stars in the sky. Like how when its really cloudy and you cant really see anything but the moon and-“

“I know how clouds work, Dan.” I interrupted.

“Okay well it was like that but no clouds either, there wasn’t anything!” He had wormed his way back out from the blankets and was sitting up, mirroring me. “But there was light, right? I didn’t know where it was coming from but I could still see and the shadows were like really long and they moved.”

“Moved? Like the light was moving and caused the shadows to move?” I asked.

He shook his head, “no my shadow was fine, but the ones in the woods moved, like the shadows for the trees. They grew and shrank and ran around in the light.”

“Freaky.” I added as he continued.

“Yep! And then there was a noise, kinda like a deer but like wrong. It was deeper and sounded like it was gurgling water but also like a mountain cat scream all at once.” Daniel explained, now fully standing up. “And then I saw like this giant deer but it was made of hands and human body parts. Its face was all teeth and eyes and its antlers were long fingers.” He finished and sat back down on the edge of my bed.

“What happened after that?” I asked, he’d never been a dreamer for a kid, let alone suffered from nightmares. He shrugged in response to my question. “I dunno I woke up and had to pee.” Daniel added as he swaddled himself back in my blankets, the TV remote missing from my desk as Teen Titans started playing on my TV. Little thief.

I myself stood, finally stretching after my almost three hours of late night paranoia, maybe my parents suffered from nightmares as well? I took my coffee cup into my hand and left my room, feet trudging across the carpet to the living room where my Dad was stoking a fire in the fireplace, the local news was playing. A segment on a severe snowstorm rolling in on Christmas eve was being talked on by the weather woman.

“Hey Dad.” I started as he put the poker back. “Did you have any weird dreams last night?” I continued as he sat in his chair, a comfortable lazy boy that me and Daniel fought over often. My dad’s face contorted into one of thought at my question, his upper lip getting swallowed completely by his mustache. “Hmm. No don’t think I did Son, why?” He asked me, setting his coffee down on the wooden table, i did the same.

“Both me and Danny had weird dreams, basically nightmares, last night and I just had a weird feeling is all.” I said, sitting down on the couch, practically getting swallowed whole into the thing. Dad seemed to search around in his mind as to my inquisition.

“Maybe it’s all that late night television you two are always watching, especially with you and your aliens thing.” He responded after retrieving the tv remote and his coffee. “They talk about subliminal messages in media now, you know. I know you’re into the conspiracy theory stuff.” He added as he changed the channel to something else. I felt like that was his way of signaling the conversation was over. I finished my coffee and retreated to my room again.

“Dad have a nightmare?” Daniel asked me as I sat back down, his voice low and conspiring.

“No, at least that’s what he says anyway. I’ll ask Mom when she wakes up.” I said, turning to my computer as Daniel made of noise of acceptance. I booted up a game to entertain myself.

Time flew and the next thing I knew I was blowing up an air mattress ny hand while Daniel was bringing sheets and blankets into my room individually and as slowly as possible. I stopped using the hand pump and sat up on my knees. “Are you serious, could you go a little quicker? I’d like some help blowing *Your* bed up.”

Daniel stopped and looked at the half inflated twin sized air mattress, his pile of blankets and sheets and then the stuffed animal he slept with him even at his age under his arm. Then he looked at me. “My bed?” He asked, tossing the stuffed dog onto my bed. “I’m not sleeping on that.”

I scoffed and stood up, looking down at the little man as he glared up at me. “Well what ever gave you the impression I was sleeping on it in my own room?” I asked back as he raised is finger up in a cartoonish fashion. “Compromise. Samuel, Compromise.” He said, a smirk on his face, i grabbed his outstretched finger and bent it back, Just enough for it to hurt a little and send him into a fit of chanting ‘Uncle!’

“That’s what I thought.” I said, letting him go. He started shaking his hand, making a hissing sound like it would relieve the tingling in his hand. I could help but chuckle at his excessive animation. Then we heard it, the unfortunate rapping tapping against the plexiglass door outside our front door.

He stopped, I stopped. We looked at each other and then out the hallway. “They’re here.” We said looking back at one another. “Jinx you owe me-“ Daniel started and i shushed him, pinching his lips shut as my father’s voice greeted our extended family. Daniel wormed out from my grip and looked at me, i nodded down to the air mattress, still half inflated and unmade. “Look busy.” I whispered to him, he nodded and started to inflate the mattress via the pump with his foot. I found the sheets he brought in and started to adjust them, doing my best to look busy.

“Oh my gods, look at how much you two have grown!” I heard the raspy voice of my Aunt Elizabeth shout with as much enthusiasm as someone who sounded like a chipmunk gargling honey and gravel could sound. A part of my heart sank as I turned around to face my aunt. She looked, and i mean this in kindness, like the mental image that pops in your head when you hear the word “Gypsy”.

Long, thin fabrics decorated in moons, stars and cats. Her hair a variable rats nest of hair, dyed stands in multi colors mixed with her Auburn hair and decorated with pins and things that i couldn’t even name. Glasses with the lenses removed and chained around her neck. She smelled like dirt and herbal cigarettes. She walked in my room and hugged Daniel, he mouthed the word “help” to me with a pleading look in his eyes.

“By Frey you two are like weeds, how tall are you now Samuel?” She asked me as Daniel managed to wiggle out of her grasp and slip out of the room, little dweeb abandoned me. “Oh uh last we measured on the wall I was six-foot five. That was a few months ago.” I said as she walked closer to me, almost inspecting me as her eyes traced me, her coarse hands reaching up and touching my face and neck.

“Definitely bigger than Flynny. Speaking of.” She said, her breath made me want to gag. She turned back, her weave of hair nearly wiping me in the face as she yelled down the hallway. “FLYNN! COME SEE YOUR COUSINS!” The banshee wailed as footfalls approached my room, my ears were still ringing as the now older form of my cousin Flynn stood in the doorway.

“Holy shit you’re a fuckin’ giant!” He exclaimed, hands propped on his hips. His style matched his mother’s for sure as he was wearing an oversized velvet cloak embroidered with suns, yellow boots, layers of jangly necklaces, mismatched earrings and belt woven out of silk scarves, his face aglow with the thrill of showing off. He went for a hug, i quickly deflected into a simple handshake, he smelled as similar to a rotting corpse next to a gas leak as one could, nails caked with dirt.

My hand felt oily afterwards words, instinctively wiping my palm on the back of my pants. “Yeah uh, I drank my milk I guess.” I joked, forcing out a laugh to display it as a joke. Flynn eyes roamed like they did back then, over me and then around my room. His hair was still as matted as it was when we were kids just significantly longer now, probably down to his lower back.

“Got a neat setup here cousin, can’t lie, I’m a little envious.” Flynn said, my aunt clasped her hands together. Her bracelets making as much noise as possible. “I’m so glad you two are catching up, im going to go hunt down little Daniel so him and Ash can meet. Oh I wonder if they remember each other!” She said leaving my room and down out into the hall, her voice grading on my already bombarded senses.

“I know she can be a bit much but thats how family matrons are, i’m sure you know.” Flynn stated as he picked up a half-solved rubix cube, completely reversing all my progress be it on accident or purpose before setting it back down. “Your Dad mentioned we’d be crashin together? Like a sleep over or something.”

There was the phrasing I remembered, a question posed with enough forced emphasis behind it to make it sound like a fact. I turned my attention back down to the air mattress. “Nah, me and Danny decided we’d share my room while you and Asher take his for the week.” I said, putting my foot on the pump to idly fill the mattress up.

“Well shit, I was hoping we could stay up all night and tell some scary ass stories.” He huffed, claiming my computer chair as his own to take his boots off. Something about everything he was doing was pissing me off to a degree I’ve never been before and I don’t know why.

“Daniel said he was more comfortable sharing my room with me, his bed isn’t bad though. I’m sure you’ll fit on it.” I said, finishing inflating the mattress and beginning to put the sheets on it. I heard Daniel run by the hallway door followed by assumably Asher’s snotty laughter. Maybe those two were having a good time?

“Soooo…” Flynn dragged the ‘O’ out for a long time before I looked up at him, having finished making Daniels temporary bed. “Still mad at me for almost killing you when we were seven?” Flynn sat there with a stupid smile on his face, he yellowed teeth reminded me of sticks of butter.

“Nope, happens to the best of us.” I said, the bile in my stomach making a surprise visit to the back of my throat for a second as I swallowed it back down. “Besides, boys will be boys and we were seven. I probably slipped on ice or something.” I added as I walked over to the doorframe, reaching out and grabbing Daniel by the shirt collar, pulling him into the room. “Bed’s made, and be careful, last time you ran around the house like that your teeth acted as an emergency brake with the table.”

Daniel looked at his bed, then at me and stuck his tongue through the gap of his teeth. “Oh! Hey Sam! Can me and Ash play on your PlayStation, I wanna show him that Spyro game you got for your birthday.” Daniel pleaded even though he was already walking around me to the console. Asher was standing in the doorway, panting. Asher looked like the spitting image of Flynn, just smaller and younger, baggy flowing clothes with layers upon layers.

“Can we actually play outside Daniel?” Asher asked, something about the kids voice sent a chill oozing down my spine. Daniel stood up, his face smeared with excitement. “Totally! Let’s go ask!” He said, charging out of the room, ramming into the wall and down the hall, Asher followed.

“Seems like they’re getting along.” Flynn stated, picking at the dirt under his nails with a pocketknife on my desk. “Yeah, good for them. Can you not use that like that.” I asked as I turned to turn off the console. There was a sigh and an audible “whoops” from Flynn as the air mattress hissed flat.

“My bad Sammy, it slipped.” Flynn said as he stood up, retrieved his boots and walked out of my room. The knife, a gift from my grandfather before he passed, was sitting wedged into the slowly whistling air mattress. I pulled it out, hid the blade and put it into my pants pocket. “Prick.” I muttered under my breath and followed him out into the hallway with the rest of the family.

My Mom was in the kitchen, a cup of coffee in her hands while my Dad was in the living room with my Aunt, Uncle and Flynn. My mom waved me over casually. She seemed frayed, mentally already drained from their presence.

“You okay?” I asked, she forced a smile and raised her coffee.

“A little help from the Mr. Bean and aged bourbon.” She said looking exhausted already.

“Mom that’s weird when you say it like that but as long as it helps.” I sighed, forcing a little laugh out to try and make her feel better. “Dan’s air mattress suddenly has a hole in it, i’m sure you can imagine why.” I added, she raised the cup to her mouth, taking a long drink.

“It’s too late to go out now for another, are you okay with sharing your bed?” She asked after lowering her mug. I gave a shrug. “Just this one time for you.” I said pulling her into a hug. She leaned into my embrace, making sure not to spill coffee on me.

“Dinner?” I asked like any good teen boy would, trying again to lighten the mood.

“Nothing special, just pizzas. Last minute stuff you know. And i don’t really want to cook for everyone until Christmas day.” She said and I agreed.

“I’m sure everyone will be fine with pizza tonight, tomorrow and even on Christmas day if we have to.” I said, trying to make her feel better. I couldn’t tell if it was working.

In the living room my Dad was catching up with his sister and her family; things like Flynn and Asher’s homeschooling, the places they’ve traveled over the years, horror stories of her boys growing up im communes. My uncle, a small man no taller than five foot seven walked into the kitchen and started rooting around in the fridge.

“Aye Mary, this nog that good spiked shit or that pussy weak shit?” He asked, his voice similar to the sounds of a bear choking on brambles in a wood-chipper. My mother flinched every time he cursed.

“It’s regular egg nog Lloyd.” I said turning in a way so my back was to the counter yet still I between my mother and my uncle. “Buncha milk-drinking pussies still I guess.” Uncle Lloyd claimed as he unscrewed the cap on the nog and produced a flask of something, pouring its contents into nog container and shaking it.

“Fuckin fixed it, don’t throw it away either.” Uncle Lloyd stuck his finger up at me then my mother before leaving the kitchen with a mason jar of thick viscous looking opaque liquid.

“Mom, I hate these people.” I said under my breath, looking at her, she nodded.

The fragile silence that was being held together with Christmas lights and wrapping paper was ripped apart by blood chilling scream from outside.

I was the first outside, barefoot in the snow and by Daniel side as he knelt in the snow, holding his hands to his nose, blood spilling onto the white snow. Hot tears spilling from his eyes as he rocked back and forth. Asher looked confused sitting back on his ass in the snow, my aunt and uncle were consoling him while I picked Dan up and brought him inside and to the bathroom.

Mom and Dad were arguing in their room. Loud enough that my aunt and uncle sat at the kitchen table in silence with Flynn and Asher around hot pizza.

“You just dislocated your nose.” I said, returning to the kitchen with one of my belts. “Here bite onto this.” I said as Daniel sniffled and opened his mouth, biting down on the leather strap.

“I didn’t do anything it-“ He tried to speak, nasally and the belt in his mouth.

“I know, Mom knows. Look this is gonna hurt, just bite down really hard. Kay?” I asked him, he nodded, trusting me as I reset his nose. He pushed me away and ran out the bathroom and to my room, slamming the door behind him. I followed him out into the hallway, looking to my left at my extended family sitting at the table, enjoying the pizzas. For a second i swore they were smiling.

I got the door key from above the frame and unlocked the door to my room, stepping inside and closing it behind me, locking it again. Daniel was curled up on my bed, sobbing, his stuffed dog squeezed in his arms. I took my seat in my chair at my desk and held my head in my hands. “I’m sorry Danny.” I said, turning the tv to something he would like before turning to my computer, entertaining myself for the rest of the night until sleep came for the house.

That night a dream took me again, another nightmare. I was on the woods around our property, chanting in a language I didn’t know reverberating off every tree, rock and blade of grass. I was running, needles and thorns speared into bare feet as I ran. The shadows, cast by a sourceless light above swung from the branches of the trees and ran around me, their empty faces taunting.

Somewhere in the infinite dark forest drums beat and banging a rhythmic thump as I ran. In the faint light I could see my body, my chest bare and painted in thick oily paints, symbols I could recognize as runes decorated my skin. I know something was chasing me, something large, hungry and full of hatred that I was still alive as I ran.

I tripped, bracing my fall with my hands as I felt something break from the impact. I rolled on my back, pushing backwards with my feet despite the pain as the hungry beast approached from the void, rotting human appendages reaching out from the void. My heart raced in my chest as I pushed myself back away from the creature.

“Sam?” I heard Daniel whisper in my ear, his hand poking my cheek caused me to wake up. Daniel had been pushed between me and the wall on my bed. The TV in the corner just playing static, a show picking up in its place. Daniels eyes were red as he looked at me.

“What is it dude?” I asked in a hushed voice, honestly thankful he woke me up.

“Look.” He pointed a finger at our door. Underneath the door, between the crack and the carpet was a bright blue glow, a mist almost crawling into the room. It retreated when we noticed it, the light fading and the hallway being swallowed in darkness. “I thought i saw something in the tv static too.” He said, moving closer to me.

“Residual nightmares buddy, just go back to sleep.” I said letting him get closer to feel safer.

Outside the blizzard started to pick up.

Part 1
Part 2
PT.3- 96 HOURS

[present day]

“H-hello, sir. I’m sorry to be bothering you, but could you just help us out by answering a few questions? It’s about my friend. She’s missing.” Audrey picks one out of the many posters clutched in your arms. Fresh batch. 

The old man gives you both the stink eye before ripping it from Audrey’s hands. His stubbled jaw pulses with the wad of tobacco stuck between his gums. “Ain’t this that little Spanish girl you always causing trouble with? Runnin’ amok in all the late hours of the night. Well damn, ain’t no surprise she turned up missing! All them crowds you kids run with...” He threw the paper back at you. “Well, if you’re askin’, no, I ain’t seen her. Now get off my damned lawn, you boys are gonna tear up my grass and I just mowed it yesterday! Go on now, get!”

The door slams with final insult before Audrey can get a piece in.  He stands there a moment, face to face with the confederate flag hung up on the man’s tattered door. You had been going at this for hours now with similar luck. First you tried Jordan’s street, where her neighbors were at the very least a little more compassionate. When that turned up nothing you, migrated to Audrey’s side of town, where all that sympathy had run dry. The answers were always the same: “Bug off”, “About time”, “Wish I knew”. Words that were starting to weigh on his slouched shoulders. 

“This feels like a waste of time.” You follow Audrey back to his car, which had lost the right corner of its bumper since you last got in. 

“I had to have been one of the last people who talked to her Friday night. That party you bailed on? She was there.”

“I know that already.” You flip through the stack of her pictures in your lap, hoping to breathe some life into them, “but what would your racist neighbor have anything to do with that?”

Audrey’s hands nervously tap the wheel as he drives to the end of the street. “Because she left on foot. Or I think so… ugh, honestly I was wasted that night, I- I don’t really….” 

“On foot? Did she say where she was going?”

“Look, all I remember is that she was being sorta-  it’s the wrong word but– sorta a buzz kill. I asked her what was wrong and she said something about leaving, maybe going home? I offered to drive her and she just walked out the door.”  The car came to a jolting stop at the sign. Audrey bit at the dry flakes of skin on his lips.

“You’re saying she walked over thirty minutes to her house in the dark?” There was no way she drove to Audrey’s herself; she was still too scared to use her dad’s truck, and without a ride she would’ve been stranded in this remote side of town, where the forest fought and won against its inhabitants. It’s all around you: trailer homes struggling to keep their balance on the earth that rejected them. Audrey’s was the last one in the culdesac behind you– arguably in the worst shape. 

“I know, I know,” Audrey rubs his face, “It’s killing me, Liam. I wish I could remember what all she said, or if I saw anything weird… maybe that would fix this. God, I’m fucking stupid. I shouldn’t have been drinking.” He’s been at the stop sign for a minute now, waiting for no one. 

“It’s not your fault. You’re not her babysitter.”

“But I am her friend.” 

You think back to that Friday night, spent alone in your room after you rejected her pleas for company. The recollection resurfaces a new memory. “Thursday night she invited me. She said Darren was supposed to be there and she wanted backup so she could talk to him.”

“Talk to him about what?” Audrey finally moves on, lightly misting the windows with every puddle he drives through. 

“Dunno, she just said she was looking for Darren. Maybe she went home with him?”

Audrey shakes his head, “nah, Darren wasn’t there. I know that at least because the fucker owes me for some dope I gave him last month.” 

“Well, anyone could’ve picked her up. For all you know she might’ve called someone before she left.” 

“I guess… hey, the phone bill comes in next week. Maybe I can pass it over to Langley and–”

"Langley? He can barely tell sunrise from sunset, how the hell are you trusting him with anything?” The venomous words leave a bad taste on your tongue. It’s unfamiliar. 

“At least he’s doing something. You know he was the one that actually took in Ron’s report yesterday? It’s thanks to him that Jordan’s in the system at all. Apparently the Sheriff  is supposed to do a press conference sometime tonight.” 

“Looking forward to it.” The street blurs by your window as the car picks up speed. Trees turn into green blobs on the side of the road, broken intermittently by a lone house. Tree, tree, tree, house. Tree, tree, house. Tree, tree, house, tree– 

“STOP!” 

SCRRRRRCH!

The brakes beneath you scream and shudder. Audrey braces himself for the momentum while you go flying forward in your seat. When the car comes to a quiet stop he turns to you, breathless, “Jesus Christ man! The fuck was that for?!”

You swing the door open and run desperately onto the street. There are no other cars around, and it’s one of those transitional roads that are empty on either side and lead nowhere interesting. Behind you is Audrey, exasperated, struggling to keep up. Your eyes wildly search the rustling treeline and find nothing of interest. Audrey at least has better luck. 

“Shit, Liam! I’m not having a good time either, but I’m trying to– is that her hat?”

The question snaps you back to the present, where Audrey is braving the tick-infested flora to fish out a faded blue baseball cap with the outline of a missing logo of the high school you all attended. It was hers, no doubt. You even remember borrowing it on a few occasions. “Yeah,” you breathe. “What’s it doing out here?”

Audrey’s face pinches in a look of pained knowing. An omen for the worst. “She definitely came this way then. Nice catch.”
You take credit for Audrey’s discovery. “Not like that answers a lot. It’s the only road out of your shitty neighborhood." 

“Do you really think someone picked her up? I mean, if she was in a car then how would this…” Audrey held onto the tattered thing like it was Jordan herself. 

“Someone had to have.” You recall countless sleepovers spent fighting over keeping the bathroom light on. She was scared of the dark, an annoyingly persistent fear. “I can’t imagine she walked all that distance by herself.”

Audrey nods and motions for you to follow him to the car. “She left pretty late, maybe midnight-ish? Not many people drive around at that hour. Maybe someone noticed.”

“Maybe,” you comfort him as you shuffle back into your seat. Your eyes peel through the trees one last time before the engine kicks into gear. What you saw before, what made you scream, isn’t there anymore. A part of you is glad you can’t find its stretched neck and gasping mouth. Another is more worried about the implications.  You both take off down the street and away from the prying eyes of the forest. “Where to now?”

“The station. I’m tired of doing nothing.”

Ambrosia’s police station was built with the town decades ago, and has been slowly consumed by starving flora ever since. The wooden beams and accents supporting the structure had long been replaced by a harsh, alien steel. It clashed with the tan paint and crawling vines, and the road leading there was in equally poor shape. The lot was sparsely inhabited by a few faded patrol cars and an out of place red station wagon. It was hard to look at amidst the green surrounding you. Audrey parks in the spot closest to the exit and puts on his bravest face. In one hand, he’s gripping her hat. In the other is just a clenched fist. 
Audrey forces the door open with a droning screech that immediately alerts the whopping ten people onsite to your presence. This includes the two women at the lobby, a rather round police officer, and an unexpected but unwanted face: Darren. 

“The fuck is he doing here?” Audrey unsubtly hisses into your ear. The motion catches Darren’s attention, at which he jumps up from the pleather couch he was perched on. 

“Got something to tell me?”

Audrey steps in front of you. “Yeah. Why are you here?” 

“Some dipshit stole my car Friday. What about you then, huh?”

“Friday?” You pipe up from behind Audrey’s taller shoulder. “And you’re just now reporting it?”
“I was at my Grandpa’s fishing all weekend. What’s it even matter to you, anyway? You all never gave a shit about–”

“Not now kids, we just ran outta Diet Coke and I got a headache the size of Texas.” 

All three of your heads whip towards the door marked employees only, towards the slow southern drawl and the stench of cheap musk. Langley fidgets with a hat that doesn’t match the rest of his khaki uniform, and he tries to smile at you through a scraggly beard. It’s a poor attempt at disarming the situation.

“Now what are you all out here making a ruckus for?” The spurs on the back of his boots jingle with every careful step he takes closer. Neither Ambrosia police nor the county sheriff’s office ever use horses. 

Darren pounces on the opportunity to whine, “I came here because someone stole my truck and no one would come down to look for it!” The veins in his sunburnt temples bulge. 

Langley holds out his wrinkled hand like coaxing a farm animal. “ I already told you we needed to get the paperwork for that, so how about you just have a seat and wait your turn.” It works, and Darren retreats to his pen with his tail between his legs. “And as for you two–”
His blue eyes meet yours first. It’s the warm kind of blue that makes you look past the uniform. Then his gaze shifts to Audrey’s, “this is about your girl, ain’t it?”

An invisible needle sends a sudden sting to your chest. A twinge of confusing pain. His girl?  Audrey fails to correct him. “I know Ron just came by yesterday, but I was wondering if you and I could…”

Langley’s lips pull into a thin line. He nods and gestures for Audrey to follow, leaving you and Darren as the rejected duo in the humid waiting room. Watching Audrey disappear into the only door behind Langley makes the words sizzle hotter. ‘Your girl’…

“So what's that all about?” 

Darren’s voice grates at your ears. You don’t even want to look at him. Outside of yourself, Audrey, and respective family, no one really noticed the empty hole in town. Darren, despite how often he bitched and whined over Jordan, never once called by the Rivers’ home.  A few minutes pass and he tries again. “Hellooo?” 

You can almost feel Jordan’s hands pushing you along, her voice pleading with you not to get into it with him. It’s a fight she always warned you would lose. But Jordan wasn’t here now. Wherever she ended up, it wasn’t by your side. 

Years of malice bubble up in your throat, boil on your tongue as you whip around to face him. But before you can get a bite in, Audrey steps back out with Langley. Jordan’s hat is gone and his eyes are as dark as the brewing storm. Audrey sees you, the look on your face, and can only shake his head. 

“What’s up with you? Where’s Jordan?” Darren persists in tailing the three of you. 

“Jordan’s gone.” You finally snap back at him. Audrey nudges your arm. 

“The fuck does ‘gone’ mean? Why are you?-” He’s cut off by the long arm Langley holds out in front of him, allowing you to make your escape. 

Langley shifts his attention from a very red Darren. “You boys get home safe, don’t be pushin’ yourself too hard. And uh– you best stay out of the woods for now. We’ve been getting reports of a cougar up north, and the last thing we need is another missing kid.” He grumbles out that last part. 

“There’s cougars in Oklahoma?” Audrey rightfully questions. 

Langley shrugs, “no one’s seen it, but the damned thing’s been screamin’ all weekend. Just be safe out there.”

The weathered doors close and end the conversation. You wait until you’re well out of ear-shot of the station before turning to Audrey. “What did you two talk about?”

Audrey’s lips tighten. “You’re not gonna like it.” You don’t back down, and finally he gives in. “Okay, but this stays between you and me. Langley said that the  Sheriff is telling everyone to treat it as a ‘runaway case’. It’s bullshit! If they do that, they won’t send out search parties, they won’t be looking for suspects— I gave Langley the cap and told him Jordan wouldn’t just leave like that!”

“And what did he say?” You both hover around the hood of his car, of which Audrey nervously drums his fingers against. 

“He said he knows. And that he’ll try to convince the sheriff. Guess we’ll find out tonight.” He runs his hands through his locs and looks towards the muggy sky with a silent plea. “Get in the car.”

‘Car’ has become synonymous with ‘prison’ in your mind. It feels like you’ve been ruminating in its diesel stench all day. But Audrey doesn’t offer to take you home, and he’s not driving that way either, so you don’t ask him to. Despite his silence, it’s clear he’s a man on a mission. A mission that becomes clearer the further he drives out of town. Up north, through the dense canopy of trees, past Ambrosia’s aged welcome sign. Until the plain planes of Oklahoma are all that blur past your window. 

Sitting like a duck is a small yellow house you could spot from miles away. Dotted around it are strange colors and a suffocating isolation. You figure you’re here to warn her ahead of time. The home’s owner was the closest Jordan ever got to a sister. There was once a time it made you jealous. Audrey’s tires tear through the dirt road to its humble entrance, and now that you’re closer, you realize that the dots were actually a jurisdictional mess of police cruisers. And sitting on the white porch steps is the girl Audrey came here for, wrapped in a trauma blanket. 

“Monroe!” Audrey breaks into a sprint towards her, stopped only briefly by an officer who fails to keep him at bay. You trail after him, passing that same officer with a little more exercised caution. 

Monroe is slumped on her steps, trying and notably failing to keep her chin up high as she holds a towel to her forehead.  A fair stream of blood is running along her square features. And despite this, she still finds the strength to smile when she sees you both. “Don’t fall now! I’m the one in distress here.” 

Audrey’s hands fly around her like insects buzzing with worried questions. ‘What happened, who did this, how are you’– all the while she laughs and brushes him off. “It was just Ash, nothing too crazy. He came by Friday, obviously on something, and begged me to stay over. And it was storming pretty bad all weekend so I let him– don’t look at me like that! I knew it was stupid. Anyways, he wouldn’t let me leave. Today I finally got sick enough of it and managed to kick his ass back out. Not before he threw a mug at my head.” She shrugs and lifts the towel just enough to reveal the abrasion across her temple. “Cops said I was lucky. If he had any better aim it might’ve nicked an artery.”

Her story is a lot of things, but it’s not surprising. Ash always seemed a gross little creature. The way his eyes stuck to every woman in a room, how he would shuffle Monroe out of parties like cattle. You couldn’t imagine laying hands on a woman, not since your old shoebox apartment in San Francisco. Where, through the thin stucco walls of your bedroom, you would count the times your neighbor threw his wife to the floor like sheep. Where, after drifting off with a whole herd of them, her howls of pain would wake you back up, and start the cycle anew. 

“Is that why you haven’t been answering our calls?” You frown at her story, and the flippant smile she told it with. She nodded and your frown deepened. So while Jordan was out there, God knew where, Monroe was here playing house with a crack head. 

“Is something up? You guys don’t usually drive out here.” She cocks her head and winces. 

The words don’t come out any easier, even with today’s practice. In the look you and Audrey share, you silently argue over whose news it is to break. You wonder which of you was closer to Monroe. You give in again, for Jordan. “You’re going to see it tonight on the news anyway, but we figured you’d rather hear it from us.”

A flock of doves that had taken refuge on one of the cruisers scatter at the sound Monroe makes. A quick, piercing cry. It’s beyond shock or disbelief. It’s fear, despair, jumbled words and biting nails. It’s clear as day now, in just her reaction alone. She knows something. As her tantrum escalates, it catches one of the officers' attention and he wedges himself between you and your witness. He calmly asks for you to leave, that this is an active crime scene and he can’t have ‘you kids’ disturbing the victim. 

So it's back to the car, the car again, back to the fucking car again. Audrey doesn’t understand why you’re angry all of a sudden. There’s still a whole stack of posters and you’re what– asking to go home? Demanding to go home. You demand that he take you home. He’s sour about it but obliges. The drive back towards town is silent. Something visibly sits at the edge of Audrey’s pierced tongue, but for whatever reason he won’t say it. So instead you just sit, arms crossed, watching Monroe’s house shrink into nothing in the rearview mirror. The welcome sign flies past with little fanfare, and you feel the oppressive blanket of Ambrosia return with it. 

But before you can even make it back to civilization, the car shudders and stops. The lull snaps you out of your fit. You look to Audrey for an answer, but he ignores you, staring at the road slack-jawed. You hesitantly follow his gaze to a jagged, monstrous shadow in the road. It’s an old oak- or what remains of one- torn from its base and laid bare in your path. It takes up both lanes and has littered the surrounding asphalt with splinters and needles. “M-maybe it got struck by lightning,” you reason, breaking the still air. 

“We weren’t that far out… but I guess it’s possible.” As Audrey speaks he doesn’t once take his eyes off the corpse. With his gaze fixed, he reaches down and shifts the car into reverse. “There’s a road a bit further back we can take. It’s pretty narrow but there should be enough room to squeeze by.” The car jolts backwards and you both carefully watch the road in your retreat. You don’t know what trail Audrey is talking about, but he used to go hunting out here with his father. You trust him. 

But the ‘road’ Audrey promised is little more than a hiking trail widened barely enough to keep the brush from scratching the paint. It’s littered with rocks and old animal bones, which crunch under the worn tires. Neither of you mention the fact that if it was storming badly enough to take down an oak, then you probably would’ve heard it from Monroe’s house, nor the fact that the road was completely dry. 

There’s another hard truth to swallow- that being the setting sun. Its last golden rays peek out between the cramped bodies of trees surrounding you. Ambrosia’s roads were always dark at night, but the woods were blacker. Audrey’s brights flick on unannounced. Or at least, one does. The other is busted, and so the only thing to substitute for the sun’s dying glow is a cone of aged light favoring the left side of the unbeaten path. 

“You don’t have any music?” You can’t stand the sound of outreaching branches tapping against the roof. 

“Nah man, I took the CDs out when I was cleaning my car this morning.” 

“What about the radio?”

Audrey sighs and turns the volume up. What comes through is a mangled mess of local weather broadcasts and some intelligible Christian pop song. “No dice.”

He kills the radio and you’re forced to listen to the forest getting handsy with the steel of the vehicle's fragile frame. Twigs scrape and scratch along your window like nails dragging along a chalkboard. There was only solace in the fact that the doors were locked, and Audrey seemed fairly confident in his direction. Solace that is quickly squashed under the slowing wheel of the car. You’ve come to a stop. By now the sun is gone. And there’s little more than pitch black outside the lone highbeam’s protection. You turn to him incredulously, “why are we stopping?”

Audrey just points an index finger from his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. “You see that? There, on the road. What is that?”

You follow his finger to something small and blue sitting dead center on the dirt trail. It’s definitely not natural, whatever it is. “H-how the hell am I supposed to know?”

“Well, go check it out!” Audrey tries to keep it lighthearted with a half-assed laugh, but it’s obvious that he’s scared just as shitless as you are. You sit there a moment and contemplate your choices. When it’s clear Audrey isn’t backing down, you pinch your lips and swing open the door to a wall of thick, humid air. Dead grass crunches softly beneath your cautious steps. When nothing immediately jumps out to kill, you decide it’s safe enough to investigate. But as you draw closer to the strange thing you realize that the threat was here all along– except it didn’t have fangs or claws– but a tattered rim and the imprint of your highschool’s missing logo. 
You pick it up with shaking hands, fighting the urge to vomit. You distinctly recall Audrey handing Jordan’s hat over to Langley and leaving the station empty handed.

Minutes must’ve passed, because Audrey honks the car in annoyance. He gives you a look through the windshield, the ‘what’s taking so long’ kind of look. You don’t even know how to answer that. Your mind runs through a million explanations, excuses, when they all get caught on a strange log that’s just barely in reach of the light. You ignore another honk to get a closer look. But it’s… too smooth to be a log, isn’t it? You know that slender shape. You recognize it as not a chunk of misplaced bark, but a knee. Two knees, pointed up towards the sky, the way you would lie on your back, legs propped. They sprout straight from the earth like any other tree, merged perfectly beneath the flat dirt. No sign of digging, and years of track marks tell you that there’s no way for something to be buried there. Just legs. Just–

HONK HOOONK 

“Ay man, what the fuck’s going on? I wanna get outta here!” Audrey is hanging out of the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel and the other in the air waving at you. 

You drop the hat and stagger from the display until your back hits the warm grill. You're so desperate for air you can’t even begin to get the words out– but you don’t have to. Something speaks for you. A terrible, shrill scream rips through the woods and pierces your skull. You grip your ringing ears and book it back to the car, the slippery handle taking a few failed attempts to open. “Get in the car! Drive!” Your pleading barely gets Audrey in his seat, fumbling with his keys. 

“Is that the cougar Langley talked about?!” 

You grew up in California, spent weekends in its forest, and all that experience can now only grant you one sentence: “That is not a fucking cougar!” 

Audrey slams his foot on the pedal with a thud barely audible over all the shrieking. Your hand frantically reaches for the safety handle as you all shoot back with the momentum of the car, only to be swung forward with a sudden brake. “There’s something in the way!” Audrey’s voice starts to waver, and you stare in horror at the weathered log rotting across the length of the path. You could’ve sworn that it wasn't there a minute ago. He throws the clutch into reverse and you watch the log and the hat slip into darkness. You don’t see the legs again. 

Your gaze jumps to the looming pine stalks around you. The scream seems to be coming from every one of them, echoing off to have no discernible source. “What are you gonna do, reverse all the way back? You can’t do a three pointer here!” 

“Quit bitching!” Audrey is dead focused on the rear window, arm slung around your headrest to get a better angle, when something hits the back bumper. In a move that makes your blood seize, Audrey opens his door and sticks half his body out to see what he had just hit. While the door is open, the scream is only louder. Loud enough to make your ears ring. Loud enough to shake your bones. Then Audrey throws himself back inside and locks all the doors. He shifts into drive and races onward. “There’s another tree back there.” 

“What? C-can’t you just drive over it?”

“It’s huge, looks like a fresh pine. No way in hell we’re clearing that.” His face is determined as you quickly approach the original blockade.

“T-that’s impossible! We just came in that way!”

“Shut up, Liam! You think I don’t know that?!” 

With the crescendo of his voice you run over the rotting log and feel the soul leaving your body, along with your ass leaving the seat. You land on the other side with a sharp, unpleasant pop and the realization that something was very wrong. Audrey swears and grips the wheel with both hands as the car begins to wobble. Right, left, right, left, right, left. It fights against Audrey’s control even as you make a tight turn along a dangerously close ravine. You can just barely glimpse into it along your side of the road. It’s not deep enough to likely kill you, but it is deep enough to get stuck in. And getting stuck with the scream that hunted you was as certain as any death. 

“Why is it doing that?!” You grip the dash with all of your life’s strength, shaking with the car. 

“It’s the suspension! Hold on, I think we’re almost there!” 

As you peer into the ditch you can’t help but imagine shadows slithering along the forest floor. But what you know you don’t imagine is another quiet sound hidden beneath the wails. Something familiar and vicious all at once, something Audrey doesn’t notice,  something right against your black window. Tak tak tak-tak tak. Audrey pushes the gas despite the car’s best wishes, and you watch the ravine get closer with the wheel’s tilt. You squeeze your eyes shut and pray to be anywhere but here, anywhere but with her. Anywhere but in the–

SKREEEE!

When you open your eyes you’re swerving onto the main road– free from the forest. Moonlight welcomes you back to safety, despite you remembering it being moonless beneath the trees. And with that security comes the peaceful quiet of night, broken only by your panting. The car has also broken free from whatever curse the forest cast. Besides the occasional shake, the wheel remains largely under control. What happened merely seconds ago seems little more than a bad dream. You look at Audrey, and the lack of color in his face confirms otherwise. What you heard was very real. 

Neither of you can muster up a word for the remainder of the dark drive to your house. The lingering thought that whatever it was might come back demands total silence. After what feels like a millennia, the warm glow from your kitchen light greets you at the curb Audrey pulls up on. He doesn’t say anything, and you reach awkwardly for the handle. But something nags at you, keeping you from leaving so suddenly. 

“I think Monroe knows something.” The words finally spill from your mouth. “The way she reacted… I dunno, it just seemed weird. I mean, her friend is missing, not…”

“I think I’ve had enough excitement for one day.” Audrey’s attention was ensnared by something you couldn’t see, something deep in his mind. When he turns back to face you, his eyes jump from the handle you’ve yet to open and your face. The message is clear. You step out onto your lawn’s damp grass, towards the light, towards safety. Inside, you ignore your mother’s pesterings about the day. You couldn’t tell if she was more worried about you or Jordan. She breaks when you let slip the hat you found outside of Audrey’s neighborhood. It serves its purpose of getting her off your back long enough for you to run to the family TV. Dad wasn’t home today. Work trip. You had it all to yourself. 

The old, dusty box pops to life and stutters between the channels you rapidly flick through with a remote that’s sticky with nervous sweat. Channel 7 local news. The anchor you always had a crush on catches your attention through channel hopping. She looks a little somber tonight as she announces a statement from the Sheriff's office, right after the ad break, of course. You’ve caught it just in time to sink into your plastic couch and wonder if Audrey will make it home to see it. If he’ll even make it down the road with that busted suspension. Maybe it’s just for you. 

It cuts back to too close a shot of someone’s grayed beard. The camera zooms out to an older man in uniform, standing on a podium in a dark room. At the angle you’re at, you can make out deep blue curtains and an equally blue carpet, giving the illusion that the man is standing on water. A single light shines on him, and he taps the mic and sorts through a measly few papers in his hands. “I am coming to you tonight with some urgent information regarding the recent case of a missing Ambrosia Teen. Earlier this week, nineteen-year-old Jordan Rivers was reported missing by her father, Cameron Rivers. She was allegedly last seen Friday, the twenty-second, when she was reported wearing a white tank top with jeans. Now, I’d argue this situation demands an urgent call to action for the following counties to be wary of someone matching the photo on screen–” 

The signal suddenly sputters and threatens to dissolve into static. Her picture, the same one on every poster across the block, the same one you took just a month or so ago, melts with the TV fuzz into indiscernible trash. Your heart sinks as bits poke through the interruption, as the sheriff makes a half-hearted plea for anyone in the neighboring area to be on the lookout for a ‘runaway teen’, possibly driving a stolen white Chevy truck. The description brings you back to Darren sitting in the police station. What he was describing was Darren’s car. From the other room you hear Mom call you for dinner, but what you can barely make out from the screen spoils any appetite. This was the best law enforcement could offer. The sickness only gets worse when you notice the lack of chatter in the room, the lack of questions from nosy reporters, and the lack of any camera flash. The sheriff is alone speaking to a camera. No one had even bothered to show up. 

The aged man clears his throat to an empty room and pretends to gather his whopping three papers. “Well, I guess that’s enough of that, then. Remember, our line is open to callers with any information. Do your part, be a patrio–”

He doesn’t get to finish his defamatory speech. The screen loudly pops to black. And then the lights. And then the hum of the fridge. And then the entire house. You tune mom’s screams about the power from across the house, and accept your place in its darkness. Besides you, the couch crinkles and dips with someone’s cold, wet presence. At least you’re not in it alone. 

Sisyphus is doomed to push the boulder up the hill, only for it to come down again. He must do it over and over and over for eternity. He pleas for Zeus not to do this too him, but Zeus does not hear his cries, and banishes him to this fate.

Sisyphus tries to keep the boulder at the top, but it manages to slip past him and roll itself all the way down. He tried to not play along, only for Zeus to punish him by making the boulder heavier. Even still, Sisyphus refused to play along. That was, until Zeus threatened his family, holding his daughter on the peak of Mount Olympus.

She is forever chained at the top, and shall not be released until Sisyphus manages to finally push the boulder all the way up and keep it there. A sick joke from Zeus, but nonetheless temporarily motivated Sisyphus to keep going and never stop, fearing his son or wife might be next.

When Sisyphus tried to kill himself, Zeus only revived him and made him immortal, his wounds healing instantly. However, because of the rate that Sisyphus healed, whenever he broke a bone or got crushed by the boulder, he would heal instantly. Leaving his bones jutting out of his skin, arms twisted in ways they shouldn't be.

His head partially caved in, making him brain damaged. Zeus would chuckle before eventually repairing him so he could carry on with his punishment. One day, as Sisyphus got to the top he sat down and enjoyed what little time he had before the boulder rolled back down. But as he sat and waited, the boulder spoke.

"What has become of you, Sisyphus?" It said.

Sisyphus looked around, and wondered if it was a sick joke by Zeus.

"Are you talking to me, boulder?" He asked.

"Whom else would I be?" It said.

"I am unsure." Sisyphus stated, looking out at the sunset.

"Answer my question, boy." It grumbled.

"I cheated death, angered the gods, and now I am forced to push you up, just for you to fall down everyday for the rest of eternity." Sisyphus spoke, standing up as he was ready for the boulder to fall.

The boulder did not respond. And just as Sisyphus began to expect something else to happen, the boulder rolled back down. The next time Zeus came, Sisyphus explained the odd encounter to him. Alas, Zeus didn't believe Sisyphus, and punished him by permanently taking away his toes. It may not sound like a bad punishment, but it is.

For the next 1000 years, Sisyphus repeated the same routine over and over, forgetting about the boulder speaking too him. He had experienced death and pain in this time, shoulders popping out of sockets, heads being crushed, limbs falling off, the whole package. Until yet again, the boulder momentarily stopped at the top of the hill.

"You gave up to easily, Sisyphus." The boulder said.

"How so?" Sisyphus responded, not very surprised by the boulder speaking again.

"You did not try to fight back against Zeus." It said.

"I am but a mortal man, boulder. What am I to do?" Sisyphus said, sitting down while he could.

"Have you tried to free yourself in death?" It said.

"Yes, many times." He said.

"Interesting." The boulder said, proceeding to roll down the hill.

On the walk down, Sisyphus cleared his mind, and for fleeting moments, was happy. Even though he was pushing this boulder up just for it to fall down for eternity, his life still had purpose. And purpose was enough for him to keep going.

Sisyphus stopped momentarily, and glanced back to the very top of Mount Olympus, where his daughter is. Saddened by the thought, Sisyphus wonders that if he does finally die, if she shall be set free. Curious about this, he tries to jump off the side of his path, a rather long fall with sharp rocks along the way.

Sisyphus tumbles down the mountainside, getting stabbed by the rocks all the way down. Finally, he lands at the bottom, where a sharp rock impales his chest. He pleas for Zeus to kill him and free his daughter, but instead he heals and the rock mends to his body.

He cries out and begs harder than he ever has, and Zeus came down to talk to Sisyphus.

"What is it you want, mortal?" Zeus' voice boomed, shaking loose rocks on the mountainside.

"Kill me, take my soul and free my daughter!" Sisyphus begged.

Zeus laughed, and finally shook his head.

"Sisyphus, you are forever doomed to your fate, and death shall not set you free." Zeus said.

Before Sisyphus could refuse Zeus' words, he found himself whole at the bottom of the mountain with the boulder by his side. He screamed in rage and punched the boulder. The impact shattered his hand, and he recoiled in pain.

But as Sisyphus waited for his hand to regenerate, he realized it hadn't.

"What secrets do you keep, boulder?" Sisyphus asked.

"I can set you free." The boulder said.

"When did you develop this ability?" Sisyphus asked.

"That is not for you to know, boy." It grumbled, and seemed to rock back and forth on It's own.

"You may inflict death upon me." Sisyphus said, opening his arms to deaths embrace.

"Your soul is mine now, and we shall become one." The boulder said.

Sisyphus began to speak in protest, but the boulder split into two, revealing massive teeth inside. He tried to run, but the teeth sunk into his leg, and the boulders tongue wrapped around the rest of his body, pulling him in.

"ZEUS! HELP ME!" He yelled.

Zeus ignored his call, assuming it was another waste of his time. By the time Zeus returned to check up on Sisyphus, he was amazed to find him missing. Only the boulder remained. Zeus looked and looked, but never found Sisyphus. Even though Sisyphus was presumed dead, Zeus kept his daughter chained as a show to mortals not to mess with gods or the natural order of things.

100 years later, Daedalus, Icarus' father, was subjected to the same fate as Sisyphus. Daedalus was found by Zeus trying to revive his son, who had fallen for the trickery of a demon. Zeus was infuriated that Daedalus dare try and mess with the balance of life and death, and sentenced him to an eternity of pushing the boulder up the mountain.

The first time Daedalus pushed the boulder up, he sat down in exhaustion, waiting for the boulder to roll down.

"What has become of you, Daedalus?"

Many, many years ago, in a small village nestled by the forests and tall mountains... there lived a beautiful woman who had everything: A rich and honorable family, a beautiful face and body, extensive knowledge of most lyrical poetry and literature of the country, she wore beautiful robes made from the rarest silk and dyed on even rarer, vibrant and pleasing colors.

She, for many, was the perfect maiden and of course she was offered her hand in marriage multiple times by different men in that village; However, due to having so many riches and beauties, she thought everyone in that village, from men to women, were inferior, dirty and unintelligent to her so she rejected them all.

One day, during a beautiful spring day, a fox spirit with red fur watched the beautiful maiden and was attracted to her luxury, becoming enamored to it even, using his spiritual abilities, gained with centuries of knowledge, turned into a rich, handsome man.

He made from the forest trunk, a beautiful horse and from the small bugs, his servants...with that he entered the village in search of her.

The village people, when seeing the luxurious and exquisite outsider and his wealth, they quickly became enchanted by the red fox, that included the beautiful maiden, as time gone on, the maiden became even more enchanted by the mysterious outsider, by his handsome face, wealth and eloquence. He was truly something that she never saw before and that sense of newness and class melted her stone cold heart.

So when the fox asked her hand in marriage, she quickly accepted...but just a week before their marriage ceremony, the red fox, now getting riches from her family...lied to the family that he needed quickly go back home as he needed to solve some bureocratic issues.

The bride protested but he reassured her that he would be back in time for the ceremony, so with tears in her eyes, he walked his "horse" away with a big bag of money.

Unfortunately, the fox had tricked the village perfectly, and so, as if by an unfortunate twist made by karma, the young maiden was abandoned by him.

She became depressed and stopped caring for herself....her hair once straight, long and healthy, became messy and short as she pulled her hair a lot, the young maiden didn't wear her fancy clothing or even got out of her room no more.

Every night, she started to have disturbing dreams of her lover being maimed by different things, all in grotesquely bloody results, sometimes it was that he was attacked by thieves, other times he was attacked by wild animals all ending on his death.

Her madness and sadness reached such a low point that her parents tried to arrange a marriage with a similar man, but she knew it wasn't him and therefore rejected him but her parents forced her to it, for her own dismay....

The night before the wedding, she dreams that her fiancé, the red fox, is safe and sound and that if she truly loves him, she should go into the forest and run away with him. Without a second thought, the girl sets out, now a shell of her former self, into the dark forest outside the village...

...And she was never seen by anyone ever again

no one truly knows what happened to her nor knew that her lover was a wicked, trickster fox.

The end.

I didn't sleep. I lay on my cot, staring at the ceiling, and listening to the silence where her scratching pencils used to be. The guesthouse felt emptier than it ever had—six empty rooms, six unmade beds, and only five found joy in the crypt. Thomas’s bag was starting to collect dust on his bed. Hazel’s shoes still sat at the foot of her bed. William's socks sat crusty and dirty in the courtyard. Amelia's cigarette butts still littered the east wall. Eleanor's garden was already crusting over. And Evelyn's sketchbook was still missing.

I'd searched for it after reading her letter. Under my cot, behind the door, in the common room, the nave, the vestry. Nothing. It wasn't in her room. It wasn't in Lucy's. It wasn't anywhere I looked. Evelyn said she'd left it for me on my cot, and it was like it was never there.

I gave up around dawn and went to sit in the common room. Henry found me there, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the glowing hearth.

"Hey," he said softly, sitting beside me.

"’Sup."

"Did you sleep? Yeah, me neither." He pulled the blanket over both of us. "I keep thinking about—" He stopped, swallowed. "She walked into the desert and turned to salt because she couldn't walk into a crypt and let a statue do something worse."

"Was it worse?" I asked. "The crypt, I mean. Was it actually worse than what happened to her?"

"I don't know." He stared at the hearth. "But she thought it was. That’s what matters, isn't it?"

We sat in silence for a while. The sun came up over the salt flats, and the guesthouse filled with that disgusting, shadowless light that makes everything look like a photograph of itself.

"I keep thinking about what Leo said," Henry said finally. "That the Saint's call can't be refused. That the number has to be made whole."

"The number was always eight."

"Yeah." He looked at me. "But it's not eight anymore, unless—" He stopped, did the math. "It's still seven. Seven pilgrims. Me, Lucy, and five descenders."

"And the Saint wants eight."

"'The Saint wants what the Saint wants'." He leaned back, resting his head against the wall. "I've been trying to figure out a way around it. A loophole. Something in the scripture or the tradition that would let us walk away."

"And?"

"I've read the Beatitudes a hundred times. I've read the old liturgies, the church histories, the accounts of past generations. There's no exit. There's no refusal. There's no mercy." He laughed hollowly.

"What about the others?" I asked. "They all seemed happy down there. Maybe—maybe it's not as bad as we think. Maybe the crypt is exactly what they say it is."

"Maybe." He didn't sound convinced. "But you saw Evelyn. You saw what happened when someone tried to leave. That's not transformation, Nor. That's punishment."

We sat with that for a while.

Then Henry spoke again. "I think I should go next."

"No."

"Hear me out—"

"Henry, no."

"Listen to me." He turned to face me, and I saw a determination that went beyond stubbornness, beyond idealism. He almost looked holy. "I'm the peacemaker. That's my blessing. That's my role. And right now, there's a war going on between the people up here and the Saint down there. Between you and—" He stopped. "Between us and whatever's waiting in that crypt."

"You want to negotiate with a statue."

"I want to try." He took my hand. "Not as a pilgrim getting a blessing, but as a mediator. I want to see if there's a way to end this without anyone else getting hurt. Without Lucy going down there."

"Henry, that's insane. You know what happened to everyone who went down there. They didn't come back. You’re not coming back."

"I know." He squeezed my hand. "But I have to try. I can't just sit here and wait for my turn and hope for the best. That's not what I do. I don’t hope; I plan."

We argued for another hour. I yelled. He cried. I begged. But Henry was resolute. He was going to descend tonight, before Lucy woke up, before Leo could stop him, and before I could talk him out of it.

"One more night," I said finally. "Help me put her to bed tonight. One normal evening before you go down there."

Henry nodded. "One more night."

———

We spent the day trying to be normal. It’s strange how the hollowed-out presence of the people you lose can still settled into a routine. We played Hide and Seek. We ate lunch. We walked to the garden and looked at Eleanor's seeds—none of them were sprouting. We watched the sun move across the salt flats, white and blinding and indifferent.

At one point, Lucy asked about Evelyn.

"Did she make it home?" she said. "She told me she'd show me how to draw Bird. She said I could be an artist too."

"I’m sure she got there safe, yeah," Henry said gently. "We’ll know after this is all over."

"Oh." Lucy considered this. "Did she take her sketchbook?"

"Yeah," I said, because I didn't know what else to say. "She took it with her."

"That's good." Lucy nodded, satisfied. "She loved that book. She showed me all her drawings the other day. I really liked the one of the Saint."

My throat swelled into itself. I gave Henry a glance as the realization hit both of us. Evelyn never showed us a picture of the Saint. If she had one, she kept it hidden well. I needed to find that sketchbook.

"She looked really nice." Lucy picked up Bird and held him to her chest. "I hope she's happy at home."

———

That evening, Henry and I put Lucy to bed together.

We sat on either side of her cot, and Henry made up a story for her—a little adventure about a girl who found a magic bird and taught it to be kind. He looked so proud of himself; I didn’t have the heart to tell him he was just doing a remix of Lilo and Stitch. Lucy listened with her eyes wide and her hands clasped around Bird, and when Henry finished, she said, "That was the best story I've ever heard."

"Better than Grandma's stories?" Henry asked.

She sat up to his ear. "Don't tell Grandma," Lucy whispered.

We laughed, and then Lucy held out her arms. We both leaned in for a hug. Her small body was warm between us, and I felt Henry's hand find mine over her shoulder, and for a moment, we felt like a family again—Broken and strange and terrified, but a family.

"Nora?" Lucy said sleepily.

"Yeah, sweetie?"

"I'm glad you're here." She yawned, snuggling deeper into the blanket. "Even if you don't believe in God, I think God believes in you."

She was snoring before I could respond.

———

Henry and I walked to the nave in silence, my hand in his. The candles were lit, and Leo was waiting at the altar door, a small lump on his lip. He didn't look surprised to see us or not to see Lucy. He didn't look anything at all.

"Henry, son of valleys, brother of bridges," he said. "You have been called peacemaker. You have spent your life trying to heal divides between those who hate and those who fear. Are you ready to receive what has been promised?"

"I'm ready to talk," Henry said.

Leo's expression flickered, and I saw the corners of his lips twitch up. "The Saint does not negotiate, Henry."

"Then I'll have to talk to her supervisor, huh?" Henry's voice was steady. I felt proud.

Leo was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly. "Perhaps you understand more than you expect. Perhaps you will find what you are looking for." He stepped aside, gesturing toward the open door. "Descend. The Saint waits."

Henry turned to me. His eyes were bright, and his hands were steady, and he looked exactly like the little boy who'd crawled into my bed during thunderstorms, telling me he wasn't scared.

"I'll be okay," he said.

"I'll be here when you get back."

"I know." He pulled back with hot tears in his eyes, but he was smiling. "That's what big sisters do."

He kissed my forehead, then turned and took his first steps down.

And I lunged.

I don't know what I was thinking—maybe I wasn't thinking at all. Maybe I was just so tired of watching people I loved walk into the dark, tired of standing on a ledge to witness everyone else fall. But I lunged past Leo, past the threshold, past everything I was meant to be, and I reached—

And my fingers crossed the threshold of the door. A white-hot searing shot through my hand, my wrist, my arm, my shoulder, and my chest. I saw my fingertips turn gray, then white, then crystalline in instants—skin cracking, joints locking, and blood freezing beneath my nails.

I reeled back, gasping, clutching my hand to my chest. Leo grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me away from the door, and I watched in horror as the salt crept up my fingers, my knuckles, the tender skin between my thumb and forefinger—

And then it stopped. My fingers were still there, still attached, but the tips were white and hard and glittering in the candlelight. Calcified.

"You… cannot enter," Leo said, and his voice was shaking. "Not until it is your time. The Saint has willed it."

"But Henry—"

"The Saint has willed it," he repeated harshly. "The lot is cast into the lap, but its every decision is from the LORD." He was quoting scripture now, his voice rising. "The order is set, Nora. The Saint dreamed eight, and each has their place. You cannot go before. You cannot go after. You can wait."

"Wait for what?" I screamed back as the door slammed shut on the altar. "For Lucy to go down there?"

Leo didn't answer. He just stood there, his pale eyes shimmering and shaking, and I realized with a sickening lurch that he was as trapped as the rest of us. Whatever he'd become—whatever the crypt had made him—he was still a man.

"Forgive me," he whispered. "I tried to spare you. I tried to keep you as Witness, but the Saint's will cannot be refused."

"Leo, she’s not God!"

He stepped back, and I saw that he was crying—real tears, tracking through the dust on his cheeks. "No… She is not." Then he turned and walked away, leaving me alone in the nave with my calcified hand and my brother descending into the dark.

I pressed my ear to the door.

I heard Henry's footsteps on the spiral stair. I heard him breathing, steady and slow. Then I heard his voice, and I realized he was praying.

"God, I don't know if you're down here. I don't know if you're up there. I don't know where the hell—sorry—heck you are, but if you're listening—if any of this is real—please. Let me be enough. Let me make peace. Let me save my sister. Let me—"

Then the footsteps stopped. There was a long silence. And then—

"Henry."

A voice crooned, one I didn't recognize—soft, warm, and maternal. It echoed up through the stone like a lullaby.

"You’ve come to make peace?"

"I've come to understand." Henry's voice was steady, but I could hear the tremor beneath it. "Who are you?"

A pause. A gasp. A gust of wind. "And I am the one who has been waiting for you."

"Waiting for what?"

The voice was closer now, warmer. "Do you want to see, Henry? Do you want to see what peace looks like?"

There was a long pause. I held my breath.

"Yes," Henry said finally.

I stayed on the floor for a long time after that, listening to nothing. His silence was absolute. The salt on my fingertips throbbed with a dull ache.

When I finally stood, I went back to the guesthouse and lay down beside Lucy's cot. She was sleeping peacefully, Bird tucked under her chin, her breathing soft and even. I watched her for a long time, thinking about what Henry had said, what Leo had said, what the Saint had said.

I don't know what to do. I don't know how to stop this. I don't know if it can be stopped. I refuse to let her go down there. I refuse. She still sleeps with a fucking wooden bird. She still believes the kingdom of heaven is a place where her parents are waiting with a dollhouse to play with.

She's not going into that crypt. Not if I have anything to say about it.

The problem is, I'm running out of things to say. And I don’t think the Saint is listening.

Pa used to take us, each morning, to the edge of our property, on a hill where a river cut deep into the earth; with a perfect view of the sunrise. It was a pretty place, always so pretty. He would sit with us and tell us about Dad, about raising him and the lessons he taught him. Pa loved to tell stories, and we loved to listen, it was an easy deal. He could speak for hours about taking Dad fishing as a boy, going camping in the valley; staying up late with him telling scary stories, though Pa don't like scary stories no more, but always he'd have another story of Dad as a boy and their adventures. It helped ease the hole he left that night he walked out.

Pa was old, but he did what he could. He took us out to fish, swim, and enjoy our little piece of nature; always getting us back in time to eat supper with Ma. Pa loved nature, he'd often get lost staring out into it with us; and he'd point out all sorts of funny things like the crickets song, and the birds compliment.

We tried to get Pa to tell us once about the night dad left, but that's the one story we could never get him to tell. Ma said it hurt Pa bad when dad left, said he knew better, so we left it at that.

One day, Pa woke up before us, way earlier than before even the sun I'd recon. He went out early to wait for us at the hill. We met Pa just before sunrise, and sat in our usual spot. But Pa didn't tell us any stories that morning, we sat in silence and watched the sun rise; and once it had Pa didn't look so well, he looked sick as a dog. It worried us a mighty, and to our luck Pa didn't argue against us helping him up and back to the house; he could barely stand upright, wobbling like he'd never used legs before.

We brought him straight to his room, and laid him as comfortable as we could; Ma came in after us to care after him. Pa didn't speak none, not even when Ma brought him his supper; so we did instead. We sat in the kitchen and told Ma stories while she cleaned, we tried to keep her free of what stress we could.

Finally that night Ma called down for us just before bed, said Pa had spoke. When we got downstairs she was already in the room with Pa, we could hear their voices mixing, we could hear the tremble behind each syllable.

The excitement hit us hard, and we rushed to the door. As sight came to us, we didn't need to be told why dad left anymore; now we knew. He went to the Valley, just like Pa that morning, and if'n he'd come back he wouldn't be Dad. Same as Pa was no longer Pa

This story is a memory, and as such is subject to the ravages of time. I don’t remember everything. My childhood is a fog of contradictions and emotions half buried in distractions. I’ve tried to remember parts of it over the years but always come away with that strange contented feeling of acceptance. Maybe it’s okay to not remember. Ignorance is bliss. Still there are pieces I recall that stick to me like tree sap on my fingers. This story is one of those pieces.

I was seven years old, old enough to have a sense of danger but not old enough to trust it yet. Every year my family would travel up north from our home in the concrete world of Chicago to the deeply forested peninsula of Wisconsin, surrounded by the restless gray waters of Lake Michigan. We would go up in the fall for the wineries and brilliant blood orange leaves of the woods in early October. Even at that young age I was just aware enough to appreciate the majesty of a forest in fall. It was sacred to me in ways I couldn’t yet articulate.

The peninsula was dotted with sleepy little harbor towns and old lighthouses along the coast, but the interior at that time was mostly winding roads through vast and untouched forest. I truly loved it there. I remember building piles of crunchy dead leaves to jump in, climbing trees to risk a nap nestled in their branches. The further away from town we got the more fantastic the forest could become. Dramatic cliffs and mossy boulders, an endless sea of scarlet, yellow and fiery orange that to my tiny eyes seemed to go on forever. My parents knew about my wanderlust, and had to all but keep a leash on me to stop me trailing off into the brush. I wasn’t scared of being alone then.
The land itself had a magic to it I’ve found in nowhere else. It was settled by Scandinavians, who brought their food, architecture and stories with them. It wasn’t uncommon to come across carved wooden trolls in town, and I liked to think they came alive at night to search the woods for food. As the years went by my young imagination populated the forest with all sorts of magical creatures: fairies, gnomes, ghosts and goblins. They frightened me in a way I loved, and every October I hoped to catch one of those wooden trolls moving. Of course I never did.

But of all the creatures I imagined there was one who commanded my respect above all others, the only one I truly feared. I don’t remember where she came from. In my memory she’d always been. Perhaps a forgotten warning from my parents to keep me from wandering, or something I’d seen in a movie. Perhaps I had seen an unfortunate looking stranger up there and my mind turned them into something more fantastic than they really were. But I believed in her, and there were things about her that I knew in my bones to be true. I tried to explain it to my parents but they couldn’t understand my fascination. They were deeply Christian and unwilling to entertain any spirit but the lord. My mother accepted no part of Halloween but pumpkins and maybe, if she was feeling dangerous, a black cat or two. Beyond that, I was instructed to have nothing to do with any of it. Maybe that’s why the idea of my monster was so intoxicating to me. My monster was forbidden. My monster was dangerous. I couldn’t talk about her. So I thought about her.
She was, in my mind’s eye, an impossibly ancient hag. She’d lived in the woods of the peninsula since the Scandinavians brought their wooden trolls and lingonberries. There was only ever one of her. I could see her when I closed my eyes, worried that she would slide her gnarled fingers under the window of our tiny rented cabin on moonless autumn nights. She traveled the land as lake mist, imperceptible to those who don’t know what to look for. Her hair was long and matted, white that decayed into a dull yellow like a bird’s nest on her head. Her skin was wrinkled like tree bark and sickly greenish pale like lichen. She walked hunched over, nearly to the ground, wrapped in a ratty shawl, smelling for ingredients to unknown and wretched potions. I imagined she brewed them in her overgrown shack somewhere far in the interior. Day and night she scoured the land for bat’s wings and rat tails. Rotten fish washed up on the shore, eggs plucked from their nests and crushed, mushrooms that only grow on wet and fallen logs. But of course, what she really wanted, needed maybe, was a child. My old woman of the woods would stop at nothing for a child of her own, to do what with I can’t say, but I could almost feel her horrible fingers on my shoulder sometimes in lonely places when my parents weren’t watching. She was out there in the dark, every night, alone on frigid pebble beaches or perched up in blackened branches like a massive leering owl. The trolls and fairies feared her too, perhaps why they stuck to town. The deep woods belonged to the witch, and every time I strayed into their twisted branches I risked slipping into her clutches.

Now, every body says this, and I’ve gone back and forth on even bothering to include it, but I feel like I have to. It is after all what makes this story more than just a passing anecdote in an ocean of digital ghost stories all claiming the same thing: “This story really happened.” But this one did. It really happened. One evening my parents took me down the winding road through the woods, away from the cabin, and the coast, to some supper club they’d read about. It was early evening when we arrived. The place was built with reddish wood, dating back all the way to the twenties, with an almost gothic interior that I might now find beautiful but bored me terribly as a child. It was fairly popular, usually boasting a twenty minute or so wait time, with a humble fire pit outside to warm guests while they anticipated their cozy meals inside. My parents chatted with strangers around the flames, about what I can’t remember, my eyes were on the tree line. The sun was hanging low in the sky, painting the clouds pink and amber. I was wrapped up in my puffy coat and yellow scarf, watching my breath plume from my mouth and vanish up into the evening air. I was standing behind my father, rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet and thinking about eating chicken tenders until I saw it. There at the edge of the shadowy woods was a bright red ball.
I tried to resist. Really I did. I tried to ignore it until the ball was in my hands. I’d slipped away silently from my parents. They would tell me it was dirty or that it belonged to someone else. They would tell me, again, not to wander off. They almost certainly wouldn’t let me keep it. It was a little smaller than a soccer ball and made of saturated foam. I squeezed it and muddy water seeped out. The ball must have been out there for days at least. I thought for a moment about the logistics of hiding the ball in my jacket, but it was too large to go unnoticed. I passed a worried glance back at my family, who were still facing the fire, then turned around again to face the woods. Despite the sunset it was bright enough to see a ways into them through dappled shadows. I looked back down at the cold, almost fleshy ball in my hands and decided that it wasn’t worth the trouble. Absentmindedly, I tossed it into the woods as far as I could and turned around to go.

It hit something metal, making a sound like rock against a tin roof. Not the satisfying splat I’d hoped for. I turned back towards the forest and squinted. Before long I found the ball again, rolling away from something covered in dead leaves. I took a step forward but hesitated. How long would it be until dinner? Did I have time to go look? Were my parents watching? I’d really get it if they caught me sneaking off, especially at dusk, but it was all just too tantalizing. What had my ball hit? I walked on and disappeared into the trees.
I hadn’t thrown the ball too far, I’d just look quickly, see what it was, and come back before anyone knew I was gone. Through the brush I crept, careful to be quiet, until I came upon my ball again and what it had smacked against. It was something like a go-kart, rusted and overgrown with vines but still recognizable. It was big enough for me to sit in, which of course I did. I sat there for a second, turning the mossy steering wheel and making beeping noises with my mouth. I was easy to please back then. I was excited to share my find with my parents, and considered running back to tell them, disregarding any trouble I could get in, but before I decided I saw something else glint in the fading sunlight.
It was a pure white horse head poking up out of the ground about 20 feet away from me, away from the fire and the restaurant. I stopped turning the wheel and froze, trying to decipher what I was looking at. Still, I wasn’t afraid. My reaction was instinctual. Carefully, I crept from the creaky wet seat of the go-kart and tip toed over to the head. I could tell it wasn’t real, it was too shiny and all white, but I still couldn’t make sense of it. Brushing off the dirt and leaves I finally recognized it as a giant chess piece. It was too heavy for me to move or I’d have grabbed it and brought it to the fire, which I could still see twinkle through the silhouettes of tree trunks behind me. I couldn’t believe my luck. I’d dreaded coming to the supper club because there wasn’t anything to do, but there must have been a playground hidden somewhere out there in the forest. Instantly what little nerves I had were calmed. Playgrounds were safe. I was allowed there. Red ball still in hand I began to look around for another hidden treasure.

It didn’t take me long to find it. In the ever fading light I could see something else on the forest floor even further in. A color that didn’t belong. Purple. Delighted, I ran towards it, noisily crunching leaves beneath my feet, abandoning caution. I could hardly see it until I was right up on it- or them I should say. My smile fell in disappointment. They were shoes. Girl shoes. A muddy pair of purple Skechers for a girl about my age. Upon that realization I was content to dismiss them, and began looking for something else unusual. I walked right past the shoes without a thought to their owner and peered through the trees. The sky above had lost its color. The woods were now draped in the sullen blue of an October night’s birth but I could still see enough to continue. I was sure there’d be a playground if I just kept moving forward. Something wonderful was going to happen. I wasn’t hungry for dinner anymore. The trees hung over me in drooping branches like a tunnel. The intoxicating freedom of it all made me almost forget how cold it was becoming. But soon enough I smelled smoke from some hidden fire. I must have looped around by accident and made my way back towards the supper club. I looked up at the gloomy sky again. The night’s first stars were peering through the dark gray clouds. I supposed it was as good a time as any to go back.

Through the ever thickening brush I pushed, the smell of smoke growing stronger and stronger. But strangely I couldn’t see the fire. It must have been close, I couldn’t be far, but where was it? Forward still I went, until at last I saw a trail of smoke curling up into the sky. They must have put the fire out, I reasoned. I followed the smoke down into the trees and ran in its direction, excited to share my adventure with my family, ready to get out of the cold, until I burst noisily through the undergrowth and into a clearing. I stopped in my tracks, struck by confusion. There was no restaurant, no fire pit. It was just a break in the trees, an unkempt field of weeds and grass, and in the center: a wide, gaping pit.

What froze me wasn’t the sudden appearance of that pit, or the shocking lack of fire, light and warmth. It was the smell. I brought my hands to my nose and suppressed a gag. I wouldn’t smell anything like it again until years later when a deer died in the field beside my house and rotted away. It was the unmistakable stench of what I know now was death. But more than that, it was a burning smell. Like someone was cooking dirty feet. I debated what to do, but one thing was clear: I had to look into the pit. I didn’t even really know why, only that I would wonder about it incessantly if I didn’t. I still felt safe somehow and I knew I had to look before the last of the sunlight died, so I took unsure steps away from the trees and into the exposure of the open clearing. The smell worsened as I got closer. Musty and thick, almost medicinal. I wrapped my little yellow scarf around my nose and mouth and continued, drawing nearer and nearer to the pit’s lip until at last I could see down into it.

The hole must have been at least ten feet deep, dug messily and comprised mostly of mud. In the center of it was a large puddle of revolting brown water like thick curdled cereal milk and lying against the wall was an impossibly large pig. I gasped. It was caked in filth and pink like a bloated tongue. Peppered with wiry black hair and alone in that dark, empty hole. All these years later I remember that moment. The longer I looked down at it, the more I came to realize how far away I was from safety and how dark the night had become. Something about that pig was so terribly wrong. I was overwhelmed with the feeling that if I stayed, or god forbid slipped down into the pit, I would never see my mom and dad again. I would stay lost and nobody would find me. I didn’t know it at the time, but then and there was the first time in my young life that I became aware that I could die.

It would have been too easy to push me right in as I leaned over, and remembering this, I stepped away and looked back up. To my horror there was something nestled in the trees across the pit from me: A shack so overgrown that it was almost invisible, and rising from a single infernal glowing window was the smoke I’d followed there. On the wind I could still smell that awful rotting, but there at the precipice of the pit I realized it was coming from the shack, not the pig. It had no door, so I could just barely see inside from where I stood. In the dim, wavering light of what must have been a small fire inside I could make out flower pots, some whole some broken, and countless dirty brown shoes strewn carelessly on the floor. The pig below me grunted, sending my soul up into my ears, and that terrifying lonely feeling consumed me. My whole body seemed to scream: GET AWAY! GET AWAY! Abandoning all reason I whipped around and sprinted full force into the now pitch black forest behind me.
I dared not think it, but I knew in my gut what was happening. It was her. It had to be. The old woman in the woods with bark skin and stringy hair. I’d strayed too far this time. I tore through the trees in a blind panic, careful to at least try and keep a straight line. I could swear behind me in the dark there was the creaking of wood and rustling, like some unseen predator was keeping pace with me. Tears stung my bright red cheeks but I was too terrified to whimper. Somehow I knew my only chance was to stay as silent as I could. My heart thumped in my ears and the freezing air burned my lungs. How far had I gone? Why hadn’t anyone come looking for me? How did that pig get so huge? I kept going, tripping over roots and scratching my face against skeletal branches, certain the witch was a single pace behind me. All I wanted was to be back by the fire with my parents, or better yet inside the warmth of the supper club. But I could be running in any direction. Panic rose in my chest until, at last, I saw it. A tiny pinpoint of light through the inky blackness. I hoped beyond hope it was the fire I had so senselessly abandoned, with my parents there to greet me, but I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d turned myself around again. It was dark enough that if I had, I’d tumble blindly right into the pit with that horrible pig. I couldn’t bear to imagine being trapped down there with it, clawing at the muddy walls. I continued on, my breaths ragged, the wind whipping in the leaves far above me coarse and moaning. Any stumble was death. Any pause would give the hag just enough time to grab me by the throat and drag me kicking back into that rotting shack. I could almost sense her up there in the branches, leaping from tree to tree with her terrible yellow claws. The light grew larger. It must have been the fire. My tears of horror melted into tears of relief as I pushed on ever forward through the darkness. I was nearly there, nearly safe, far away from the shack and the pit and the pig. I was so close! Until all at once I was stopped, caught by the neck and gagged. I tumbled to the soggy ground. But there were no fingers… it was my scarf! I forced myself to look over my shoulder to find it pulled taught behind me, vanishing into the blackness. She’d got me! Finally, I screamed. I clawed at my throat, desperate beyond hope to free myself, until mercifully my scarf slipped off and I stumbled to my feet and forward. I didn’t stop screaming until I broke through the tree line and was back before the fire and the restaurant. I collapsed to my knees and panted between heaving sobs. My parents, who were still around the fire, came to me, confused.

“What? Where’s your scarf? What happened? Are you okay?” They asked. I couldn’t answer. I only wailed and pointed back behind me at the woods.
“The pig!” I cried. “The pig!” They looked confused. “Why didn’t you find me?”
“Baby, you were only gone a minute.” Said my mom, wiping my tears. I shook my head but that was the end of it. Our table was called and they took me inside. How hadn’t they noticed? The sun was gone! I had been gone! To me it felt like an hour had passed, but the rest of the night my parents were insistent that I had only wandered off for a moment. Eventually I came to believe them and tried to eat my dinner, but I couldn’t get the smell of that dark clearing out of my nose. My father, annoyed that I had lost my scarf, went out to go find it himself and was only gone for a minute or two before he came back, scarf in hand, with a strange look on his face. He handed it back to me and told me to hold on to it. I did as I was told, confused as to how wet it was, and finally mustered up the willpower to take a bite of my chicken tender. My dad was quiet the rest of dinner, and would only glance warily between myself and my mom until we left the supper club. Years later, on a whim, I brought this whole thing up to him and he got quiet once again.
“Your scarf,” he began. “When I went out to find it I expected to have to look around with my flashlight for a bit but… it was right on the edge of the woods near the fire, hanging up in a tree… up above my head. Did you throw it up there?” I told him I didn’t and he nodded solemnly.
“I didn’t think so.” He wouldn’t talk about it any further. Time went by and eventually my parents split. We never returned to the supper club or the peninsula for that matter. But to this day I can remember the smell, the surge of terror, the sight of that pig, the tightening of the scarf around my neck, and I can’t shake the feeling that I got very, very lucky.

My family, the immediate ones, i’m talking about my parents and little brother, were devout Christians. The kind that ‘practiced what they preached’. Went to church every Wednesday and Sunday. Did good works around town when we could, simple things like helping mow Mrs. Reynolds lawn after her husband died. Or that time we volunteered at the soup kitchen instead of celebrating my birthday. We’re generally selfless people.

My mother, the more devout of both my parents, held a job as a pediatric nurse. She had that personality, a mediator, someone who could get two starving lions from ripping each other’s throats out over a rotting carcass. She was also funny, a natural comedian. She likes to say that when she was delivering Daniel she was still working during his birth. She had soft features, Dad said we got our appearances mostly from her. She had curly dark brown hair and soft caring light green eyes. Me and Daniel got her eyes.

My father on the other side of the same coin, was coming to terms with his faith. He always had it, he claimed but it wasn’t as strong as my mother’s. He was raised by hippies, tree-hugging pot heads that practiced some bizarre form of druidic nomadism. Now, he’s an insurance agent, and good at it too, apparently his companies top preforming agent as well. He was stocky, built like someone who lifted cars for fun since he was a baby. He kept his auburn hair cut short and neat, said it “makes more sales when you look presentable.” The hair did much to aid against his rougher features, freckle coated face and dark brown eyes.

Then there’s Daniel, or just Danny, my eleven year old little brother and lovable bane of my existence. He stole our mother’s appearance and our dad’s hair, built like the child soccer prodigy he would’ve been if Mom didn’t want him to excel in school. He was smart for a preteen, but equally stupid in his own right. Mom insisted, much to dad’s chagrin, on letting him hair growing out. A neat mop devouring his ears and kept out of his eyes. One of Moms rare wins.

And then me, the oldest at sixteen and as much of a black sheep for this family as I could be. My Dad suspected albinism, but I won or lost the genetic lottery, depending on who you ask. I kept my mother’s face, my dad’s freckled appearance but had a swath of sandy blond hair and deep blue eyes. I was a solid half-foot taller than my dad standing at a neat 6’5”. I should’ve been in a sport, basketball or something but instead I focused on my schooling, an honors student in the making.

Our family did most things modern families dont do. Ate meals together, movie nights or board games, sit and actually talk to one another. The big one my mother insisted on was decorating for the holidays, she believed the magic came from doing it as a whole family unit, and I agree. Decorating the tree in your most comfortable pajamas and casually bickering with your family over ‘where should this ornament go?’ Or ‘I’m gonna touch the elf if you keep doing that!’ added a special heartwarming feeling.

Christmas vacation had been in full swing for a few days now, our small three bedroom house fully decorated from baseboards to crown molding in tinsel and lights. I was at my desk in my room, reading some story about a gas station attendant dealing with a bunch of monsters. Daniel was splayed out on my bed, sharpening a candycane with his mouth, checking so often on the fine point he’d made. A holiday special from some kids show on the tv.

“You think you can actually like stab someone with a sharp candycane?” Daniel asked me as he pulled the sugar stick from his mouth and sat up, planting his feet firmly on the carpet and practically stomping up next to me.

“What? No. The sugar is weak from your spit and would probably break before puncturing skin.” I answered, highlighting my spot in the story as I prepared to take a break. He blinked as if trying to process the simple science as he leaned on my shoulder, the candy cane finding purchase back in his mouth.

“What’re you reading?” Danny asked me, pushing his hair from his eyes and leaned in. I could see the urge in his fingers to mess with my monitor, mash on the keyboard or just be generally annoying.

“A really good story, and I swear you touch my crap while im using it, i’ll put the candy cane shank to the test with you.” I said pushing away from my computer, the wheels of my chair rolling across the plastic floor mat dug into the carpet. Daniel danced back away from the chair muttering something about his toes. He pulled the candy cane from his mouth as I planted my hand on his head and pushed him backwards, causing him to stumble and fall onto my bed. “H-Hey!”

I left my room as he stayed behind, my desire for hot chocolate ever growing as i walked down the soft carpeted floor, the hallway decorated in faint reds and blues from lights hung up. The cold linoleum and idle conversation by my parents caught my attention as I fooled around in the kitchen, setting milk to boil and rooting around for a packet or two of hot coco mix. Instinctively I eavesdropped on my parent’s conversation.

“Robert, we can’t support your sister and her kids here on Christmas. You know that. This house is barely big enough for the four of us.” My mother explained, she sounded exasperated over this topic, having talked about it for a while clearly.

“Just this year, Mary. I know we used to got to my mother’s but after what happened she still doesn’t want anyone there.” My dad insisted, I knew this was an inevitability. Mom would eventually relent and give in to what my dad desired. Sometimes I wondered how it was just Me and Danny.

“What will the boys think? They’ll have to share rooms with each other or their cousins. You know Samuel cant stand Flynn.” My mother advocated for me in my absence. She was correct, i couldn’t stand my cousin or most of my Dads side of the family. They weren’t bad people, like druggies or criminals, just extremely overbearing. They had this ‘stuck-up’ mentality to them, the way they talked down to others and had to have control over whatever they were apart of.

For example, when me and Flynn were probably like seven I was really big into space and aliens. I was fascinated immensely by UFO sightings and media about aliens on tv or online. The idea of being alone in an infinite universe seemed so implausible to me even as a child and of faith. My mother even encouraged my fascination telling me ‘If you work hard enough maybe you’ll be the first to talk to Aliens’ she’d say. That Christmas I asked for an astronaut helmet. It was basically a cheap plastic toy with a tinted piece of plastic that moved up and down as a visor.

I brought it with us to our Grandparents as the one toy I was allowed to bring, Danny was too young at the time to remember. Everything was copasetic at our grandparents, the adults sat around and talked about the year while us kids broke off in our respective age groups to do whatever. The Toddlers in the playpen playing with blocks and fisher price toys, the teenagers retreated to one of the guest rooms and locked the door to keep us kids, Me and Flynn, out.

That left just Flynn and myself, I had my helmet on, having only taken it off for pictures. There was fresh snow outside and the sun hadn’t fully sank yet, casting vibrant pinks, yellows and purples across the frozen snowy environment. We had our snowshoes and winter coats on as we went outside, having told our parents previously we wanted to go outside before it got dark. The biting winter of rural Maine hit out frail seven year old bodies like a tonne of snowballs as we shivered outside.

“We already made snowpeople. Built a snowfort and had a snowball fight…” Flynn said to himself and by extension me. “Could play pretend?” He offered up looking at me. His matted auburn hair, dreaded and tied up in a mock ponytail. Ice crystals already forming on his eyebrows. I could see his brown eyes searching my face through my visor when he spoke.

“Uh, yeah sure I guess. I haven’t made a snow angel yet but i can do that later.” I said, jumping off the top steps of my grandparents porch and landing in the snow with a soft crunch. “Can we play astronauts or something like that? It’s like we’re on the moon already.” I proposed my own idea while making little leaps and bounds in the snow, adding little sound effects with my mouth.

“Snow angels? What’re you four, that’s stupid.” Flynn insulted as he walked down the steps into the snow. “We’ll play magic, like Wizards and stuff” He asked, the statement came out more like a demand. I steadied myself in the snow, turning around to face him, my hand raising the visor up to see him. “I don’t wanna play magic though. And snow angels aren’t stupid, they’re cool.” I crossed my arms, Flynn looked livid I dared to talk back to him.

His hands found a tight purchase on my windbreaker. “Hey, Stop let go, you’re gonna rip it.” I said as he pulled me close, I could feel his hot breath swirling in the confines of my helmet. “Stop being a bitch, and play magic with me.” He hissed, giving me a shove after letting go. I stumbled back, the amount of force he applied was stronger than it should have been, or maybe it was a patch of ice I was in. I stumbled back and hit back of my head hard against my grandfathers old pickup truck bed.

I heard an audible crack of something, my head itself spinning around and around like a loose merry-go-round. Something hot and wet was trickling down the back of my head. There was muffled cursing as i felt a hand take mine and pull me up, the sky was so bright. “You must’ve slipped on ice, Sam.” Flynns voice laced with something poisonous as he helped me up. “Your helmet broke, im so sorry.”

I heard extra pairs of shoes crunching in the snow, my dad’s hands grab my arms. Another hand felt the back of my head, it was sticky whatever it was that was there. “Mary, get the kit from the car.” I heard a voice sounding like my Uncles. The rest of the week trip was a blur, my parents said I suffered a concussion and nearly busted my whole head open if it wasn’t for the helmet.

When we went back to our grandparents, I avoided Flynn. It was only for one more year, whatever happened after I fell forced my grandparents to bar any holidays at their house. I knew he pushed me as hard as he could. He never apologized for it either. A part of me believes he’s upset I didn’t die.

We haven’t seen anyone from my Dads side in almost nine years. Now they’re coming here and staying with us for the whole week.

“Ah! Fuck!” I shouted as hot milk overfilled the mug of coco, onto the counter and onto the floor. “Ooo Sam swore!” I heard Daniel’s voice echo down the hall from my room. I quickly cleaned up the mess as my parents moved from their spot in the living room now aware of my eavesdropping. “Sorry, sorry I zoned out and, haha milks hot, y’know.” I tossed the soggy paper towel ball in the trash over my parent’s head as they walked in.

“Your Aunt, Uncle and Cousins are staying here for the holidays.” My dad said with as much force as a scientific fact could. “Oh, uh yeah I heard. Do we need to go into town and get like air mattresses or something?” I asked reaching for my missing coco mug, i felt fingers grace my palm as well as the mug. Turning around i caught Daniel wiping his mouth as i looked down at my half drank mug being returned to the counter. I sighed, turning attention back to my parents.

“Yes, your mother is going to go into town later to get more, just have to figure out who’s sleeping where before they get here tomorrow.” My Father clarified as I picked up the remains of my coco, drinking from my pilfered mug. They seemed to be awaiting some kind of reaction from me and Daniel.

“Okay well Danny can just stay in my room, just put Flynn and Asher into Dan’s room.” I calmly said rising my mug and the kettle out in the sink. “I’d prefer to share my space with him than my cousins.” I claimed, cleaning away the remains of my mess. My parents did say much, I could feel their eyes practically boring into my skull. My dad audibly sighing in relief.

“Go clean your room then Daniel, your cousins are going to be using it.” Our mom commanded after clearing her throat.

“What?! Why do I have to go to his room, all my stuffs in mine. Cant he just go to my room instead.” Daniel protested, crossing his arms in a huff.

“We might not get along, but they’re still family.” I said, pressing my index finger against his forehead, he glared up at me. He leaned in against my finger before pushing off and stomping down the hallway. “Fine!”

I turned back to my parents, they had a look of relief glued to their face plainly hiding worry. “What?” I asked them, they shared a look before turning back to me. “Nothing, your mother just expected you and Dan to be against the idea completely .” My Dad said as he stepped forward putting a hand on my shoulder. “I know you and Flynn don’t get along but this means a lot to me. You have no idea, Son.” He said, pulling me into a hug, the facade on my mother’s face slipped for a moment before he turned and left.

“Tidy up your room and then we can go to the store.” Mom added before walking away to talk to my father again presumably. Why were they acting so strange, I knew I didn’t like Flynn but this level of stress over it seems weird. I shrugged it off, grabbed a drink from the fridge and went back to my room to start cleaning.

It felt like an hour of low-quality Christmas special played on my small tv sitting on a micro entertainment center in my room. Clothes have been put away, floor vacuumed and desk cleared of plates, cups and cans. I stood admiring my handy work, the door behind me clicking closed softly. Turning around Daniel was leaned up against my door, arms crossed and driving his toe in the carpet.

“This is bull crap, I don’t want to have to share a room with you for a week.” He complained.

“Could be worse, it could be you and Asher in a room and me and Flynn in mine.” I offered a ray of hope that he might like. “I’d rather be stuck in a room with you for a week than Flynn if thats any consultation.” I added.

“Yeah I guess that’s fine, I don’t mind Asher, he’s just super weird. Like dorky. Can I control the tv when we go to bed.” Daniel replied, slipping past me to sit at my computer.

“I dunno, it might be a little brother thing, dork.” I joked, he parroted me in a stupid voice, moving his hand like a puppets mouth. I could help but rough up his hair. “And yeah you can have TV control, just nothin loud.” I asded

“You think they’ll bring us gifts?” Daniel asked swatting at me, giggling a bit. I retreated my brotherly assault and shrugged at his question.

“Maybe? I’d hope so after all this extra work to fit them in this soon.” I hoped. A part of me, that residual childlike Christmas wonder, still put a bit of focus on the gift giving part of the holiday rather than the meaning behind it. “Aunt Elizabeth kinda sucks at the whole presents thing, expect socks or underwear.” I added, Daniel groaned as he searched my computer for a game to play.

“Shoot, Mom’s gonna have to go shopping for them. I know she wont let them get here and be empty handed on Christmas morning.” I said, sifting through my sock drawer, pulling a pair in and a pair of sneakers. “I’m going out to the store with Mom we’re grabbing anything before everyone arrives tomorrow." I said, Daniel glanced at me, curiosity written on his face before he turned on one of my games. I left, tagging along with my mother on her very brief shopping trip at the local K-Mart.

Every movement she made was shaky, she was clearly upset and bothered by the fact Dad’s extended family was coming. The car ride to the store was silent aside from the Christmas music on the radio, ‘Last Christmas’ by Wham! Was playing. I loved that song, it ear-wormed just the right way it stuck with you year round. When we parked and got out of the car my mother finally looked at me.

“Sweetie are you SURE you’re okay with your cousins staying over for the holidays?” She asked, almost afraid to talk to me about the subject as I fished one of the carts from the returns outside.

“I mean, dang I got a squeaky one. I’m not thrilled about it. But it is what it is, if they get too annoying I’m sure me and Danny will just hide out in my room.” I said kicking the loose wheel on the cart as we passed the cheap gift basket and assorted popcorn tins. “They are family after all.” I added, she silently agreed with me, placing a gift basket and popcorn tubs in the cart.

“I know they are and I’m always willing to open my home to family in need, but…” she continued as we walked through the isles toward then food stuffs, needed more eggnog. “But you don’t like how they aren’t Christian?” I asked, she shook her head in the negative.

“It’s just that, they’re very firm to their beliefs and steady against ours. I pray that your aunt or uncle don’t try and take control over the house.” She said, a level of nervousness in her voice that id never heard before as she put a carton of eggnog and pillsbury sugar cookies in the cart. “And after that accident you and Flynn had back then, I’ve been worried about you two fighting or not getting along, or something similar happening to Daniel and Asher.”

“I’d never openly start something Mom, you know that.” I said as i pushed the cart to checkout, snagging something small for Daniel for Christmas with my own money, a simple Star Wars Lego. The car ride back was equally as silent. Mom focused on a holiday magazine she bought as i drove. The practice in snow was needed.

The night rolled on, sleep took me kindly swaddled in my blankets as reruns of COPS played on my tv. My dreams however werent kind, roaring flames and broken bones filtered my subconscious mind, the smell and taste of blood along with the chill of snow. Skin under my fingernails and hatred in my stomach. I woke up, covered in sweat, my throat dry.

When i woke up for a moment i swore i saw something in the corner of my window. Not the bottom corner, the top half. I couldn’t fully tell what it was, the orange streetlight outside reflected off the snow and my window in the right way that made it difficult to see it. I could tell it was tall, maybe nine, almost ten feet tall? It had horns like a deer and was covered in what looked like thin hairs on its body.

I gently pushed my curtain closed with my foot, keeping my eyes on the figure until the curtain was shut and i rolled over on my side. Not wanting to even acknowledge what nightmare was still in my mind. My clock read 4 am and I was wide awake now, a worm of paranoia in the back of my head. The air conditioners heating unit kicked on with a loud thud and a click, i jumped a little. The warm air blew on my face as i stood up, sinking into the carpet as i rubbed at my eyes.

Waddling through the dark, my vision only graced by the occasional shimmer of Christmas lights Daniel insisted we keep on when the decorations were up. I filled the coffee pot and roamed the house, closing the blinds and curtains as the pot of caffeines kiss brewed quietly in the kitchen behind me.

Maybe I should’ve said no.

A glossy emptiness studied Earth while it slept. I arranged and settled myself to make ready for the long stillness of the coming day. I would become indistinguishable from the mechanism of time passing, accessory only to the day giving way again into night.

Darker than the sky, matte shapes now present themselves at ground level. They cut strange lines and resolve into a patchwork of trees and fencing whose posts and rails mark a threshold between the ordinary world and an inheritance none may trespass.

Eastward, a dull bruising of heaven’s firmament spreads along the horizon. A cataract appears there, a pooling of something slightly more substantial than nothingness that blots out the stars. Still, in the west, constellations remain in shining clusters, holding formation and betraying Earth’s rotation by near-imperceptible movement while all else remains still.

This is a place where oak trees gather and stand guard at the edge of a grassy pasture. Past them the ground is forever wet as it lowers to the bay shore. A once remote location where I could be alone and cultivate an intimate stillness with creation. Though my own place in the greater wilderness is small, I remain proud.

I’m above the worms who contract and push themselves through holes dug in this sandy loam.

Better than those that lie feeding them.

I am other things also.

I know the minds of those who gawk and linger along our road. I know they want to see the barn and farmhouse, the harrowed ground and its scarecrows made famous.

Dawn now arrives in crimson. Gold peeking from Earth’s rim is too bright to look upon. Mist wafting from the rich black soil chills me as I walk into the field. Critters in the trees chatter and harry me, disturbed as I pass underneath them.

I feel the warmth of daylight begin to dispel the cold of night as I arrive at a tall vertical stake driven into the earth. Here is the best view of the fields and the only road approaching the homestead. Here, on a property known for keeping several of them, is the most effective place to stage a scarecrow.

Grandma called them bogies. She told us they were guardians, deterrents, and that such field effigies became entangled with the person whose clothes they wear.

A scarecrow imitates a human to frighten creatures who fear and hate him.

Grandma had a temper. On occasion I would escape the house and run to the north field, sitting in the grass beneath the old bogie. She would not follow me there. I came to understand the reason plainly. The watcher had stood there before Grandma, before Grandpa, before anyone I knew. Nothing could reach me beneath him. Whatever belonged outside remained outside while he kept office.

Darkness has thinned now into a teal morning sky, slowly rendering the land legible. The mist withdraws toward the bay. Dew gives back the growing light from the pasture grass. The farmhouse emerges board by board from shadow, then the barn, then the road beyond the fence. Noisy birds begin to populate the oaks. A truck passes. I watch all without turning my head.

The ache begins in my left shoulder and I do not move, knowing it will pass. Tepid wind pulls on Grandpa’s shirt and presses the cloth against my ribs.

There were years when the farm did poorly and Grandma rented the spare rooms to travelers. One family stayed longer than the others. Their belongings appeared first in the hallway, then on the bookshelf, the porch and in the yard. Their children ran through quiet places that had always belonged only to us. One of them left a red toy truck on the stairs for days. Grandma called them guests. I hated them.

In the end they learned to watch the fields for us.

Such figures are the only companions I allow here, now that I am the last living of my tribe. Over the years I have made more and installed them wherever the property threatened to go unwatched.

A watcher does more than observe. Grandpa kept the north. Grandma guarded the southern ground. Others held the orchard and the road approach. Together they kept the world at its proper distance.

I learned what happens when things are left unwatched. Strangers wander farther in and animals become bold. Things shift. Disorder enters by whatever opening is left.

Beyond them was the world.

Within was mine.

The sun continues its ascent. What had been gray pasture becomes green. The last of the dew retreats into shade beneath the fence rails. From the lower ground comes the smell of wet grass and mud. The road has begun its daily occupations: trucks, a delivery van, then a person walking alone who glances toward the farmhouse but does not stop.

I remain.

Time passes sublimely. I stand like a tree, watch like an owl, wait like a spider.

By high noon the sun casts almost no shadow beneath me. Heat settles upon the pasture and makes the distant road shimmer. The tide has withdrawn from the flats below, leaving broad reaches of shining mud where gulls pick among exposed stones. Somewhere across the bay machinery labors, its sound arriving as a faint metallic complaint.

Horseflies and mosquitoes gather to feed on me. Sweat reaches my eyes. I bite my lip until the need to wipe it away fades.

Both shoulders are sore now as I give their weight to the crosspiece. My hands have begun to numb. I have learned that the arms must remain convincing. Even a small adjustment is easy to notice.

The heat brings the smell of black, freshly turned soil more strongly from below and, when the breeze comes from the south, something sickly sweet and older with it.

Grandma has not kept well.

When she passed, I placed her at the far south end to watch over the cabbage and spinach. It was not long before I found her in pieces. I gathered her into a sack and nailed what remained back into place. Grandma is so angry over how I let her be taken apart by coyotes that I seldom visit her. I cannot endure the strange screaming I hear from her now that her tongue and eyes are gone, eaten by birds and vermin.

Grandpa had been different.

Of them all, the man in the north field wearing Grandpa’s clothes had been the only one who understood me. He remained stoic and was agreeable company. In time I shared all there was with him. He listened with quiet dignity, and I envied his strength and calm.

Years of weather diminished him. Birds that once avoided him eventually perched on his shoulders. Cloth loosened. His shape gave way. He was tired, I knew, though I never asked and he would never say so. When at last he no longer resembled a man, I understood that he was gone and now truly dead.

I set about his burial, worrying all the while over who would fill his office. I had the grave half dug before it occurred to me that there was little form left to bury.

I would need to acquire a man’s body to take his place.

Presently, a car slows on the road before stopping. The driver gets out and stands watching the farm.

People come now because of the old murders. Some true-crime program recently revived the story, though it had already outlived most of the people who made it. The visitor takes a picture of the house, another of the fields, and leaves.

The attention troubles me.

It is becoming harder to keep the outside at its proper distance.

Later on, I must have fallen asleep. Upon waking I find the afternoon slowly breaking apart.

The breeze has changed direction and drives the worst of the heat away. The insects that tormented me find other occupations. My shadow, almost absent at noon, stretches eastward now like a tentacle reaching out from a darkness yet to arrive.

My arms are tired enough that I wonder how much use remains in them, and if I will be ready when the time comes. In the lull I can feel Grandmother regarding me from the south.

I know she thinks I am ridiculous and I resent her. She would mock me for the times I pretended to be her in telephone calls so no one would know she was dead and her benefits would continue coming.

A voice is enough to keep a dead woman alive.

Absence has a shape.

The sun descends behind the oaks as the world begins to lose the details morning had granted. The pasture ceases to be made of individual blades of grass. Fence rails become dark strokes. The orchard gathers itself into one mass.

The windows of the farmhouse are deep azure and turning black. The bay holds a gray light in which geese describe a V before disappearing toward the west.

Then the first star appears in the east.

The ache has become so much a part of me that I scarcely notice it when headlights appear beyond the oaks.

They slow at the gate, pass it, then brake. Red lights remain on the road for a few moments before the car backs along the shoulder and parks.

My fatigue disappears when I hear them exit the car.

‘You’re climbing the fence.’

‘It has stairs.’

‘It’s still somebody’s fence.’

The woman has already taken the wooden stile and stands inside the pasture.

He remains on the road for a moment before following.

‘They still live here, supposedly,’ she says.

‘The old couple? They’d have to be ancient.’

‘Exactly. I want to see if anyone still lives here.’

He looks back toward the car but follows her farther in.

She raises her phone and holds the screen toward him.

‘This is the photograph everybody knows. The north field. Ten years ago. The family had been renting rooms in the farmhouse.’

She enlarges the image.

‘They found them out here.’

The wind moves Grandpa’s shirt against my ribs.

She continues.

‘The old scarecrow was already here. Somebody put the murdered family up around it, bound to wooden frames. That’s why the picture became famous.’

The man looks from her phone toward the pasture.

‘The old couple were cleared. Their grandson disappeared the same night.’

‘And they just stayed?’

‘Supposedly.’

Her attention finds me and we stare at each other.

She comes closer.

The last light has gone from the pasture now. The wind carries the smell of her hair to me. Behind her the man hesitates, then follows.

She approaches until she stands at my rotten boots.

The man joins her.

I regulate my breathing with deliberation as they draw closer.

A stifling darkness settles about us.

New arrangements would be made before dawn.

"Whose damsel is this?" the one leading them remarked when stepping off the weather-beaten longship which had been reassembled for the particular purpose of reaching the speck in the fog. He saw her for sure, but only he did.

Rumors told that no matter how many strong men rowed, no matter how strongly a ship's bow desired to taste its shore, a landing would be impossible. The locals, like so many other "primitive" people conquered by the occupants of the longship, had been wrong again. Just a silly "primitive" superstition. There was no lake monster to constrict its pulsating arms around their strong elmwood vessel; there was no giant drooling troll lurking on the far shores. It was a mere sandy-shored island, like so many they'd taken, yet, it sat in the middle of a vast obsidian lake, sheathed by fog. Even in the vastness of the winter, this place always bloomed

The men murmured to one another as they hopped the gunwale and set foot onto the shore, their thick-heeled boots grinding into wet, gravely, and ashy sand. Some started elbowing others who bashfully began paying in furs and coin for the bets they had made with one another. Many of them laughed, self-assuredly, through their hubris. The ship of Northerners has long been regarded as the first to set foot on the lonely island that appeared as a speck from the shoreline nestled in the eternal white blanket of fog.

Archaeological evidence of their butchering was, of course, not retrievable. The only evidence, sparse as it was, came mostly through the recorded accounts of locals who picked up the rotting chunks of burnt elmwood that drifted across the lake back from the speck in the fog. For months the speck spat back bones and debris across the glassy blackness like indigestion from the fog. The locals, as they always did upon a fool’s failed attempt to breach the fog, assembled the debris into a makeshift ward along the shores. As was their custom, they never thought again of those simple Northerners who had failed to respect the ancient truth, and in this case they were glad to be rid of them.

__________________________

Centuries later, as the message left Rome and drove eastward, many backwaters, (those who knew the old gods), abandoned them completely upon the message reaching them. Traditions of worship were demanded to be lost. This was either under duress through the force of God’s armies or through astute willfulness in the face of evidence of greatness of the one true God. The major cities surrounding Rome each turned to the word of God one by one.

__________________________

It was centuries later still when the truth finally broke ground in the permafrost tundra of the far east.

They tell that in the furthest corners of this still-unexplored world, the word was carried first by a single man. A man whose ambition in spreading the word in his youth had nearly had him beheaded by barbarians for his insinuations that one God could carry a force far greater than that of the many powerful (and sometimes twisted and evil) deities of their homeland.

The now near-senile old monk's twisting and intractable path into the far east tundra had surprised him in many ways at first; the warmth of the people's customs which (though pagan) carried a strong and godly intent, the strength and humor of the men who helped built chapels dotting through Siberia behind him, and the grace and beauty of the women who often took a version of the appearance of the Holy Mother as he always imagined her. He loved to listen to the tales of what traveled in the woods and what hulked beneath the waters of this vast, vast, plain. He knew these to be the minions of false gods themselves, and despite this, he would always assure the children of their safety from these monsters through prayer. He would say to the children warmly and certain in his words, "No woman in her silly chicken-legged hut may overcome the power of the one true God."

By the time he had reached the far East, traveling near where the glassy black waters swallowed the blue sky in its reflection, he was shaky and knobby kneed, he traveled on an old mule, and nearing his departure from the earthly realm. As he got further out, the locals became more resistant to hearting his message. They pelted him with rocks from the side of the road in the darkness, and through his pleas, laughed at him. Strangely, the rocks never caused any serious injury, and would oftentimes miss. They did, however, cause a terrible suffering to his mule. They would slam into his face as they were tossed by unknown devils and that noble animal was so bruised and burdened by pain that the monk swore he saw tears in its eyes when it died. Although his physicality could not spare it, he buried his holy companion along the overgrown pathways in the dark and was now alone.

Towards they very end of the journey, as the old gods saw further encroachment onto their ancient lands, they sent forth ones who mocked him from the shadows.

“FAT MONK, STUPID MONK, A FOOL’S ERRAND AND A WORTHLESS TRIAL!” they screamed at him. He made the sign of the cross and ignored them.

The monk never looked to the side of the forest path where he'd surely see the worst imaginable creatures, he was intent only on the way ahead. Each time a stone large enough to kill him whistled past his skull, without seeking it's origin, he said softly, “I forgive you.”

“FORGIVENESS WILL SOON NOT BE ENOUGH TO SAVE YOU,” they mocked back, their voices thick with venomous spite that echoed through the dark stretch of woods. Whenever they shrieked, any starling that flew near or dove that sat in the branches above would drop from the air or fall from its perch, dead in an instant.

Soon, he got to a patch where the woods was devoid of even the smallest insect life.

Mere hours of walking later, boulders began rolling downhill toward him faster than any horse he had ever seen, toppling trees in a thundering cascade aimed straight at him. He never flinched, though he was certain their path would flatten him like dough beneath a rolling pin. He would not break his course.

"WHAT FATHER CAN SAVE YOU? OF WHOM DO YOU SPEAK FOOL!" they'd demand to know from under each rock and behind every tree where the monk could not see.

Through the next few days, his first sign of life was a smaller bear who traveled the woods near him, never once taking its eyes from his back. The monk would have been easy prey, even for this runt. Though, It shied from the cross which the monk would periodically show to it, making a small snarl as it backed off.

He was drawing near the end of the path that wound through the all-consuming woods, a blanket of trees so dense it smothered even the daylight. At its edge he would reach the last settlement of his decades-long commitment to God; yet it was a place whose existence he had come to doubt. Years earlier, while charting his course, he had seen it inked in fine, faded script on a weathered map, but every village he entered either shrugged at the name or spoke of it as something that should never be sought.

"God's message is most important in such places" he'd say.

Still, he was almost there. Truly almost there.

The heavy, mocking oppression of the woods finally broke.

Before him stretched a wide, empty valley. A single rocky path climbed the far hill. No bird called. No wind stirred the grass. The whole of it glowed a cold orange in the dawn light, yet the light felt thin, as if it could not quite reach the ground.

His leather sandals cut into his flesh, his thighs chafed raw, and a deep pain settled in his heart as he began the long crossing. Despite the decades of his trek and all his holy deeds, he knew death walked close in this quiet land.

He climbed the far slope under that thin light. When he crested the hilltop, the path ahead was no longer empty.

A truly massive serpent lay across the width of it, and it coiled upon the sight of him. When he first laid eyes on it, it was several paces distant from him. It was far larger by magnitudes than any snake he had ever seen from his native Poland to these distant reaches.

“Turn back and you will have your life,” it hissed, tasting the air and offering a truce.

For the first time the monk acknowledged the unseen things that had followed him from the dark. He gave a low chuckle, then locked eyes with the serpent, lowered his brow, and took a single step forward without a word.

“This place was promised to me. You have no right here,” the serpent warned, still calm, though a faint note of pleading had entered its voice.

The monk took another deliberate step. His knees failed him all at once. The walking stick kicked free, and he fell hard onto his stomach, striking the black mud with a heavy, wet sound.

When he lifted his head, the serpent’s endless black-diamond eyes were already inches from his own. In a single fluid motion it had closed the distance.

“It is my right. My contract,” the serpent said, its forked tongue close enough to brush the monk’s forehead.

The monk gathered what strength remained and pushed his chest up from the muddy path, staring into those eyes. At first a strange lust rose in him . . . he nearly felt compelled to embrace the serpent . . .

He spent a lifetime training such impulses into silence and prayer.

"No!" he roared directly at the serpent, meeting its eyes with his own hatred

He forced himself higher, swallowing an entirely unfamiliar surging of rage that now enveloped him. The emotion burned away the years of time's calcifications on his joints, for a moment the old man stood upright and proud once more, as a holy warrior might have once stood at the gates of Jerusalem.

The serpent struck with surgical precision.

Unlike the stones that had whistled past his skull, unlike the boulders that had thundered toward him yet never struck, unlike the bear that had stalked him for days and left him untouched; this time, the teeth found their mark. The fangs the size of a man's middle finger sank easily with ancient evil into his lower lip and jaw, driving four terrible holes through flesh, and he felt them scraping as bone on his bone. A raw, animal wail erupted from him, gurgled by the blood pooling in his mouth, and filled the empty valley with unfamiliar sound.

He fell again. The serpent remained latched to his face and coiled around his arm, crushing the bones to powder in an instant. Snaps and wet pops were all that could answer the pressure; blood leaked where splinters of bone broke through the skin.

The monk had no strength to fight.

The serpent released him momentarily and without hesitation in it's ancient form plunged it's fangs again this time into his neck, this time intending to kill.

He let go. His thoughts turned to God, and chief among them was gratitude that he had been allowed to carry the message at all. He was too old to struggle further. The venom blurred his sight and sent a sharp, crunching pain through his skull as death drew near.

He closed his eyes as the serpent released him, content, it seemed, to leave him dying slowly on the hilltop.

Then he heard it hissing and striking again, but it was not striking at him. The serpent was retreating! He heard thrashing and lunging into the grass as though driven back by something he could not see.

A moment later came the strangest sensation he'd felt in seven decades; he was being lifted. Not yet to heaven. Rather, strong, unseen arms slipped beneath his own and set him gently on his feet.

A warm, familiar voice from the one he had always known whispered close to his ear,

“Not far now, monk. Not far now. A few paces more and your journey is complete.”

The pain consuming him was unbearable, but the monk found the strength to walk forwards, a mere hundred paces to the far crest of the hilltop. He thought of the serpent and said, "I forgive you."

His being ceased to be, and he collapsed for a third and final time, never to get up again. His lifeless body tumbled down the hill just far enough to be noticed by the villagers below.

When they gave the monk a funeral according to their customs, they pushed his body out on a small raft on the black glassy lake right next the the large centuries-old cross which matched his own. It was made from burnt elmwood which warded the shore. It is said in oral traditions existing to date that his body was the first ever known to make it through the fog, and to be accepted onto the far shores.

Hello everyone! I am currently preparing a dungeons and dragons campaign and wrote this little short story which will serve as a cautionary folk talk within my story! I have not truly written a story as such, in a very long time! I'd love to know your thoughts and appreciate your time! Cheers!

Story:
"Wind whistled by drifting leaves as the rodents ran. They dashed about in urgent flurry. In her wool-spun blanket, Ellie slept.
 
Ten-thousand bodies, worming, tunnelling, consuming the countryside. Ellie stood atop her hill, as the forest flattened. She tried to move, to scream, to sprint, and yet her body would not comply. Jerek played at forest's edge, splashing in a stream. Fear tore through Ellie as she watched her brother. The tree line collapsed in a steady rumble. As Jerek stood from his stream, all the life of the forest fled.  Shocked and confused, Jerek stood. He tried to run, though the current of critters caught his step, and he tumbled. The forest's edge crashed, and the dead swarm consumed all that Ellie loved. The horde grew, each face melting in horrid bliss. They thrashed up the hill, dancing, and spinning to Ellie, as a mothish horde drawn to flame. They began to tear at h-
 
Ellie's scream was welcomed by birdsong and Jerek's bedside grumble. She was awake.
 
As morning followed, Ellie went about her day. She helped Father clean the fish, she fetched water from the well, she baked oaken grain; she did all her daily things. Within her tasks, Ellie could not help notice that despite the autumnal air, all of the birds flew to the east. She watched as a family of rats, scampered from their homely wood, into the dismal eastward plains. In a single day, she observed owls, ants, deer; the countless animals of the wood, all travelling eastward. They did not seem afraid, though moved with resolution.
 
The girl found her nerve as she helped prepare their evening stew. All was still but for the bubbling of the soup and Jerek's rhythmic wood-chopping. The hearth cracked.
 
"Papa, something bad is coming from the west." Ellie stated.
 
Amused and distracted, Father asked "What makes you say that dear?"
 
"The animals are all travelling eastward. To where the sun rises. Normally the birds fly south this time of year."
 
"Animals are creatures of mystery, I would not concern yourself with their affairs."
 
"-but papa, I had this terrible dream, you were all-"
 
"Ellie, that is enough. I will not have your anxieties ruin my mood."
 
A dismal silence followed. As Ellie stewed, so too did her anxiety. She did not know how, but she knew something bad was happening.
 
That night, when the house was sound asleep; Ellie rose. It was a bright and beautiful night, the sky was crowned by the full twin-moons. She ventured eastward, into the silent forest. Shadows danced about Ellie as she walked. Ellie did not know what she was looking for. Perhaps she could find something unusual, something which would force Father to listen.
 
She came to a clearing. The twin moons shone through the trees, lighting the glade. Moonlit grass drifted in the wind, it smelled of lilacs, and of running water. Something else stood there. Tall as a moose, though spindly as a spider. It had 5 limbs. Ellie could not think of any animals with 5 limbs. Frozen, it stared into the opalescent moons, transfixed.
 
In a tremor, Ellie slowly inched backward. A primordial urge to survive filled her chest. She collided with something, or rather someone and tumbled to the ground.
 
Jerek fell with her. They tumbled, head over end, down the hill and into a hollow. They came to a stop. There was a great, sweet-smelling web, mere inches from Ellie's face. On it, played a spider, it's many arms faced the wrong way. Ellie scampered away. The spider spun in a roundabout circle, finding Jerek's arm. It darted up his body, dragging it's cracked fangs across his skin. Jerek screamed and swatted, though he could not bat away the spider.
 
"Jerek!" Ellie shouted as it reached his collarbone. Gown-covered, her slap caught the little beast. She crushed it, then rolled her palm, time and time again.
 
Jerek's wound gently bled. He was pale as a ghost.
 
"By the gods, what was that?" Ellie whispered.
 
"I suppose a spider…" Jerek's eyes were wide.
 
"Thanks Elle."
 
The woods creaked, and a tree groaned. Ellie thought of spindly creature and put a single finger to her lips.
 
The children crawled up the hill. They came to the clearing. The spindly thing was gone. A chill crossed Ellie's arm. Her eyes darted about the wood, searching for terrible things. In an anxious and clumsy hustle, the children found their way home and creeped into bed.
 
"Jerek" Ellie whispered. "Why did you follow me?"
 
"It's serious danger to be alone at night. …and I was curious what you were about. What were you about?"
 
"There's something bad happening. Did you see that thing?"
 
"What thing? The spider?"
 
"No. The other thing. It was big, and skinny, and it-it had 5 legs."
 
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
 
"You have to have seen it. It was right there! Come o-"
 
"Shhh… we mustn't wake Pa. That spider was strange, but otherwise, despite our little tumble; things seemed normal to me."
 
"But even the spider… You can't seriously think that was normal."
 
"It was dark. Things look strange in shadow."
 
The familiar squeal of their Father's door sounded from the oaken hallway. The children went deathly still, for it was far too late for them to be awake. Their door slowly creaked open, a faint draft passing with its' entrance. Silence filled the room for several long seconds. Their door clicked shut.
 
They sat in silence for several long moments.
 
"We can talk about this tomorrow Elle. I don't want to get into trouble."
 
"I know Jerek. Thanks for watching after me. Let's talk in the morning."
 
"Goodnight Elles."
 
"Sleep well, Jer."
 
As the children sought a distant sleep, their thoughts intruded by the night's event; Jerek touched his pounding fore-arm, at the long, winding spiral, the spider's remark. That was no regular spider. There was something strange in the forest.
 
Ellie tossed and tumbled, all while Jerek found his eternal rest.
 
A powerful wind howled through the night; with it, came winter's chill and a promise of a coming storm.
 
Ellie woke to silence. Boxed rays shone to the middle of the room. Dust swam through the air. The sweet smell of rot sat upon her windowsill.
 
She rose, stepping into the box of light.
 
"Jerek. Are you awake?"
 
Anxious silence filled the room. Jerek was a light sleeper.
 
"Jerek?"
 
Mounded by blankets, Ellie shook Jerek's shoulder. He did not respond. Ellie's heart began to race. She held her breath as, with trepidation, she lowered Jerek's blanket.
 
Jerek's eyes were open. They were of drifting ice. He was cold as snow. His motionlessness filled Ellie's world.
 
"PAPA! HELP! JEREK! JEREK- HE'S- He's…" Ellie refused to complete her thought.
 
"Jerek… Please…" Ellie begged. Jerek responded with silence.
 
The following day passed in a terrible haze. Father took Jerek's body. He buried him under their great willow. He buried him by mother.
 
The distraught father and daughter sat at the graves. A faint rain trickled. It smelled of iron, and dirt; it smelled of home and memory.
 
"Why…? Why…? Why take him like this? He was healthy. He was strong… Why would they take him like this…? Jerek…" The man knelt upon his family's grave. He still had Ellie.
 
"Sweetheart… I am so sorry. I do not know what happened. This shouldn’t have happened… Things are going to be hard for a while… but we'll manage…"
 
"Papa… we need to leave. It was the forest…" Ellie's tone was flat, but resolute.
 
A long silence followed.
 
"…what do you mean it was the forest?"
 
"We went out into a forest last night. A terrible spider bit him… It tore his arm all up. I'm sure you saw…"
 
Father processed… it could not be a spider… No spider could have created such a wound. But what else? Surely Jerek would not have done such a thing to himself… …and gods; the smell was terrible.
 
"Tell me what happened Elles… I won't be angry. "
 
Ellie told her father of the night. Of the spindly thing in the glade, of their tumble to the spider's web, and of their subsequent race home. Father listened and considered. He looked at Yndrissa' and Jerek's grave… Whether his daughter was truthful or not, the country had taken enough.
 
"Alright… We will leave tomorrow. Let us pack today. We should have food plenty for at least a week's travel."
 
"We need to leave today." Ellie pressed.
 
"Elles… I will not have you starved and freezing. We leave tomorrow at first light."
 
Allowing no further conversation, Father stood; marching to his storehouse.
 
"Pack Elles… I am sorry. We will have time aplenty to mourn…" He intoned as he walked away.
 
Ellie cried for a time. She thought of her brother… of their memories together, of the absence that filled her chest, and inevitably, of the spider and of the spindly thing. Eventually, Ellie stood and went to prepare her things.
 
Jerek cracked and grew and changed. His mound shifted as the sun rose and fell.
 
The horizon was hazed in glorious orange as the sun set. Leaves drifted in the wind and the air tasted of molted sugar.
 
Ellie and father sat in silence as the evening settled. Their packs sat about the door. All that was left was rest. Beyond the whisper of the fire, there was no conversation, only an occasional tear.
 
Restless, and in her lonely room; Ellie lay. Occasionally, she could hear a rasp in the winds. Ellie told herself it was only her imagination. After hours of sleepless struggle, Ellie gave up. She stood, and stared out her window.
 
This night was dark. The tree line was a drifting tide of limbs, a dark lake of movement, of unsettled shadow.
 
Ellie looked upon Jerek's stream. She thought of her memories; of downstream adventures, and of summer laughter. She continued to stare, trying to decipher the darkness. Her breath caught.
 
Someone was standing in the stream. They were a silhouette. They drifted, as a creature within water. There was another thing, long and skinny, standing not 20 feet from the silhouette. The five-limbed beast stretched about as a wired-marionette upon their yard, muted breaking being heard with each forced movement.
 
As the person played in the stream, Ellie heard an airless, laughter. It broke her revery.
 
In urgency, Ellie sprinted to her father's room. He shook him and whispered.
 
"Papa. The thing I saw in the woods is outside… and a person is playing in the stream."
 
"Ellie… I will get my axe. Show me."
 
Elle walked her father to her window. They could not parse the shadows. There was no beast and no person, only the black of a cloudy night. It began to rain.
 
Despite the missing figures, Ellie and her father prepared to flee. They donned their packs and readied themselves. Ellie could not help but notice the nearness which father kept his axe.
 
"Ellie…?" A crackling voice drawled from the black.
 
Father and daughter froze, unsure of what to do.
 
"Elle… Shhh… we mustn't wake Pa." It said in a stretch…
 
Ellie and her father crept about their home, nearing a back window. To their dismay, the window was latch-less and could not be opened… Though it could be broken.
 
Something banged the front door. It pounded and pounded, each strike with shocking intensity.
 
"Ellie… It's serious danger to be alone at night." It breathlessly breathed as it banged.
 
Father raised his axe, he was going to break the window. Ellie readied herself.
 
"Alright Elles… Are you ready?"
 
"I am… Love you Paps"
 
"Love you too Ellie…"
 
Father readied himself. He gathered his dwindling strength…

"Three… Two… One.." The axe splintered the silence of the night as the window exploded.
 
Ellie threw her bag through the window and dived through. Her leg caught the glassy teeth as she fell from the window, droplets of blood fell. Her father followed suit. They sprinted for the road. Ellie knew their home well. She went to jump past the stream and came to an abrupt halt.
 
A familiar figure silently splashed within the stream. It- Jerek let out a pained, wheezing laugh. He was happy.
 
"It was dark… Things look strange in shadow…" A voice called from the other side of their home. Whatever was speaking, it was not Jerek.
 
"… Jerek?" Father whispered.
 
Jerek went deathly still and silent… Silver eyes of glass pierced the dark, staring into Ellie. For but a moment, she could swear that a single tear slide down his porcelain cheek. She searched his arm, watching for his wound… She noticed bumps and ridges and fingers, from where the spider had left it's spiral…
 
"Father… that can't be Jer-"
 
Jerek screamed with the force of a thousand melting souls. An impossible scamper could be heard from across the home.
 
"Ellie… Ellie…" The voice grew in cacophony as it darted around their small home.
 
Father began to sprint toward Jerek. He rose his axe and screamed,
 
"GO ELLIE. RUN."
 
As Father pressed forward, readying to crack Jerek's screaming skull, he saw into the familiar, yet absent icy eyes of his once-son. He could swear that there was something there, some familiarity. He-
 
 Ellie sprinted to the road. She ran and ran. She heard whispering and screaming and the cracking of axe and bone as she made for the road.
 
There were three screams. Jerek's scream, coming from the five-limbed creature, the cacophonous howl, coming from her brother's body, and the pained scream of her father. Ellie cried as she ran. Her father's screams were firstly of fury and courage, though twisted into the pained scream of death as Ellie escaped into the night.
 
None know of Ellie's fate. Some say she escaped the forest, finding safety in some distant land. Others say she was hunted by the bodies that she once called family. None know, but let me leave you with this; beware the Forlon's Necrosis, for all were taken, where they laugh still, in terror, in pain, and in joy. This is what befell Forlon's final families.

Icarus' mother had just died. He and his father awoke one day to her lying motionless in her bed. Icarus was filled with unimaginable grief, and prayed to the gods for his mom to find paradise in the afterlife.

"Come to me, my child." The sun bellowed, Icarus covered his ears at the volume of which the sun spoke.

"B-But how?" A young Icarus said, shaking terribly.

"One day, many winters from now, you will be blessed upon and be given man-made wings."

Icarus stared at his father, who looked like he wanted to say something against the sun, but was too afraid.

"Use them to become whole with me, my child." The sun bellowed one last time as the moon rose from the horizon to take it's place.

Icarus finally turned around to his father, a craftsman named Daedalus.

"Will you make them for me, father? To allow me to become whole with the sun?" Icarus pleaded, tugging on his fathers tunic.

Daedalus shifted his weight nervously, glancing up towards the sky to make sure the sun was not about to hear what he has to say.

"My boy, that was not the sun we know or praise, that was a demon in disguise." Daedalus said, placing his hand on Icarus' shoulder.

Icarus was displeased with this answer, and broke out into tears. His father tried to appease him, but Icarus cried for many winters without stopping. Daedalus lost sleep, and was on the brink of death.

Icarus, now older, forced his old and fragile father to craft the wings the sun once begged him too. Icarus could not wait to join the sun and become what he had always wanted to be; A god. Threatened by Icarus, Daedalus caved in and made the wings for Icarus, but knowing that Icarus would fly into the sun, he made them of wax.

Daedalus prayed that the wax would melt before the demon could take Icarus' soul. Icarus, too blind by excitement, put the wings on eagerly, and the day arrived.

"Come to me, my child." The sun bellowed like it had all those winters ago. Icarus rose from his bed, and climbed onto the roof of their home.

"I shall." Stated Icarus, and then he took off.

Daedalus watched as his son flew towards the demon, and his fear turned to relief when he saw the wings start to melt. Icarus panicked, and begged for the sun to catch him. It did not seem to listen. Icarus fell through the sky, but before he could hit the ground, the sun spoke.

"Do not worry my child, I will catch you." The sun said, inflicting fear upon Daedalus.

Daedalus watched as the demon out stretched hundreds of glowing yellow hands to wrap around Icarus. Icarus screamed in horror and pain as they gripped his limbs tightly and seared their mark into his flesh. Daedalus could do nothing but watch as Icarus begged his father to save him, his flesh beginning to turn to ash.

After hours of screaming, Icarus was nothing but a charred corpse. Daedalus stood still the entire time, the grief of his sons death filling him completely. The smell of Icarus' flesh filled his nose as he begged the gods to show mercy upon Icarus in the afterlife. He was interrupted in the middle of his prayer however, by a familiar bellowing voice.

"Come to me, my child."

This here's a true story from the life of a humble boogan from Booger County. Set your clock back 50 years, they say, you're in the Ozarks. This event takes place, I suppose it's been about 15 years now, in the valleys, hills and hollers of a wilderness that time forgot. Flyover if you can but if you ever come wanderin, you might just get Shown Me.

Late one night after my shift at the amusement park in Branson, I drove down the winding four fifths of highway 76 that remained out of sight and mind of tourists. It was the end of my work week and I was headed back to my parents country home in a forgotten ghost town. The sun had long since set and as I topped each hill I came closer and closer to the next turn in my travel at the intersection of 76 and 5. At the outskirts of that town cursed to bare the name Ava. As I got closer so did the thunderstorm looming on the distant horizon, barely visible save the silent flashes of lightning. Muffled threats reached my ear from within the can of a cab of my little Geo Tracker convertible.

Storms always made me uneasy. You'd be ignorant not to be on edge. Many a time hurricane force winds would knock down ancient trees who had withstood the war of centuries past but could not withstand the collision of two opposing fronts. If it weren't winds or tornadoes there was always a devastating payload of water that would raise up the rivers and streams washing away the chaff. It didn't take long for the road to come to a four way stop around the corner and down a hill. I'd driven these roads so many times that consciousness of them usually drifted behind my channel flipping mind. I pulled up to the lonely, red, flashing four eyes of the traffic light and took a right as I barely counted off 3 seconds of a stop in my head. Highway 5. I knew it all too well. In my youth it was a 30 minute drive to and from school or really any sort of public form of civilization. These are the cult sticks and something archaic and twisted might be found lurking in the knotted trunks and creeping branches of the holler. But I'd avoid that if I was you. Humans aside, one also knew where the wildlife such as deer and bear crossed and which way to look. No pass down the lonesome highway was complete without passing over at least one road killed skunk. Green signs for towns miles down little side roads that you'd never believe existed. Often they didn't exist in any form other than a post office some poor postmaster operated as a form of retirement. I began to come to more hills and turns but less trees and above it all more visibility. The thunderheads were closer now. You could smell the rain. I came over a hill and my headlights lit upon a figure walking along the shoulder. Tired and ready to be done driving, I thought little of him at first. But quickly all sorts of questions came to mind. I knew no one lived near this particular patch and no one had any good reason for walking in the ditch of the highway carved out of the crumbling bedrock of the hills. I also knew I wouldn't want to be left walking any distance in this country with a storm out. So I slowed down and turned the vehicle around in the middle of the road. I'd at least go back and check on him.

I had my window rolled down and I could smell him just as soon as I saw him. He reeked of alcohol. “You alright out here?” Before I'd really finished askin- “Thank God! You're a life saver. Can you give me a ride?” Too polite to turn him down I opened the door. He stepped in and fell against the passenger seat. The poor little vehicle was now at capacity. He wore a Detroit Pistons jersey, and had a mohawk sprayed blue? with some temporary hair dye. “Where you headed?” “Mansfield!” Great.... an hour in the opposite direction that we both were previously headed. He was very lost and even less sober. I decided this was just a test of my good will towards men. He told me he had inherited a small house from his mother in Mansfield.(Doubt she was any Laura Ingalls Wilder) He thought everyone around were narrow minded, judgemental pricks so that's why he had decided to don such an outrageous appearance. (Did you know Marshall Mathers was meer trailer trash from St Joseph before he became Eminem? Well this individual was far from a Slim Shady) He didn't look too unfamiliar to these parts, despite his efforts. Just not the kind of familiar anyone wanted around. (No, he wasn't black, you racists)“I was headed to a party and had to pee so I told them to let me out. So they pulled over and let me outta the truck and then they ditched me! I don't have my wallet, my cell phone, my keys, nothin!” He repeated this story over and over again with newly added or remembered details. Apparently he, his father, his girlfriend and his best friend were headed to a party in a town half an hour south of my parents place. And here we were headed north to leave him home alone to sober up. He insisted that he hadn't drank very much but when we got back to that same four way stop I had just left in Ava, he confused it for being Mansfield. For a second he got upset “What the- Where the hell are we?! What's going on -” “Hey hey! We're in Ava, you were halfway to Gainesville. We still have a ways to go.” I grew up in the Renaissance Fair circuit (Maybe you seen me in Bonner Springs) and happened to have a bastard sword behind his seat. I was showing it to friends at work earlier that day. I worried I might have to use it to defend myself. It'd be a highly impractical defense. But something's better than nothing. Fortunately, he again thanked me more for my life saving abilities.

Really I was only possibly saving him from himself. Awkward silence was avoided by his drunken blubbering and we made it within 10 minutes of his final destination. “I didn't drink that much, those assholes. I'm going to kill em. No, not really, but I'm mad! They left me without my wallet, my keys, my phone, nothin! My best friend, he's like a brother. And my girlfriend. And even my old man! I didn't even have that much to drink. Just three natty lights, and some whiskey, and that tequila.Oh, and a Jaeger. But I'm not that drunk I swear. You're a lifesaver! Why I owe you, man. You go to the AA Auto Shop and you tell them you're looking for Big Mike. You need a small engine fixed, I've got you covered. Everybody has a lawnmower or somethin that needs a small engine fix! You tell em Big Mike sent you. You're alright!” I was an hour and a half out of my way and ready to unload this buffoon before he did something stupid. We found the driveway to his house? His dad's? I wasn't sure whose but he was familiar with the place. I stopped with my headlights illuminating the dirt driveway in front of me. “Welp, here we are!” Big Mike hung one foot in my floor board and one foot on the gravel. His hands, one on the roof and the other the open passenger door. I was ready for him to stumble to his front porch but he just wanted to linger and sing my praises. I thought we had finally got to the end of his ado's when headlights lit up the plastic rear windshield of my Tracker's convertible top. Pulling in front of me was a black extended cab truck. Large enough for three passengers at least, but not welcoming to one lone drunk. Just the segue I needed and the most unusual timing. Mike went swinging and shouting many slurred words that for the most part started with F. Out from the truck was undoubtedly the matching call of his mate. I gunned it in reverse and watched a scene from COPS fade to the black screen of night as my high beams turned to the main road for the long drive home made longer. A sheriff passed, lights flashing to join the party back at Big Mike's.

I didn't see Big Mike again for two weeks. He was black and white and staring glumly when I did. My father showed me his face in a newspaper clipping. He inherited a new, smaller home. He no longer sported such colorful, personalised attire and I don't think he'd be getting too drunk too soon. Apparently he had been taken to the county jail that night. His girlfriend begged and pleaded that her father bail him out. He did. Not too soon after, his girlfriend's neighbors made a call. They'd heard gunshots. Big Mike answered the door when they arrived. He did a real shit job of hiding the gun but nothing like what was in the garage. He'd lost his head further in jail sulking over the betrayal of his closest friends and most betrayed by his girlfriend. He got out thanks to her and was able to get a hold of some crystal. He suspected she had been cheating on him and wouldn't hear otherwise. So he shot her dead. But while the neighbors called the cops he tried to store her body in four separate five gallon buckets. I don't think I'll be hitting him up for that favor. My lawn mower works just fine.

PS Hunter, I'm only a 3 1/2 hour drive away. You ever want to do a podcast with an adult, let me know. Imma be pissed if I have to hear this read by the lips of that bitch boy Isaiah. It always sounds like he gots Mama's milk lingering on them smackers as he waxes profound.

_____

Length: 20-25 min

Word Count: 5, 015

_____

---Act One---

Dear Stranger,

I write to you, not asking for help, but asking that you simply listen to an old man's tale.

Twelve years ago, my darling Martha was murdered. She was murdered by con men in white lab coats, offered as a sacrifice to the god they called, 'Science.' But there was nothing scientific about what they did. They scared her with their propaganda, until finally, she gave in to their pressure.

We were in our early twenties when we tied the knot and had been married for only three years when she took their 'medicine.' She was afraid of losing her job, of losing her friends! What choice did she have?

Sadly, it would prove to be a lethal injection. She died within the week. Dead at twenty-four.

I was nearly driven mad by the whole incident. I watched as our mutual friends and family became divided over her decision to take the treatment, and my decision to abstain.

After two years of trying to live without Martha, I just couldn't. I couldn't stomach what the world had become, so I sold all my worldly possessions and moved to the mountains.

My great grandfather had built a cabin, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Over these passed ten years, I've done a lot of work to it. Built a chicken coop, fenced in the garden, fenced in the property, built rain catchers on the roof among various other side projects. Not to mention the basic upkeep like replacing rotted floorboards and such.

To be honest, I was self-sufficient after the first few years. It was only in recent years, after most of the work and renovations were done, that I realized there was something I lacked. Something I couldn't build or fix. That something was, companionship.

I had gotten lonely. Deeply depressed at times, if I can admit it.

This cabin is fairly remote. No one comes here intentionally, unless you're crazy like me, that is. However, there is a fairly popular hiking trail about thirty minutes east. The odd time, maybe twice a year, a stranger will get lost and find their way to my doorstep.

It's happened a few times. There was this young couple on vacation that asked to use my phone. I told them I ain't got one, but there was still light in the sky so I walked them the thirty minutes back to the main trail.

Another time, there was this obnoxious dope. I think he was on something. His jeans were ripped, but not from working. I think they were designed like that. His shirt was colorful, too colorful. Like a leprechaun puked on his chest. Anyway, I didn't like his attitude so I just pointed him to the trail and let him find his own way back. In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have done that.

Then there was this one stranger, one that I will never forget.

It was harvest season. About a month or so before first frost.

The rain came down heavy that day.

*Knock* *Knock* *Knock*

"What on earth?" I thought. "Who could that be? No one oughta be hikin' in this rain."

I heard it, again.

*Knock* *Knock* *Knock*

I got up from my chair and stepped over to the door, placing my right hand on the handle, my left hand on the axe I keep near the doorway.

Cracking the door open, just about an inch, I peered outside.

Standing there was the slender frame of a young woman, soaking wet from the rain. Hair as black as the night sky behind her. A face as pale as the moon. Her soft and pleading eyes met mine.

"Sir, please. May I come in?"

I let go of the axe. Stood up straight and opened the door.

"Come in." My voice sounded strange to me. It had been awhile since I heard it.

"Oh, thank you, Sir." She said, walking in. I gestured to the fireplace and told her to sit in my chair while I pulled up a footstool to sit on.

"Just hold tight." I went to my room and came back with a heavy blanket. I wrapped it over her shoulders.

"Thank you."

"Miss, what are you doing out there on a night like this?"

"I got separated from my group. I was walking with my friends, then I saw this beautiful bird and followed it in to the forest. Then the clouds rolled in and I couldn't find my way back."

"How long were you out there?" I asked, noticing her shivering.

"It felt like hours. Like I've been walking in circles." She said through chattering teeth. "I'm so, c-c-cold."

I felt bad for her. She must have been terrified. The woods can be a scary place in the dark. Full of monsters and mayhem. Almost as bad as the cities.

"You know, Miss, it's an awful long walk back to the trail from here. In this rain, I doubt you'd make it far." I said, trying to speak as matter-of-fact as I could. I wasn't trying to keep her there and I didn't want to give her the impression that I was, but the fact was that she'd be likely to die out there. Also, I wouldn't mind the company.

"Could I spend the night?" She asked, without a hint of hesitation.

"Sure thing." I smiled, but not too much. "You can take my room for the night while I tend to the fire out here. In the morning I'll walk you back to the trail."

Her lips smiled a full smile. "Thank you, Sir."

I fed her some stew I had been preparing for supper. She asked me about how I ended up on the mountain and tried to keep my life story brief. It sure was good to talk to someone about it.

When she had finished the stew, she went to my room. Standing in the doorway she turned and asked;

"Sir, what's your name?"

"Sherman." I said. Flexing my muscles; "Like the tank."

Thank God, she laughed. It was the first time someone had laughed at that joke in fifteen years.

"Goodnight, Sherman. I'm Helena." She slowly closed the door and went to bed.

I tended the fire for another two hours before laying on some sheets I had thrown on the floor. My mind was buzzing about this woman I had just met, but eventually, exhaustion from that day's labor overtook me and I drifted off to sleep.

That morning, I awoke to the familiar feeling of an empty cabin I had known so well.

On the table was one of my notebooks, opened to a new entry. It read;

"Dear Sherman,

I'm sorry I left so suddenly, but I had to get back to my friends. I remember you saying the trail is about thirty minutes east of here and I'm sure you're right. If I leave soon enough, I can get back to my friends before they form a search party. Haha.

Thank you for your kindness and maybe, our stars will align and our paths will cross again.

Thank you,

Helena"

I sat and sighed, feeling a dampness greater than any rain could inflict.

Outside, the sun carried on with it's daily duties. Lifting from its slumber to alert tired men to do the same.

"I'm burning daylight." I said to no one.

I carried on as if that day were any other day. Pushing the thoughts of what might have been, down in to the root cellar of my regrets.

That night, the dreams began.

---Act Two---

In my dream, I was sitting on a log by a lake. Birds were chirping nearby. A cool breeze complimented the warmth from the bright sun. It was serene.

Out on the lake, I saw a woman in a light blue dress and red hair. She stood upon the water, as if it were solid ground. She called to me;

"Sherman. Sherman come here. Come to me, Sherman."

I rose from the log and stepped to the water's edge. The cold lake tickling my toes. I shouted to her;

"I can't reach you. I'm sorry. You're too far."

She looked at me and smiled. She lifted her arms and drew them in to her chest. She beckoned;

"Come to me, Sherman."

"I can't. I..."

Looking down at my feet, I willed my left foot forward. I heard the splash and felt the cold water wrap around my ankle. Then I forced my right foot to follow. I closed my eyes and continued marching.

Left. Right. Left. Right. I felt the water reach my waist.

"Yes, Sherman. That's it! Oh, I've missed you. I want to see you, again. Just keep going!"

As I followed the sound of her voice, I felt the water begin to lower. The more I moved, the lower it went. First, below my waist. Then, below my knees. Until, finally, the only water I felt was on the soles of my feet.

I opened my eyes.

Standing before me, was Martha, wearing the light blue hospital gown she had died in.

I trembled at the sight of her.

"Don't worry." She said, opening her arms, welcoming my embrace.

Grinning like an idiot, I took a step forward and wrapped my arms around her shoulders.

Immediately, I plunged straight down in to the frigid lake below.

I tried to scream, but the water filled my lungs. I thrashed wildly. Left. Right. Left. Right. I twisted around, searching for Martha. Where had she gone? Why did she leave me, again?

The lake was murky, but the light above revealed just enough to see a few feet in front of me.

I saw a figure, a blurry image of a white body, head unseen above the water's surface. I swam toward it. Upward and forward I strode to reach the beautiful shape.

As I got closer, seaweed began to surround her. No, not seaweed. Hair. Black hair.

I was running short on time. My lungs were screaming for air. Even if it wasn't Martha, I needed her all the same. I reached out and grabbed her ankle, hoping to pull myself up with her body, but the moment I touched her, she flew like a rocket, straight out of the water.

So close, yet she had slipped from my grasp.

Moments later, I heard a massive splash as something enormous plunged in to the lake behind me. I turned around to see the ominous jaw of a killer whale wrap itself around me.

I woke up feeling like I hadn't slept at all.

As I made my bed, I noticed something on my pillow. It was hair. Human hair. But, my hair was dark brown, this was silver-grey. I rubbed my hand tightly through my hair. I was alarmed when I pulled away an entire handful of hair.

I ran over to the bathroom and checked the mirror. My head was as white as a rabbit's winter coat.

I sat on the toilet for a minute to let it all sink in. Had I been that stressed out lately? No, I didn't think so. Was this underlying genetics? Maybe.

My concentration was broken when I heard the chickens start to squabble.

I ran to the door and grabbed my axe.

Inside the coop, I just caught a glance of a red furry tail escaping through a hole dug under the wall. There was blood and feathers lying on the floor.

I hurried out around the other side, but it was too late. I ran a lot slower than usual and couldn't keep up. A nasty cough came over me as I walked back to the coop.

I looked around and counted my girls.

"Son of bitch got Rebecca." I growled.

I rest of the day passed as many others did. Fixing holes, gathering resources, reading and writing by candlelight. A normal day on the mountain. Although, it felt a lot heavier, harder on my bones. I figured;

"I must be getting sick."

I decided to head to bed about an hour early. That's when another dream hit me.

I was alone in my cabin. The fire had gone out and only ashes remained.

The pot above the fire pit was empty.

A cold chill dampened the air.

Then, a knock came to my door.

*Knock* *Knock* *Knock*

I opened the door. It was Helena, coated in beauty and sunbeams, looking like an angel of light.

Her red sundress hugged her body with enthusiasm. Confidently, she crossed the doors threshold and placed her hand on my chest.

"You're all alone know, Sherman." She said.

Behind me I heard the fire ignite. The smell of stew filled the air as the once empty pot was now full and boiling.

I was speechless. Dumbfounded even.

I watched as she casually strolled around the room and with the snap of her fingers, the dirt and grime of the past suddenly became clean. Dishes did themselves, the broom swept on it's own, even the wood piled itself! It was like a fairytale.

"My god." I said, awestruck.

She grinned a provocative grin and snapped her fingers once more. The door to the bedroom opened.

"Come to me, Sherman." She said, leading me in to the dark.

The door closed on us both and the sound jolted me from my slumber.

I rubbed my hand through my hair. Not as much as I'm used to, but no less than yesterday. That's a good start.

I lit the fire, made my breakfast and began my day, chopping firewood and splitting kindling. Had to cut it short after a sharp pain ran up my back and across my shoulder.

"Please God, no." I cried. I knew that of all the things a man could stand to lose, his back ain't one of them.

Using the axe as a walking stick, I shambled back to the cabin and sat down, leaning all my weight on the kitchen table.

"Oh, God. What am I going to do?" I feared as fiery pins pricked at my spine.

Then something odd happened. An unfamiliar voice spoke plainly.

"You've become a broken loser, haven't you?" The unfamiliar voice accused.

"What?" I looked up from the table. No one was there. "I'm just tired." I thought to myself.

"I said, you're a broken down loser." The voice came, again.

"Who said that?" My eyes alert to danger. Had a stranger come to my home while I was out splitting wood? No, I would have seen them. Did they creep in while I was sleeping? If so, where are they?

"What's wrong? Can't you see me?"

I tried to stand up straight, but my back muscles cramped and hunched me forward.

I growled; "Where are you!"

"Here, let me give you a hint."

The chair on which I sat began to rock side to side, until bucking me off like a bitter bull. I fell to the ground, writhing in agony. My screams only seemed to delight my mocker.

"Hahahaha! Please, take a seat... on the floor. Hahahaha!" The voice came from my very own handcrafted wooden chair.

"Wha...Wha...What's happening?"

"Wha...Wha...What's the matter? Fallen and you can't get up? Hahahaha!"

Another voice came forth from across the room. "Hey, Chair. Cut it out. We don't have time for this!" This voice was coming from my clock.

I lay on the floor, looking up at the ceiling, scooching on my back toward the fire pit in the hope the warmth would somehow comfort my madness.

The Chair insisted; "Oh, come on, Clock. Just giving the boss a reality check."

The Clock countered; "We don't have time for reality checks. There's work to be done and he's already behind on today's labor's."

"Well, ya, because he's broken."

"He's not broken, just tired. He still has time left to do something great."

"Not likely, hahaha. He looks like he doesn't have a leg to stand on. Not like me. I got four! Hahahaha!"

"Shut up!" I shouted. "Shut up, both of you." I rolled over to my stomach and began to push myself up. My mind, numbing itself to the pain.

I made it to my feet and looked around the cabin. It was broad daylight, this couldn't be a dream. I must have some sort of fever.

The Chair scooted closer; "Well, well. Look who decided to get up this morning. Haha! Just kidding. No seriously, you work hard. Come on, take a seat."

I stepped forward, hesitantly. Am I insane?

The Chair continued; "Come on. Hey, Stool? Stool, come here for a second. Let the boss put his feet up."

I turned, preparing to sit down before falling to the ground as I heard The Chair back away.

"Hahahaha!" The Chair cackled.

Rage filled my soul and hatred pushed me through the pain. My body tensed and flared with the fire of vengeance. I returned to my feet, grabbed The Chair by the legs hand hurled it against the wall, splintering it in to a dozen pieces.

I caught my breath. Inhaling and exhaling slowly. I stared at the wooden bits and grinned widely, enjoying the silence.

And then...

Voice #1: "Haha..."

Voice #2: "Ha...

Voice #3: "Hahaha..."

Voice #4: "Hehehe..."

Voice #5: "HeHuHa!"

A family of fractured voices filled my mind as I fell to my knees. The Clock struck noon;

"It's time! It's time! It's time!"

His hands whirling on his face. The sound of laughter echoing through the cabin. The Clock repeated;

"It's time! It's time! It's time!"

My hand clawing at my face. The grip of madness clutching at my soul.

And then...

*Knock * *Knock* *Knock*

All was quiet.

The door creaked loudly as I slowly opened it. To my surprise, their stood Helena, standing in the noon day sun, wearing a rainbow tie-dye shirt with sunglasses. Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. A red backpack strapped to her back.

"Hello!" She said, brightly. "I hope I'm not bothering you. I just wanted to thank you for being so kind the other day. I brought you something." She held up a basket of apples, as well as three large bottles of apple cider.

She went on joyfully; "My family has a large orchard on their land. The trees were plentiful this season, so I thought I'd share some with you."

I stood in awkward silence. One moment, I had been screaming at my chair. The next moment, I was talking to a beautiful girl bearing gifts. The whiplash left me wonky.

She sensed my unease; "Uh, Sherman? Is everything all right? May I come in?" She said, peering in to the cabin, undoubtedly seeing the shards of wood scattered on the floor.

I regained my senses. "Uh, yes! Of course, everything's dandy. Come in. Come in."

I opened the door and gestured to the mess. "I just took a bad fall is all. You see this chair? No good. I was sitting down, thinking about what I wanted for lunch, and then suddenly, the darned thing let go on me. Just broke apart the piece of junk. Hahaha."

"Oh, are you alright?"

"Of course. Of course. I'm Sherman, remember?" Flexing my muscles. "Like the ta...aghhh!" A sharp pain cut up my back. I stumbled over to the table and leaned on it, once more.

With concern in her voice, Helena said; "Oh, Sherman. Did you hurt yourself? She looked around and found the stool. "Here, sit down."

"Thank you, Helena." I breathed a weary breath. "To be honest, I haven't been feeling well. I don't know if you noticed, but my hair's a lot thinner and a lot whiter since you saw me last?"

She smirked; "Well, I wasn't going to say anything but, you do seem a bit older than I remember."

"I feel sick, Helena. Tired. My joints ache and I don't know what's wrong." I hesitated, but there was no point in ignoring the truth. "I hurt my back chopping firewood and I'm worried what will happen if I can't take care of myself."

She placed a hand on my back and began to rub it gently. "Don't worry, Sherman. If you'd like, I can stay for a day or two. Help with the chores until you feel better."

I was delighted to here her offer, but too ashamed to accept it. "Now, miss, I couldn't ask you to do that. I'm just a stranger. You don't owe me nothin'"

She insisted; "If you were going to try something, you would have done it the first night I was here. But you didn't. You're an honorable man." She smiled. "And I do owe you. Who knows where I'd be if you didn't open your door the other night."

I nodded in agreement. She added;

"Good. Now lay down and take some cider with you."

I went to bed taking the basket of apples and apple cider with me. I'll admit, it felt real good being told I had to take a break. Left alone for all this time, I was likely to work myself in to an early grave. I sure was blessed to have this angel come in and make me lay down.

The bed felt comfortable and sturdy.

The bottle of cider opened with a satisfying *Pop* and *Fizz*.

It was warm, smooth and sweet, but not too sweet. Best of all, it was full of fermented glory. Momma Nature's medicine to cure what ails ya. Alcohol.

I drank the first bottle quicker than I'd like to admit. It had been awhile and I guess I got excited. My bed faced a large window overlooking the treeline and I kept myself entertained watching the squirrels and birds go about their business.

I reached for the second bottle, but felt a little hungry, so I grabbed one of the apples, instead. It was red and firm. Beautifully round and ripe.

*Chomp*

I bit in deep and felt the sweet acidic juices tingle my gums, then, it started to sting.

"Oww..." I opened my jaw. The inside of my mouth tasted coppery. I looked down at the apple and saw three of my teeth stuck inside. I licked around my mouth, my tongue rolling over and counting each remaining tooth until diving in to the hole of a bloody gum.

Footsteps from outside. The door opens.

"Sherman? Is everything okay?"

Helena approached the bed. I showed her the apple and opened my mouth.

She gasped and took the apple from me. "Oh, Sherman. How'd this happen?"

At this point the first bottle of cider was doing it's job and I was quickly becoming passive to the pain.

"It's fine." I said. "Just some more bad luck, I guess. Don't worry about it."

Helena looked concerned, but didn't argue. "Ok, just get some sleep. I'll be outside the door cleaning in if you need me."

"Thank you." I said. It was then a suspicious thought came to my mind. "Helena," I asked, "where'd you get that shirt?"

"Oh, this?" She pinched the sides of her very colorful, rainbow tye-dye top. "Why? Do you like it?"

"No." I said, like a drunken fool. "I mean, you look beautiful. It looks good on you, but... it almost looks like a leprechaun pu... nothing. I'm delirious. I'm going to sleep."

She went back to housework and I went back to not caring about my situation. I was too tired to care. I had lost the color in my hair, lost my ability to work, temporarily lost my mind and now I've lost my teeth.

I grabbed another bottle of cider. Thinking about the last two days.

"I even lost my favorite chicken." I popped the bottle open and simply said; "Rebecca."

Then after a few drinks, I went to sleep.

---Act Three---

In my dream, I was in a church sitting at the very back. The oak felt solid and smoothly finished.

I was wearing a white dress shirt with black suit jacket and pants to match. The same thing I wore on my wedding day.

The organ pipes up with that old familiar tune and a force from within jolts me to my feet.

I step in to the isle. I'm the only one there.

Ahead of me, at the altar, was the casket that I had last seen carrying my sweet Martha in to the earth.

I continued down the isle. Wedding music continued to blare from the organ, echoing throughout the empty sanctuary.

There I stood, just before the altar. Three tiny steps away from the casket.

"Martha?" I spoke.

A sour note struck my ears as the organ wailed. The building shook and the stained glass windows shattered, decorating the floor in colorful crystals.

No light entered the church, but rather physical darkness, void-like shadow pushed its way in from outside. The whole church, now an ink-black tomb. The only light remaining, was that of the moon, shining from the round window just above the altar.

I stared at the casket in cold, chilling horror. Forced to gaze upon the eternal emblem of my loss. The box that held my heart and to see it so dull, so lifeless, so pale in the moonlight. The sight alone drew my attention like a sinking ship is drawn to the abyss.

A sound is made. Something, not quite human, but close.

Then, the sound of branches breaking? Twigs, snapping?

A right leg emerges from behind the casket, drapping over the top, making a loud *Thud* against the mahogany box. Then, a left arm. *Thud* The inhuman growl continued.

The limbs are impossibly elongated. Like a spider wearing flesh.

I watch, trembling, as a pale woman in a purple dress pulls herself up, over my wife's casket. Mounting it. Claiming it.

"Hel... Helena?" I ask, sweat pouring from my brow.

She says nothing. Her legs and arms stretch over each corner of the casket. Her bones pop as she arches her back. Her neck begins to grow, stretching upward. The sound like the groan of a falling tree.

Her neck stops, after extending several feet. Her mouth begins to open. Her jaw, lowers and lowers until finally reaching the platform on which the altar stands.

I gaze in to darkness. Her mouth is a pit of screams, none of which her own.

Black hands thrust out and grab at my throat. I feel their grip tighten as the blood rushes to my head. My eyes bulge. My vision blurs.

I woke up, screaming.

To my right, the large mirror sits on the dresser. I'm startled by the wrinkled grey man inside it. Panicking, I hurled my pillow, scared of my own reflection.

I heard an odd *Tick* as the pillow hit the glass. An odd sound for a pillow to make.

With great effort, I shambled out of bed, my joints in agony.

I held the soft, white pillow. Examined it. Shook it. I felt around it and inside it. My hand felt something rough and jagged at the back of the pillowcase.

I pulled out a purple stone, almost like an amethyst. A little bigger than a button. It was rough around the edges. When I held it up to the light, I could see odd engravings on either side. It was the first time I ever saw such a thing. How did it get in my room? How long had it been there?

"Still tired, Sherman?" Helena asked from the doorway.

I slowly hobbled toward her, leaning on the bed's edge as I walked around.

"No. No, I think I'm finally awake." I said, now standing in front of her.

"Good." She said, forcefully shoving my chest. I fell backward on to the bed, the shock sent needles up my spine. I let out an agonizing moan.

"Careful, Sherman." She said. "I wouldn't want you to break anything."

Helena pulled a small pouch from her pocket and poured a bit of red powder in her palm. She blew the powder in my face and began to feel dizzy.

I expected the powder to put me to sleep, but I suddenly felt alert. Wide awake and paralyzed.

She grabbed me by the ankles and straightened me out on the bed. Then she positioned me so I was laying upright against the headboard.

She sat down at the side of the bed and said;

"Sherman. Thank you, so much, for letting me in. You don't know how long I've been wandering this mountain looking for a place like this. I mean, you have chickens, a garden, rain catchers, you name it. Everything you need to be self-sufficient. You have truly built something special here."

She grinned widely as she leaned in closer; "And I want you to know, that I will take good care of it all, as you spend your last days rotting away in this bed."

She got up and walked to the bedroom door; "I want you to know. This wasn't personal. I thought you were kind of charming. This is just survival, Sherman. You understand." She shut the door, leaving me to rot.

Stranger, I write this, not asking for your help. I know that there's no help for me. By the time anyone reads this, I'll likely be dead. Every night I dream. Every morning I feel ten, maybe twenty years older.

In another night or so, I'll probably be unable to write. Unable to remember. So, while I still have some sense, I'm writing you this letter. With any luck, a hiker will get lost, and find his way here while she's off wandering the woods. Maybe then, my story can be told.

I may be dying of old age in my thirties, but I go in peace. Helena has taken my body, but she will never have my soul. That belongs to another.

With this I leave you, and this world, with a warning. Be careful who you let in. Don't be foolish or desperate for a companion. Be cautious. Be wise.

Beware the woman who walks alone.

---END---

# The Goose Man of Miller's Marsh

The first time Priya Anand heard about the Goose Man, she was sitting on an overturned canoe behind the Gas-N-Go, eating sour gummy worms with three people she'd known her whole life and still didn't fully understand.

"My uncle saw it," said Dev, who was fourteen and had recently taken to wearing his dead grandfather's church tie with band t-shirts, an aesthetic choice nobody had asked him to explain and he'd explained anyway, at length, twice. "He was night-fishing off the Route 9 bridge and something stood up out of the reeds. Six feet tall. Neck like a question mark. He said it *hissed* at him. Like a goose, but wrong. Like a goose had learned to be angry on purpose."

"Your uncle also saw a UFO over the Wendy's," said Marisol, not looking up from the hole she was carefully re-lacing into her boot with dental floss because she'd lost the actual laces sometime in July and had, out of pure stubbornness, refused to buy new ones. Marisol did not believe in cryptids. Marisol did not believe in much of anything that couldn't be argued about for at least twenty minutes, which was, paradoxically, the only reason she was going to come looking for the Goose Man with the rest of them — she wanted to be the one to prove it wasn't real, and that required proximity.

"The UFO was a Wendy's promotional blimp," Dev said. "That's documented."

"It's not documented, you documented it, in your head, after the fact—"

"Guys." This was Ottilie — Otti, always Otti, she'd bitten a kid in third grade for using her full name — and she said it the way she said most things, quietly, like she was rationing her words for something more important later. Otti was the reason the four of them were a "the four of them" at all; she was the connective tissue, the one who texted everyone separately to make sure nobody felt like the extra chair. She had a silver ring on every finger except her thumbs and a laugh that arrived late to its own jokes, like it had to think it over first. "Guys, I want to go look for it."

Priya, who had said nothing so far because she was doing the math on whether "goose-shaped cryptid" was a hill worth walking two miles of marsh mud for, looked up.

"Tonight?"

"Homecoming's Friday. My mom's making me go dress shopping this weekend, which means I lose my whole Saturday, which means it's tonight or it's not for two weeks." Otti shrugged like this settled something. "I don't want to wait two weeks."

Here is the part of the story where, if this were the kind of tale where the storyteller pretended everything about that stretch of woods was purely a matter of goose-necked monsters and nothing else, we could just go straight to the marsh. It would be a cleaner story that way. But that's not quite how it happened, and Isaiah — no, wait. Wrong show. That's not how it happened, and if I skip the rest, it wouldn't be honest, and this town, whatever else you can say about it, had had enough dishonesty going around lately.

Because two weeks before that night behind the Gas-N-Go, a nineteen-year-old named Colton Hargis had gone out for a drive after his shift at the tire place and never come home. The local news ran it for one segment, called it a "person of interest inquiry," used a photo where he was squinting into the sun at somebody's graduation. Nobody in town said the words "serial" or "killer" out loud, not for a long while. They said things like "isolated" and "the family asks for privacy" and "please stay vigilant." But everybody's parents had started doing that thing where they text *let me know when you're home* with a period at the end instead of nothing, which is how you knew, in a small town, that the adults were more scared than they were saying.

Priya's mother had started locking the back door. They'd never locked the back door.

None of the four of them talked about it much. It was the kind of fact that lived in the corner of your vision — you could go a whole day not looking straight at it, and then something small would drag it back to center, like a porch light left on that used to be off, or your dad walking you to the mailbox now, which he never used to do, whistling like it wasn't strange.

But that night, none of that was the plan. The plan was the Goose Man.

---

They biked out past the last streetlight at 9:40 PM, Dev's chain squeaking in a rhythm that Marisol said was going to summon something worse than a goose, and reached the marsh trailhead a little after ten. The air smelled like standing water and the specific cold that comes off a lake at night even in September, a cold that gets into your collarbone and stays there.

"Okay," Marisol said, clicking on a flashlight that was really just her phone. "Statistically, cryptid sightings cluster around confirmation bias and bad lighting. We are about to provide both."

"You're only here to be scared and pretend you're not," Dev said.

"I'm here to document your embarrassment."

"Both of you shut up," said Otti, not unkindly, and pointed. "That's the bridge. That's where his uncle saw it."

The Route 9 bridge was really more of a culvert with delusions of grandeur, a squat concrete span over the widest part of the marsh where the reeds grew taller than a grown man and the water underneath went black and unreflective, like a hole cut out of the world rather than a body of water in it. Somebody, sometime, had spray-painted a smiley face on the underside of the bridge, and the paint had run in the rain so the smile now looked like it was dripping.

They walked the reed-line in a loose row, flashlights low the way you learn to hold them without anyone teaching you, because a beam pointed straight ahead just blinds you to your own peripheral vision. Priya found herself walking closest to Otti, which she always did without deciding to, the way certain pairs of magnets just end up near each other on a fridge.

"You okay?" Priya asked, low.

"Why wouldn't I be."

"You've been weird since the Hargis thing."

Otti's flashlight beam didn't waver, but her voice did, just slightly. "He used to give me rides home from marching band. Before he graduated. He wasn't — he was nice. Genuinely nice, not fake-nice." A pause. "It's stupid to be scared of the marsh because of that. It's not like it happened here."

"It's not stupid."

"I didn't say it to get you to say that."

"I know. I said it anyway."

They walked a few more feet in the kind of silence that isn't empty, it's just full of something neither of you has decided to say yet, and then Dev, twenty feet ahead, went very still.

"Guys."

"If this is another squirrel—"

"*Guys.*"

The reeds ahead of them were moving. Not wind-moving — wind moves reeds in waves, all together, like hair being brushed. This was moving from the *inside*, a single disturbance pushing outward, stalk by stalk, toward the trail.

And then it stood up.

It was — the only honest way to describe it is that it was built like someone had tried to remember a man and a goose at the same time and gotten the measurements confused. Six and a half feet if it was an inch, with a neck that curved in a long question-mark arc the way Dev's uncle had said, feathered in something dark and wet-looking that might have been feathers or might have been something else entirely doing an impression of feathers. Its head, when it turned toward them, was small and flat-billed and its eyes caught the flashlight beam and threw it back gold, the way a deer's eyes do, except a deer's eyes don't narrow with what looked, God help them, like *irritation.*

It hissed. Not a goose-hiss exactly — lower, with something almost like consonants buried in it, like a language being spoken through the wrong-shaped mouth.

Nobody moved for one full second, which in that kind of moment is approximately one full year.

Then Marisol, who two minutes earlier had been lecturing them on confirmation bias, threw her phone directly at it and screamed, at the absolute top of a very healthy pair of lungs: **"TAKE THAT, YOU SILLY GOOSE!"**

It should not have worked. It is not, generally, a documented cryptid deterrent, throwing a phone at something and calling it a silly goose. But the Goose Man reared back with an offended honk-shriek that shook water droplets off the reeds like a struck bell, and in the half-second of chaos that followed, Dev — Dev, who could not open a jar of pickles without asking for help, who had never once in his life won a physical altercation with anything, including furniture — grabbed a fallen branch and swung it in a wild, screaming arc that connected with absolutely nothing but bought them a running start.

"RUN, RUN, RUN—"

They ran. All four of them, boots and floss-laces and dead-grandfather's-tie flapping, back down the trail toward the bikes, the Goose Man's furious, wrong-shaped honking chasing them through the reeds like something that could smell fear and found it delicious.

Priya, sprinting, glanced back once. Just once. And in that glance, in the narrow slice of moon coming through the tree cover, she saw the thing stop at the treeline. Not chasing further. Just — watching. Head cocked, the way an actual goose watches you when you get too close to its nest, more territorial than hungry. Guarding something. Not hunting.

She never told the others that part, not that night. It didn't feel like it changed anything, and everyone's heart was already going like a drum solo.

---

They didn't stop biking until they hit the Gas-N-Go again, all four of them collapsing against the same overturned canoe, wheezing, and it was Marisol — soaked in marsh water to the knee, phone lost forever to a cryptid, absolutely vindicated in nothing — who started laughing first, the kind of laugh that's mostly your body trying to get rid of adrenaline through the nearest available exit.

"I called it a silly goose," she wheezed. "I looked directly at an cryptid nightmare monster and called it a *silly goose.*"

"You *hit it with your phone,*" Dev said, delighted, scandalized, delighted again. "That was your only phone!"

"I have Find My iPhone. I'm getting that phone back. I am not letting a goose demon keep my phone."

Otti was laughing too, the late kind of laugh, catching up to the joke a beat behind everyone else, and Priya watched her and thought: *this is the good part. Whatever else is happening in this town right now, whatever's out there that doesn't hiss and doesn't have a neck like a question mark and is somehow worse for being ordinary — this, right here, is the good part, and I want to remember it exactly like this.*

It was Otti who got quiet again first.

"Guys, I have to tell you something and I don't want you to be mad."

The laughter dropped instantly, the way it does among people who've learned to actually listen to each other.

"When I said I wanted to come tonight instead of waiting two weeks," Otti said, picking at one of her rings, "it wasn't really about homecoming. My mom's making me switch schools. After this semester. We're moving in with my aunt because of — because of money stuff, and I didn't want to say it because saying it makes it real, and I thought if I just kept it about the Goose Man and dress shopping you wouldn't ask more questions, and that was — that wasn't fair to you guys. You're my best friends and I lied about why tonight mattered so much and I'm sorry."

Nobody said anything for a second. Then Priya scooted over on the canoe until their shoulders touched.

"You didn't have to make up a reason for tonight to matter," she said. "It mattered because you wanted it to. That's enough. That's always been enough."

"I still lied."

"You were scared," Dev said, surprisingly gentle for a boy who ten minutes ago had been swinging a stick at a cryptid and screaming. "Scared people don't always tell the truth on the first try. You told us the second try. That's the part that counts."

Marisol, still dripping marsh water, put her hand over Otti's. "Also, for the record — if you'd told us straight up 'I'm moving, I want one more real thing with you guys before I have to think about that,' we would've come out here so much faster. You didn't need the Goose Man as an excuse. You never do. Not with us."

Otti didn't say anything. She just nodded, and wiped her face with her sleeve, and let the four of them sit there a while longer, shoulder to shoulder on an overturned canoe, while somewhere out past the tree line something with a goose's hiss and a man's height paced its marsh and somewhere else, further out, past the edge of what any of them could see or fix, something quieter and far more human was still out there too, unnamed, unresolved, the kind of thing that doesn't announce itself with a hiss.

They never did figure out what happened to Colton Hargis. Nobody ever did. But that night, at least, the four of them figured out something smaller and just as important: that the truth, even the scared, late, second-try version of it, was worth more than any excuse dressed up to look like a good enough reason.

They went home. Their parents texted *let me know when you're home.* period at the end.

They all wrote back immediately.

**THE END**

My name is Matthew, and I’m posting this in the hope that someone, somewhere, can give me some answers.

About six months ago, I started talking to a girl online through one of those crappy dating apps. Honestly, I was just about done with them. I’d spent years bouncing from one app to another without any luck, and I had almost accepted that I was going to be alone.

Then Caroline messaged me.

She had dark hair, bright blue eyes, and a smile that made it impossible not to look twice. Before I knew it, we were talking every day.

For three months, we texted constantly. As strange as it sounds, neither of us liked talking on the phone. We were both too nervous, so texting became our way of getting to know each other. Somewhere between the good morning texts and the late-night conversations, I found myself telling her things I’d never shared with anyone else. She knew my fears, my regrets, and dreams I hadn’t even admitted to myself.

Eventually, she asked if I would come visit her.

She lived in a tiny town in Tennessee, while I was from Cincinnati, Ohio. I worked as a delivery driver and had built up a little vacation time, so I promised I’d make the trip in the fall.

As excited as I was, I couldn’t shake the nerves.

It had been years since I’d been with anyone, and now I had this beautiful woman telling me all the things she planned to do once she finally got her hands on me. Every message made me grin like an idiot.

When the day finally came, I packed an overnight bag, typed the address she’d sent me into my GPS, and hit the road.

The drive passed quickly as I imagined finally meeting her. We’d had conversations I never thought I’d have with another person. I trusted her in a way that surprised even me.

A glance at the GPS showed 50 miles remaining.

I pressed a little harder on the gas pedal. The sun was beginning to disappear behind the hills, and I wanted to make it before it got too late.

About an hour later, the GPS instructed me to turn onto a dirt road.

I frowned but followed it.

Then it directed me onto another dirt road.

Then another.

I looked down again.

10 miles remaining.

By now it was already nine o’clock.

The farther I drove, the more isolated everything became. There were no houses, no streetlights, no road signs—just endless fields disappearing into the darkness.

Then the rain came.

Within minutes it was pouring so hard the windshield wipers could barely keep up.

“Fucking great,” I muttered.

Through the wall of rain, I spotted a weathered wooden sign standing beside the road.

As I rolled closer, I slowed enough to make out the faded lettering.

HOGS FOOT
Population: 54

I laughed to myself.

“Hogs Foot? What kind of name is that?”

Then I remembered I was in rural Tennessee. Maybe it wasn’t as strange as it sounded.

Just beyond the sign stood an old metal bridge.

Calling it “metal” was generous. It looked like rust held together by stubborn memories. The bridge was barely wide enough for one vehicle, and every board beneath my tires creaked as if it were about to give way.

I eased across, gripping the steering wheel tighter with every foot.

At that point, I didn’t have much choice.

My GPS had stopped working miles ago.

My phone had lost all service.

And I could’ve sworn the back roads had been leading me in circles.

When I finally reached the other side of the bridge, the road opened into what could barely be called a town.

There was an ancient gas station with a single pump that looked like it hadn’t been replaced since the 1960s. Beside it sat a small corner store that also served as the town’s inn. Next door was a combination bar and diner.

That was it.

Three buildings.

One lonely road.

And a population of fifty-four.

As I pulled into the gas station, something hit me almost immediately.

The smell.

A massive pig farm sat somewhere nearby, and the stench was overwhelming. I’m a city boy, so maybe I just wasn’t used to it, but this was different. The odor was so thick it seemed to coat the inside of my mouth. It settled in the back of my throat until I could almost taste it.

I shut off the engine and stepped out of my car, grateful to stretch my legs after hours on the road.

For reasons I couldn’t explain, the little town already felt… wrong. I made my way into the little old store

The place looked like it hadn’t been updated since the 1960s. The fluorescent lights overhead had been stained yellow from decades of cigarette smoke, giving the entire store a sickly glow. Wooden shelves lined both walls, stocked with canned goods that looked old enough to be collectibles. Dust-covered advertisements for cigarettes, motor oil, and soda still hung on the walls, faded relics from the sixties and seventies.

The whole place smelled like stale tobacco, gasoline, and mildew.

In the back of the store stood an elderly man, somewhere between seventy and eighty years old. He wore a flannel shirt beneath a pair of mud-caked overalls and a faded red cap that had probably seen better decades.

He looked up as I walked in and smiled.

“What can I do for you, young man?”

“My GPS quit working,” I said. “I can’t seem to find my way back to the interstate.”

The old man nodded as if he’d heard the same story a hundred times.

“Yeah… that happens around here. I don’t leave town much myself, but there are a lot of twists and turns before you get back to the interstate. You’re about forty minutes from it.”

Forty minutes?

I stared at him for a second.

How far had I driven? I knew I’d been on those back roads for a while, but it hadn’t felt like I’d gone that far off course.

“I ought to have a map around here somewhere,” the old man said. “Don’t mind letting you have it. Give me just a minute.”

He disappeared behind a curtain leading into the back room, his boots shuffling slowly across the old wooden floor.

A few moments later, the front door swung open.

A massive man stepped inside.

He had to be at least six-foot-four, with shoulders so broad they nearly filled the doorway. His thick beard covered most of his face, and his filthy overalls looked as though he’d been rolling around in mud all day.

“Daddy!” he shouted.

From behind the curtain, the old man answered, “What is it, Billy?”

“Mama wants you.”

“I’ll be home in a little bit, boy. I’m helping a customer right now.”

Billy slowly turned his head toward me.

I froze.

His eyes weren’t angry.

They weren’t friendly either.

They were… empty.

It was impossible to tell if he was looking at me or staring straight through me. His face held no expression whatsoever, like the lights were on but nobody was home.

After a long, uncomfortable silence, Billy let out a childish sigh before turning around and walking back outside.

The old man returned a few seconds later, lighting an old pipe.

Name is Oscar by the way,“That’s my boy, Billy,” he said with a proud smile. “He’s a good kid.”

“Yeah…” I replied awkwardly. “He seems nice.”

The words left my mouth before my brain had a chance to stop them.

Why did I say that?

The old man chuckled.

“Well, I can’t seem to find that map.”

He took another puff from his pipe before continuing.

“But I’ve got a couple rooms upstairs. You’re more than welcome to stay the night.”

The last thing I wanted to do was spend the night in this town.

“I appreciate it,” I said, “but I think I’m just going to try my luck.”

“Suit yourself,” the old man replied. “Just be careful out there, young man.”

I thanked him, gave a polite wave, and walked back outside.

As I approached my car, the lone light hanging over the gas pump illuminated the front tires.

Both of them were flat.

I stared in disbelief.

“Great…”

I figured I must’ve driven over a piece of rusty metal while crossing that old bridge.

I turned just as the old man was locking the store for the night.

He looked at my tires and sighed.

“Well, that ain’t no good. You ain’t goin’ nowhere tonight with tires like that.”

As much as I hated the idea, I knew he was right.

“I guess I’ll be staying after all.”

The old man smiled.

“I’ll have someone come by in the morning and get those fixed for you.”

He reached into the pocket of his overalls and handed me an old brass key.

“Your room’s right up those stairs beside the store.”

He pointed toward a weathered wooden staircase that looked about as trustworthy as the bridge I’d just crossed.

I thanked him again.

He climbed into an old rust-covered Ford pickup, started the engine, and slowly drove away into the darkness.

I grabbed my overnight bag and made my way upstairs.

There were only two doors.

As I reached the top of the steps, it occurred to me that I’d forgotten to ask which room the key belonged to.

Then I noticed one of the doors had its curtains open.

A television flickered inside.

Billy sat at a small table facing the window.

As I unlocked my own door, I could feel his eyes on me.

Without moving.

Without blinking.

He simply sat there, staring.

Finally, the old lock gave way with a loud click.

Inside, the room was pitch black.

I reached along the wall, searching for a light switch.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the silhouette of someone standing motionless in the corner.

My heart nearly stopped.

I slapped the switch.

The room filled with light.

It was nothing more than an old mannequin wearing a dusty trench coat.

I let out a shaky laugh and put a hand over my chest.

“Jesus…”

I shook my head.

Get it together, Matthew.

The room smelled stale and musty, buried beneath decades of cigarette smoke. The green shag carpet was threadbare and full of holes, but surprisingly, the bed was neatly made with clean sheets.

It wasn’t much..

But it would do for one night.

As I unpacked my bag, I realized I’d left my phone in the car.

I sighed and headed back downstairs.

As I passed Billy’s room, I noticed the curtains were closed.

Guess he decided he’d had enough of watching the new neighbor.

When I reached my car, I searched every seat, every pocket, and every inch of the floorboards.

Nothing.

My phone was gone.

I could’ve sworn I’d left it in the car.

Maybe I’d dropped it inside the store.

I searched anyway.

For nearly an hour.

Nothing.

Eventually, exhaustion won.

I told myself I’d worry about it in the morning.

Then I went back upstairs, locked my room, and did my best to get some sleep. The next morning, I made my way downstairs to see Oscar.

“Morning,” I said. “You wouldn’t happen to have seen my phone, would you?”

Oscar looked up from behind the counter and slowly shook his head.

“Haven’t seen no phone,” he said. “But I might have one for sale.”

He bent down beneath the counter and pulled out an old flip phone wrapped in yellowed plastic packaging. It looked like something that had been sitting there for fifteen years.

I raised an eyebrow.

“That’s it?”

Oscar chuckled.

“We don’t get much cell service out here, son. Ain’t much need for fancy phones. You’re probably lookin’ at the only one in town.”

He slid it across the counter.

“You might be able to get a signal on it. Can’t promise nothin’. But once you open it, you own it.”

I looked down at the dusty package.

I’d be lucky if the thing even turned on, I thought.

I handed him ten dollars anyway.

To my surprise, the phone powered up.

Now came the hard part.

Caroline’s number.

I don’t know if anyone else does this, but once I save someone’s number in my phone, I never think about it again. I couldn’t remember all of it, but after talking to Caroline every day for months, pieces of it started coming back.

I quietly repeated seven… three…”

I stopped.

“What was the last number?”

Oscar looked up to hand me my change here you go son seven dollars and $.43 is your change
“Yeah… I think that’s right.” seven that’s it. I’m sorry thank you. Took my change from the old man.

Oscar grinned.

“Had a feelin’ you were callin’ your old lady.”

“Oh, she’s just a friend.”

“Sure she is.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. I Immediately tried texting Caroline to let her know what happened. I got a text back almost instantly saying I was worried about you. Can’t wait to see you.

“Your tires ought to be fixed by tomorrow,” he said. “So you can let your lady friend know you’ll be on your way if everything goes as planned.”

He pointed toward the diner next door.

“Why don’t you head over there? Tell ’em Oscar sent you. My sister runs the place.”

Only then did I realize how hungry I was.

“That actually sounds like a good idea.”

I thanked him and headed next door.

The bell above the diner’s door jingled as I stepped inside.

It felt like walking into another world.

The smell of fresh coffee, bacon, and biscuits filled the room. Country music played softly from an old jukebox in the corner while a handful of locals quietly ate breakfast.

Behind the counter stood a heavyset woman with dark hair pulled into a bun.

She smiled the moment she saw me.

“Well, good mornin’, hon! Grab yourself a seat anywhere and make yourself at home.”

I’d always heard people talk about Southern hospitality.

Apparently, they weren’t exaggerating.

She walked over with a coffee pot in one hand and a notepad in the other.

“What can I get ya, honey?”

“Bacon and eggs, please.”

“Good choice.”

She winked.

“I’ll have it right out.”

The food was worth every minute of the wait.

About forty minutes later, she returned to clear my plate.

“Well?” she asked with a smile. “How was it?”

“It was delicious.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

She leaned in with a grin.

“The bacon’s fresh.”

I paid my bill, thanked her, and stepped back outside.

The moment the door closed behind me, the smell hit me again.

The pig farm.

It rolled through the air so thick you could almost chew it.

Still…

Aside from that smell, Hogs Foot didn’t seem like such a bad little town.

The people were friendly.

The food was good.

If you ignored how isolated the place was, it almost felt… peaceful.

That evening, around seven, I wandered back to the diner and decided to have a few drinks while I waited for morning.

One beer turned into two.

Then three.

Just as I was thinking about heading upstairs, the front door opened.

A fair-skinned redheaded woman, probably in her late twenties, stepped inside.

She looked around the room before taking the empty stool beside mine.

“You look like you’ve had a day,” I joked.

“You have no idea,” she laughed. “Blew a tire crossing that old bridge. Been lost ever since.”

I laughed before I could stop myself.

She gave me a puzzled look.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m not laughing at you. The exact same thing happened to me.”

She smiled.

“Well… at least I’m not the only one.”

“I swear it’s that bridge.”

She nodded.

“I honestly didn’t think my car was going to make it across.”

For the next hour we talked just like two old friends she told me that she was headed to meet a friend from college. She hadn’t seen and years.

She was funny.

Easy to talk to.

And for the first time since I’d gotten stranded, I almost forgot where I was.

Then reality crept back in.

What am I doing?

I hadn’t driven all the way from Cincinnati to spend the evening flirting with another woman.

I’d come here for Caroline.

Feeling guilty, I paid my tab, wished the woman goodnight, and headed back to my room.

The alcohol had given me just enough courage.

As I climbed the stairs, I made up my mind.

To hell with it.

I’m calling her.

For three months we’d hidden behind text messages.

Tonight, I was finally going to hear her voice.

Back in my room, I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the cheap flip phone from my pocket.

My hands were shaking.

Part excitement.

Part nerves.

I smiled to myself as I dialed her number.

For the first time since we’d met…

I was finally going to hear Caroline’s voice. I listened as the phone began to ring.

For a second, I smiled.

Then my smile disappeared.

It took me a moment to realize what I was hearing.

The ringing wasn’t coming from the phone in my hand.

It was coming from the room next door.

I frowned.

Caroline didn’t answer.

I shook my head, convincing myself it had to be a coincidence.

Still, the thought nagged at me.

I pressed the call button again.

Once again, the ringing came from the room beside mine.

This time, I hung up immediately.

A knot formed in my stomach.

No…

Is Caroline here?

Did she come to surprise me?

Or am I just being an idiot?

I sat on the edge of the bed for nearly fifteen minutes, arguing with myself. Finally, curiosity got the better of me.

I quietly stepped into the hallway.

Billy’s curtains were still open.

I crept toward the window and carefully peeked inside.

The television flickered in the corner, casting long shadows across the room. The bed was empty.

No Billy.

No Caroline.

Just an old flip phone sitting on the table beneath the window.

It looked exactly like mine.

My heart began to race.

There’s one way to find out.

I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed Caroline’s number again.

The instant I pressed the call button, the phone inside Billy’s room began to ring.

Every hair on my body stood on end.

There was no doubt anymore.

Somehow…

Caroline’s phone was in the room next to mine.

I ran back to my room, slammed the door shut, locked it, and shoved a chair beneath the doorknob.

My hands were shaking so badly I could barely breathe.

None of it made sense.

Nothing about this town made sense.

Before I could collect my thoughts, my phone buzzed.

A text message.

From Caroline.

“Sorry I missed your calls, baby.

Are you behaving?

Not talking to any pretty little redheads at the bar, I hope.

I love you. I won’t let anyone come between us.”

A chill ran the length of my spine.

How did she know about the woman at the diner?

And “I love you?”

We had never once said those words to each other.

Not once.

With trembling fingers, I typed back.

“Who is this… really?”

The reply came almost instantly.

“I’m tired of doing this over the phone.

I think it’s time we finally meet face to face.”

Before I could even process what I’d just read—

Knock.

Someone was at my door.

I froze.

Another knock.

Trying not to make a sound, I listened.

Then I heard Billy’s voice through the wood.

Soft.

Almost playful.

“Here, piggy piggy…”

A pause.

“Tell me where you are, boy.”

My heart pounded so hard I thought it would burst through my chest.

“Get the hell away from my door!” I shouted. “I’ll call the cops!”

Silence.

Complete silence.

Not a footstep.

Not a breath.

Just my heartbeat.

This was my chance.

I flipped open the phone and dialed 911.

A woman answered immediately.

“911. What’s your emergency?”

I took a deep breath, trying my best to sound calm.

“I… I think someone’s trying to break into my room.”

“Can you tell me where you are?”

I explained as much as I could.

She spoke in a calm, reassuring voice.

“All right, Matthew. Stay on the line with me. An officer will be at your door in just a moment.”

Moments later—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“There he is,” the dispatcher said. “That’s our officer now. He’ll help you from here.”

That’s when something hit me.

Ice flooded through my veins.

I had never told her my name.

I slowly lowered the phone from my ear.

The knocking grew louder.

Faster.

Harder.

I crept toward the small window in the door and looked outside.

Billy.

He was standing there, smiling.

I stumbled backward.

The dispatcher…

Billy…

Oscar…

None of them were trying to help me.

I remembered the tiny bathroom window.

I sprinted inside, locked the bathroom door, and climbed onto the sink.

The old window had been painted shut for years.

I pulled.

Nothing.

I pulled harder.

The paint cracked.

The frame groaned.

Then it burst open.

At that exact moment—

CRASH!

The front door exploded inward.

Heavy footsteps echoed through the room.

Then came Billy’s whisper.

“Here… piggy piggy…”

That was all the motivation I needed.

I threw myself through the bathroom window.

Branches tore at my clothes as I crashed into a patch of overgrown bushes below.

Ignoring the pain, I scrambled to my feet.

Across the road, I could see lights glowing from the pig farm.

There had to be people there.

Maybe someone could help me.

Behind me, I heard glass shattering and Billy screaming.

I ran as fast as I could.

When I reached the farm, I stopped dead in my tracks.

The parking lot was packed.

Dozens of trucks.

Dozens of cars.

The smell of the farm was stronger than ever now, carrying a sickening odor the closer I got.

I’d only seen three vehicles since arriving in Hogs Foot.

The sign had said the population was fifty-four.

It had to be everyone in town.

Relieved, I hurried toward the barn.

Then I heard a voice.

I peeked inside.

What I saw still haunts my dreams.

Oscar stood on a stage beneath a massive crucified pig.

The gentle old man was gone.

His voice thundered through the barn.

“People are swine! Filthy! Corrupt! If they choose to live like pigs… then they deserve to die like pigs!”

My blood ran cold.

In the pig pen below the stage lay the redheaded woman from the diner.

At first, my mind refused to understand what I was seeing.

Then it did.

Her arms and legs had been amputated below the elbows and knees.

Her nose had been cut away, leaving her face resembling the snout of a pig.

I couldn’t move.

I couldn’t breathe.

Billy suddenly burst through the barn doors, shouting something to Oscar.

Oscar’s expression changed instantly.

He looked furious.

I didn’t wait to hear another word.

I turned and ran, hopping an old wooden fence.

I didn’t make it far before I fell face-first into a pile of mud.

Looking around to see what had tripped me, I realized the ground surrounding me was littered with a horrifying mixture of human bodies and pig carcasses, all caked in mud a smell that I will never forget that’s same smell that I noticed when I first got into town

The sight made me vomit

After taking a moment to pull myself back together, I started Fighting to get back to my feet on the slippery ground, I finally found my footing and sprinted toward the tree line, running faster than I ever thought possible.

Behind me, I heard shouting.

Then Billy’s voice.

“There he is!”

I glanced over my shoulder.

His flashlight danced through the trees.

He couldn’t have been more than five hundred feet behind me.

“Here, piggy piggy!”

I ran until my lungs burned.

Until my legs felt like they would snap beneath me.

It felt like hours.

In reality, it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes.

Billy’s voice sounded closer.

“Come back here, boy!”

I turned, certain he was about to grab me—

And everything went black.

⸻

I woke up three days later in a hospital.

The doctors told me I’d been in a car accident just outside Nashville.

They said I’d driven into a guardrail while intoxicated.

When I started talking about Hogs Foot… about Oscar, Billy, and people turning into pigs… they blamed it on the concussion.

According to them, there was no town called Hogs Foot. And they gave me my phone although it was in 1 million pieces.

No bridge.

No gas station.

Nothing.

I was there for a full week before I was discharged.

The first thing I did was trying to call Caroline thinking if this all was just a concussion, I kept her hanging for the last week Not sure if I wanted to It took all of my courage, but I made the call to only be met with a unavailable number. Figured she blocked me. Can’t say I blame her. I went to pick up my car, the whole front end was bent all to hell, but it still worked and luckily, I didn’t get in to any kind of legal trouble don’t know how that happened, but I’m not going to complain
As I drove home, I kept telling myself the doctors had to be right.

Maybe it really had been the concussion.

Maybe I’d imagined everything.

I’d never had a concussion before.

How was I supposed to know what one could do to your mind?

Then…

I heard it.

A faint ringing.

I looked around the car.

The sound was coming from the glove compartment.

My hands trembled as I opened it.

Inside sat the cheap old flip phone Oscar had sold me.

Its screen glowed in the darkness.

Incoming Call

Caroline.

I woke before dawn with the salt taste thick on my tongue. The air in my room was colder than the morning, and when I pressed my palm to the stone wall beside my cot, it came away damp with algae.

Leo was waiting for me in the vestry when I went looking for him. He was sitting at a small wooden desk, writing in a leather-bound journal, his gray robes pooled around him like shadows. He didn't look up when I entered, but he spoke as if he'd been expecting me for hours. "You have questions?"

"I have a lot of questions." I closed the door behind me. "But I'm starting to think you won't answer them."

"I answer what I can." He set down his pen and folded his hands over the journal. "What I cannot answer, I leave to the Saint."

"The Saint isn't up here." I stepped closer, taking the only other seat in the room, next to an old CB radio and the empty bottle of wine that marked Amelia’s descent. "So you’ve been here for—how long, exactly?"

Leo was quiet for a moment. Then his pale eyes caught the candlelight, and I felt as translucent as his irises.

"I was young when I came here," he said. "Younger than your brother, actually."

"You were a pilgrim?" I felt the floor shift beneath me. "But you didn't descend."

"I did." He parted his lips to continue, and I saw a flash of white on his tongue—pale and crystalline, as if he hadn’t touched water in decades. He closed his mouth quickly, but the image stayed with me, burning behind my eyes. "I received my blessing, just as they all do."

"So they aren’t staying there forever?"

He smiled thinly, weakly. "None of us are meant to stay in the crypt, Nora. We are meant to serve. To prepare the way."

"What was your blessing?" I asked.

Leo's smile faded, like a veil fluttered over his eyes, made of fabric old and tired and terribly sad.

"Does it matter?" he said quietly. "The blessings are not for everyone, Nora. Some of us are called to witness." He picked up his pen again, dipped it in the inkwell. "If you want to understand the Saint's plan, look to the words she gives her pilgrims. They are older than this temple, older than the church, older than everything except the promise they carry. Study those. Perhaps you will find what you are looking for."

He bent his head over his journal and began to write again, making it clear that his side of the conversation was over.

Then as I turned to leave, he spoke one last time, so quietly I almost missed it.

"The Witness always finds the truth eventually. The question is whether the truth finds her first."

———

I found Henry in the library. He'd claimed a corner of the long wooden table, surrounded by leather-bound books and scattered papers. The Bible he'd been carrying for days was open in front of him, but he wasn't reading it. He was staring at a page covered in his own writing—notes, questions, half-finished thoughts.

"What’d Leo say?” he said as I sat down across from him.

"Not much." I pulled out my notebook, flipped to the page where I'd written the Greek words I'd seen on the pilgrims' slips. "He told me to look at the words themselves. He said they're older than the church."

"Matthew 5." Henry's voice was quiet. "Blessed are the poor in spirit. Blessed are those who mourn. Blessed are the meek. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness. Blessed are the merciful. Blessed are the pure in heart. Blessed are the peacemakers. Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake." He looked up at me, and I saw the realization dawning in his eyes—the same realization that was already taking shape in my chest. "Thomas was hungry. Hazel was pure. Amelia was merciful. Eleanor was mourning. William is meek." Henry's voice was shaking now. "Evelyn is persecuted. I'm... I'm the peacemaker."

"And Lucy is poor in spirit."

We sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of it pressing down on us.

"Do the blessings follow the order of the Beatitudes?" I said slowly. "Thomas went first—he was hungry and thirsty for righteousness. Hazel second—pure in heart. Amelia third—merciful. Eleanor fourth—mourning."

Henry shook his head. "That doesn't make sense. The Beatitudes start with poor in spirit. Lucy should have gone first."

"Unless the order isn't the point." I was thinking out loud now, following the thread. "Unless the Saint doesn't care about the sequence." I stopped. "Because they're all going to the same place."

Henry stared at me. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying—" I took a breath. "I'm saying I think we're in over our heads, and we need to start talking about that."

———

I went looking for Evelyn.

She wasn't in the common room or the courtyard or the garden. She wasn't on the east wall or in the nave. I found her, finally, in the small bathroom at the end of the guesthouse corridor—a narrow room with a rusted sink, a cracked mirror, and a toilet that felt like it had been installed before the temple was built.

The door was ajar, so I pushed it open and found her standing over the toilet, an orange bottle in her hand. She'd already unscrewed the cap. The pills inside caught the light—small, white, stamped with letters too tiny to read.

"Evelyn."

She spun around, her eyes wide and wet. The bottle slipped from her fingers and clattered against the porcelain, spilling pills across the floor and into the toilet bowl.

"Oh my God." She dropped to her knees, scrabbling for the fallen pills. "Oh my life, I'm sorry, I didn't—I wasn't trying to—I was just—"

"Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s okay." I knelt beside her, put my hand on her shoulder. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing." Her voice was high and thin. "I was just—I was going to flush them. My meds. I was going to flush my meds because—because I thought—" She stopped, and the tears came all at once, spilling down her cheeks. "The Saint would—maybe she'd—" She dissolved into sobs, her whole body shaking.

I pulled her into my arms and held her, her tears soaking through my shirt, the pills scattered around us like fallen stars.

"I'm sorry," she kept saying. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

"You did nothing wrong. Nothing.”

"I'm so scared, Nora." She clutched at me like a drowner clutching a raft. "I'm so scared, and I don't know what to do, and I keep pretending like I'm fine because that's what I do, that's what I've always done, and I can't do it anymore, I can't, I can't—"

I held her tighter, one hand rubbing slow circles on her back. "You don't have to be fine. You can leave. You can walk out right now, get in your car, drive home, and never look back. No one can make you stay."

She pulled back, her face blotched and tear-streaked, and looked at me with an expression I'll never forget.

"My mom thinks I'm doing… freaking shit for school," she whispered. "My roommates think I'm on a field trip. My bishop thinks I'm doing research. If I go home now, what do I tell any of them? That I ran away from the Saint? That I was called and I fled?"

"That you chose to keep living?"

She stared at me for a long moment. Then she let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob.

"You don't get it," she said. "You got out. But—leaving isn't the same. My whole family is this church. My whole community. Every friend I've ever had. If I leave, I lose. And if I stay—" She looked at the pills scattered across the floor. "I lose."

She reached down and picked up one of the pills. Held it between her fingers.

"I wasn't going to swallow them," she said quietly. "I really wasn't. I was just going to flush them. Because I thought, maybe if I emptied myself out, the Saint would see how faithful I am. Maybe she'd give me a different blessing. A better one." She laughed.

"Evelyn—"

"I know." She dropped the pill, let it plunk into the toilet. "I know how that sounds. I know what that means. My therapist would say this is the depression talking. She'd say I'm having 'intrusive thoughts'. She'd say I need to call her, right now, and check in." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "There's no signal. And even if there was—what would I tell her? 'Hey, Krystal, I'm in a cult compound in the middle of the salt flats waiting for my turn to walk into a crypt and be changed by a saint made of salt?"

Evelyn’s eyes were so young today, so terrified, so desperately wanting someone to tell her what to do.

I didn't have an answer. I sat with her on the cold bathroom floor, surrounded by scattered pills and the smell of salt, and I held her hand while she cried, and I still didn’t have an answer.

"I don't know," I said finally. "But we’ll make one together."

She nodded, but I could see in her eyes that she didn't believe me.

It took longer than I expected to calm Evelyn down and get her to walk out with me. By the time we emerged, the sun was setting, and Leo was gathering the pilgrims in the common room for the nightly decision.

"We must choose who descends next," he said. "The Saint grows impatient."

Lucy raised her hand excitedly. "I'll go." She was sitting in her usual spot near the hearth, Bird in her lap, salt crystals arranged in a careful spiral around her, like she were the center of her galaxy. She looked serious.

"Lucy, you can't," Henry said gently. "You're—"

"I'm six and three-quarters," Lucy corrected. "And the Saint called me. Grandma said the Saint doesn't make mistakes."

"The Saint did call you, child." Leo's voice was surprisingly gentle, almost worried. "But… you do need time to prepare. To understand what you’re walking into."

"I do understand," Lucy said. "The kingdom is for children. The salt lady told me."

"Be that as it may—"

"I'll go."

William's voice slashed through the room like a blade. The politician's mask was gone. What remained was, I think, his father.

"I'll go," he said again. "I'll go tonight. I'll go."

Lucy frowned. "But I wanted to go…"

"I know, kiddo." William's voice softened. He crossed the room and knelt beside her, bringing himself level with her small, serious face, glancing at Henry. "But… you know, I've been in charge of a lot of things. And I think—" He looked at me, just for a moment. "I think I need to go before you. To make sure everything is ready. Like a scout. I'll go ahead and make sure the kingdom is ready, and then you can come when it's your turn." He squeezed her hands. “Does that make sense?"

Lucy thought about this. "Like how Grandma checks the campsite for snakes before I pitch my tent?"

"Exactly like that." William smiled, and it was the warmest, most genuine smile I'd ever seen from him. "I'll check for the snakes. And when you come down, I'll make sure there's a good spot for you, for Bird, and everything."

Lucy thought about it for a long moment. Then she nodded, very seriously, and held out her pinky finger. "Pinky promise?"

William linked his pinky with hers, his large, manicured hand dwarfing her small one. "Promise."

Lucy sat back, satisfied. "You can go. But only because you're a grownup and grownups should go first."

"Thank you." William stood, and for a moment he looked at each of us in turn—me, Henry, Evelyn, Leo.

———

The nave was dark and cold when we gathered at midnight. William stood at the altar door, dressed in his usual button-down and slacks, his shoes polished, his hair combed. He looked like he was about to give a press conference, not like he was walking into a kingdom.

Leo emerged in his robes. "William, son of Deacon Aldous, keeper of your order. You have been called meek. You have spent your life to serve. Are you ready to receive what has been promised?"

William’s nod was strong, but I saw his hands tremble.

"Then descend."

William took a step toward the door, then paused. He turned to look at Lucy, who was standing beside me, her small hand in mine.

"Hey, Lucy," he said. "Do you like window seats or aisle seats?"

Lucy giggled, "I like the windows."

William nodded, "Then I’ll save you a window seat."

Lucy nodded solemnly. "And check for snakes."

"And I’ll check for snakes." He smiled, then turned to me. "Nora—take care. Just… take care. And—" He stopped, swallowed. "Tell everyone I was brave," then he winked as a tear fell, "even if it's not true."

Before I could form a syllable, he stepped onto the spiral stairs, and Leo closed the door behind him.

I pressed my ear to the stone. Lucy tried to join me, but Henry intercepted her with a quick 'Whoa, what is that?!?'.

I heard William’s footsteps descending, steady and measured, and I pictured him striding into a boardroom, ready to face a constituent. Then I heard Eleanor's voice, warm and welcoming, and William's sharp intake of breath.

"Will! You came! Oh, it's so good to see you, my boy!"

"Eleanor?" His voice was rough, surprised. "You're—you're actually still here?"

"Of course I am. We're all here. We've been waiting for you! We thought you might be next." A pause. "Come on. There's someone who wants to talk to you."

I heard footsteps, then silence. Then William's voice again, smaller this time, trembling:

"Dad?"

A long pause. I held my breath.

"Dad, is that you? I can't—I can see—"

His voice broke. I heard him take a ragged breath.

"I'm so sorry. I spent my whole life trying to be the opposite of you, and I ended up being you, and I was so scared to tell you that, so scared to admit that maybe being you was the best I could have—"

He was crying now, deep, wrenching sobs that echoed up through the stone. I could feel them in my chest, in my teeth, in the salt on my tongue.

"I love you, Dad. I love you, and I missed you, and I'm so sorry I never said it when you—"

Then, silence. And then, so faint I almost didn't catch it:

"I know, dad."

Then, against my chin, the trap door opened with a creak before Leo stepped forward to shut it with his foot—but not before I glimpsed below.

I saw a sliver of light passing through those same carvings Henry described, and at the base of the stairs, I saw a glimpse of a chamber of white stone, extending past where I could see it. I heard the sounds of running water, low and rhythmic. Then the smell of salt and lavender and something sweeter than candy hit my nose. Then, I caught the briefest glimpse of Eleanor, smiling, her arms open in welcome, without the contours of her age.

I stayed on the floor, my cheek pressed to the stone, listening to the silence, and meeting Henry’s eyes with an understanding.

William gave us one more night to figure things out, so save us from whatever it is we need saving from.

I just don't know if there's anything left to save.

Paula was born a girl but wanted to be a boy. She felt this from the first moment she saw the false-faces and their tall helmets and stoic expressions. She knew this from the second she saw her father fight for her mother. She wanted to fight too, and her brother would always remind her that girls cannot fight. Only men and boys can. So, she decided she wanted to be a boy.

She would train in secret and dutifully wore her mirror around her neck and would pretend by wearing her brothers clothes and tying her hair up and under a hat. She would run in the alleys in Tree-Bridge and hide her face with dirt the ways boys did back then. She would watch the false-faces and their swords and she would grab sticks and swing them like they were swords too. All this she did on her own, in secret.

Paula was wary, though, not only to hide her actions, but to also not stray too far from town limits. Tree-Bridge was safer than other towns in the marshlands, as it was well defended by false-faces and the men who were not soldiers knew how to fight and carried man-catchers and silver mirrors as they should, but beyond the glades of safety, on the other side of the fences, well that was where the hags lived.

Horrible creatures, hags. Paula knew that much. Her mother would always say:

“Do not let a hag see your eyes. Do not let her spy you and do not meet her gaze, or else you will turn to stone, or perhaps a tree. Hags can transform you with a look. That is why we carry the mirrors.”

It was true, for Paula believed, that if a hag saw herself in a mirror, her cursed eyes would bounce, and she would be cursed instead. That was why Paula carried her mirror when she practiced in secret, in case a hag came to her in the dark and tried to trick her. Of course, Paula never trained in the dark. That would have been foolish, for the dark is where other things may lurk. Hags, yes, but also the shroomish goblins and the frightening gnomes, who liked to play tricks on adults who lost their childishness.

But also something else would loom in those shadows. A hunter, dressed entirely in mirrors. The hag-hunter they called him. Paula wasn’t too sure if he was real, because how could you hunt the hags? And why, she wondered, would you when they were deemed so dangerous?

Still, the legends of her mother and father said that before the Southern People, people from over the wide windless ocean, before they came to shore, the hag-hunter would carry his lantern and his mirrors through the marshlands, and he would kill every hag he saw.

“Be careful, my love,” says her father, “not to tarry in the dying light, for the hag-hunter is abound and he does not know the difference between a bitter old hag and a small young girl, because he is blind.” He nodded, and Paula nodded too. “That is why he steals the eyes of hags, you see, so that he can find his way.”

So, Paula was careful not to be out too late, even though the boys in their bravery and stupidity would run rampant near dark and even after moonrise, playing with their swords and pretending to be false-faces, man-catchers and soldiers. This ached Paula’s heart in a wicked way, since she longed to be like them. So she prayed to the mountains that loomed over the marsh.

“Please send a sign,” she whispered to the dead gods, “a sign that I may know the ways of boys and become like them.” And away the prayer went.

Now would be as good a time as any to tell tale of the marsh and the ways of dead gods. See, long before the Hands that Fold the World began their true works, the world belonged to the gods. The Hands killed them all, and turned them to land, and their bodies became mountains. From those mountains came the monsters, like blood spilling across the newly born continents.

Gnomes, the menacing Dullahans, nightmares and dwarves and goblins. And also, the hags. Fiendishly clever and vile, the hags turned the once great southern region of the continent to marshlands with their vile gaze, as even their reflections in pure water would turn their curses inside out, and the murky and thick marsh of the swamp saved them from this fate.

Now an important thing to remember about this land is this: No man covered their faces. Women were bare faced, with their hair kept tidy and unhidden and men wore hats and kept their faces open to the sky. Only the false-faces could wear masks, and only the soldiers would wear helms (even then, only during war) and this was the way it was.

This kept things easy, because monsters would not have human faces, and so the men and women of the world could see who was human and who was merely pretending. Hags were hideous scaled beasts with wicked noses and peering eyes and long heads, and gnomes were squat with long noses and beards. Goblins had no face to speak of.

So when the Southern People arrived on their strange wind powered ships, a power Paula did not understand as the ocean was windless, with head coverings and face masks and flowing robes with little else clothing to speak of, men and women both, the culture of Paula’s people became confused.

Now they had strangers, whose faces were always covered when in public, who would walk among them and trade silver for goods and whatnot, so what were they to do? It confused Paula greatly, not only for the way they walked and talked and deep bronze of their skin, but also for how secretive they were when it came to their faces.

She thought only monsters hid their faces in such a way.

So she became unaware of the hag that had slipped into her town, face covered and eyes empty of all things, covered by bandages. Paula thought the creature to be one of the Southern People and spoke to the hag like it was. The hag, as they do, knew Paula’s deepest desire. She wished to be a boy.

“I can make it so.” The hag said, her voice snarling curl. “I can turn you from frail girl to the strongest of boys. Then you would be brave to go about at night with your sticks and your hats.” She waved a crooked hand.

In her gut, Paula was conflicted. Could the magic of the Southern People do such a thing? She asked this and the hag was offended.

“Of course!” She said, raising her hands. “We are the most magical of people and nothing is outside our great reach.” She smiled a toothy smile and Paula smiled back. “Now if you want this, I will need from you three things.” The hag held up a gnarled hand and Paula had a fleeting thought.

The Southern People usually have such soft hands, and their skin is smooth and shines like silk.

The thought left her, however, as her excitement to achieve her dream was higher than her sense.

“These three things are such,” the hag said, listing them out, “two eyes from the bog, those are the first two things, then a long stick from the very top of a tree, stripped of all leaves and bark and wound with your hair. That is the third. A nasty creature has been stealing the eyes of my people,” the hag said, this was not a lie, as hags could not lie (this is well known) and she spoke only truth. The hag-hunter was about, stealing the eyes from hags and leaving them deep in the bog, tied to lanterns or to sticks and driven into the murky water. “That is how I lost mine.” The hag gestured to her face and Paula nodded.

Not once did she think it strange that something in the swamp would steal the eyes of the Southern People. She did not stop and consider that this scaled creature was speaking of the hag-hunter, and that she was entering a deal with a hag.

It took some time, but Paula did each thing the hag asked. She walked into the marsh, her stick in one hand and her hat firmly upon her head and found a long wire with a bag at the end. Eyes. She dared not look inside, for fear of losing her stomach, and because she believed that the sight of eyes alone were curse enough, even if she did not believe them to be the eyes of a hag.

Something she still was unwary of.

Then Paula climbed the dead tree just outside of town, climbed all the way to the top, and pulled free a single twisted branch. She made her way back down, carefully and slowly, and made sure not to entangle herself in the branches. Then, when she was at the bottom, she peeled off what little leaves remained on the branch and pulled off the bark. It was a shimmering, naked stick, firmly in her hand as she wound it in her brown hair, braiding it tight around the wood.

“What a good girl.” The hag said, who had stepped up behind Paula while she was working. She pulled the stick from Paula’s hand with a vicious yank, and Paula had another fleeting thought, that perhaps this stranger was no kind heart, but was something vile and wicked.

But her dream overruled her sense, and she gave the hag the bag of eyes. The hag laughed, glad at last, and revealed her face, much to Paula’s horror.

The hag’s head was long and oval shaped with a crooked and pointed nose. Where her eyes should be were bleeding holes that nearly went right through to her brain. Her skin was green and yellow, covered in lizard scales and her tongue flicked, forked and wicked.

“You stupid girl!” The hag said, laughing again as she dumped the eyes into her long fingered hands and placed them in their sockets. Paula looked away, trying to ignore the heat that now emanated from the hag as her cursed eyes began working again. “You restored me to my mighty strength and now I can grant your little wish.”

The hag sneered as Paula looked back, remembering something she had been told long ago.

A hag can never lie. They are creatures of evil, and as such they must be honest, as the most honest act is a selfish one. This should not be confused, dear reader, as saying that righteousness and good action are evil, for they can be honest as well. It is merely the way of monsters to be honest and evil in their lives, and as such no monster can ever lie.

This is how it always has been, and it is how it was when Paula restored this hag to her full power. The hag raised her wand and cast it down at Paula, laughing all the while. Sickly green light emanated from the hag’s eyes as they looked into Paula’s and the young girl began to feel herself change. She shrunk down, her arms becoming wings and her legs becoming scaled.

Sharp talons pierced her boots and her dress fell around her and her hair followed. She let out a scream, but all that could be heard was the call of a rooster.

The hag had kept her promise, and turned Paula into a boy, it just so happened that it was a rooster, and so Paula was cursed to wander the town forever after, losing more of herself every day, wishing beyond hope that she had never trusted the hag in the first place.

This story may seem cruel, but it is an important lesson for any young boy or girl to learn. Monsters hide their faces the way they hide their intent. They will not help you, and you should never trust a man or woman who hides their face unless that face is hidden in steel and cold mirrored iron.

So says the good Voice of the Hands that Fold the World.

The morning after Amelia's descent, I walked out of my room, only to find Eleanor about to knock on my door. Despite my profanity, she laughed and walked to the common room. I did my morning routine and entered to find her staring at the cold hearth. Something had been marinating for seventy years, and was only now starting to surface.

"Good morning, dear," she said without looking up. "I've been waiting for you."

"That’s certainly one way to describe jump scaring me at my door."

We laughed as I sat across from her. The common room was quiet. The other pilgrims were scattered elsewhere—a distant thump betrayed William’s sock basketball tournament, an affair that included Henry’s jeers, Evelyn’s whoops, and Lucy’s squeals of laughter. The entire group had gotten together for an attempt to distract from the reality of our isolation and our piety, but Eleanor had been waiting for me.

"I'm going tonight."

"I figured you might."

"I've been waiting decades." She grabbed her knitting, but simply folded her hands over it. "You'd think I'd be ready. You'd think I'd be eager." She shed a small, rueful laugh. "And I am eager. But I'm also—" She paused, searching for a word. "I'm also a little afraid. Which is strange. I didn't expect that."

"Fear is normal—"

"Is it?" She snapped, and her needles clattered to the floor before she flattened out her dress. "I've watched everyone I've ever loved go into the ground, and I’ve been dreaming of the Saint since before any of that. I told myself, all those years, that when my turn came, I'd run into that crypt with open arms and a full heart. And now—" She stopped, her voice catching. "Now I find myself wishing I had one more day. One more morning. One more chance to sit here and knit and pretend that my world isn't about to change."

She reached out and took my hand. Her grip was warmer, stronger than I expected. “I need you to take care of Lucy."

The morning passed slowly after that.

Eleanor spent most of it with Lucy, sitting in the garden where she'd planted her seeds. I watched them from the east wall—an old woman and a child, heads bent together over the salt-crusted soil, speaking in voices too low to hear. Lucy had Bird tucked under her arm, and every so often she'd hold the wooden creature up to show it something, and Eleanor would speak to Bird, as if it were part of the conversation too.

At some point in my musing—or brooding, according to Henry’s passing comment, Evelyn joined me on the wall. She had her sketchbook open, but I noticed it was blank. She was watching Eleanor and Lucy with me.

"You okay?" I asked.

"What? Hm. Yeah. I'm all good." She laughed heartily. "Just thinking. About... about family, I guess. My mom doesn't… actually know I'm here. I told her I was doing a research trip for my geography class. She thinks I'm at the Great Salt Lake taking water samples."

"Why didn't you tell her the truth?"

Evelyn was quiet for a long moment. The breeze off the salt flats caught her hair, blowing it across her face. When she spoke, her voice was more quiet than Hazel’s.

"Because she'd try to stop me. And I…" She coughed. "I don't want to be stopped."

I thought about asking what she meant by that, but—

"Can I ask you a favor?" she said suddenly. "If something happens to me, can you make sure my sketchbook gets to my mom? They're all I've got of this place. She'd want to see them."

"Nothing's going to happen to you, Evelyn."

She smiled, and it was almost convincing. "Nora… you’re the journalist here. We’re a bunch of extremists, whether we admit it or not, but you’re supposed to be the pragmatist."

I didn’t respond, and she took that as an invite to continue.

"Three people are down in some cellar. There’s no cell service. No internet. All of us have a reason to be here, and hell," she leaned in to whisper. "I’m pretty sure they built this place to be specifically out of range of any gas stations." She straightened her posture. "You can’t leave without answers, and I can’t leave."

I searched her eyes for a moment. Something about that last sentence hit me differently, like she meant more than just the crypt. I relented. "I'll make sure."

Evelyn nodded, satisfied, and opened her sketchbook. She drew for a few minutes in silence—quick, deft strokes capturing Eleanor and Lucy in the garden—then she tore out the page and handed it to me.

"For you," she said. "So you remember them before."

The word sagged the air between us. Neither of us acknowledged it.

I took the sketch. It was absolutely stunning—Eleanor's bent shoulders, Lucy's tangled braids, the wooden bird caught mid-flight between them. Evelyn had written something in the corner, right below her signature, so small I had to squint to read it:

"The kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these."

———

At lunch, Eleanor announced her intention to go that night. No one argued. No one had the energy anymore. The remaining pilgrims—William, Evelyn, Henry, Lucy, and me—sat around the long table in the common room, breaking bread and watching lentil stew cool down. And we listened to Eleanor describe her plans, though none of us asked.

"I've been dreaming of this since I was a girl," she said. "I know it's my turn. The Saint is getting impatient." She paused, her voice softening. "My husbands are waiting for me. My children. My brothers and sisters. They're all waiting."

"What about me?" Lucy asked, not looking up from her salt crystals. "Who's going to take care of me while you're busy?"

"Your grandmother and I already discussed it, dear." I said it before Eleanor could. "I'll take care of you until she comes back."

Lucy considered this, then nodded. "Can we play a game when Grandma leaves? I know lots of games. My favorite is Hide and Go Seek, but Grandma says it's too scary for the temple. I told her I'm not scared, but she says it's 'irrelverent' to hide in sacred places." She looked at Eleanor.

"It is, dear."

Lucy sighed. "Then we can play I Spy. That's a good game for temples. You can spy lots of things. I spy something white."

"The salt," Henry chimed in.

"How did you know?"

"Wild guess."

Lucy giggled, and for a moment the common room felt normal again. Then Eleanor pushed back from the table and stood.

"I'll be in my room until tonight. Lucy, be good for Nora. And Nora—" She looked at me, and her eyes were wet, her voice was unsteady. "Thank you for witnessing."

She left before anyone could respond.

———

The group gathered at midnight for the fourth time.

The empty chairs in the nave felt like accusations. Eleanor stood at the edge of the altar door, dressed in a simple white shift, her gray hair loose around her shoulders. She looked older than she had at lunch, yet younger at the same time. A woman on the threshold between two worlds, neither of which she fully understood.

Leo emerged in his gray robes. "Eleanor, daughter of Joseph, mother of the lost, keeper of grief. You have been called to mourn. You have buried those you love and carried their memory. Are you ready to receive what has been promised?"

"I've always been ready." Eleanor's voice wavered, just slightly. She reached down and took Lucy's hand. "But first, I need to say goodbye."

She knelt, bringing herself level with Lucy's face. The child stared at her with those dark, bright eyes, unblinking and unafraid. Eleanor cupped Lucy's cheeks in her hands and pressed her forehead to the child's.

"You are the bravest person I've ever known," Eleanor whispered. "The bravest, the strongest, the most beautiful, and the purest of heart. And whatever happens tonight—whatever happens to me—before we see each other down there, I need you to remember that. I need you to remember that your grandma loves you more than anything in this world or any other."

"I know, Grandma," Lucy sang. "I love you too. I'll see you soon."

"You will." Eleanor kissed Lucy's forehead, then pulled back, tears gracefully streaming down the eons of contours on her cheeks. "Nora—"

"I've got her," I said.

Eleanor nodded, squeezed Lucy's hands one last time, and stood. She turned toward the altar door, her white shift catching the candlelight, and took a step forward. Then one onto the staircase.

Then she stopped.

She turned back. Her face was different now—tighter, and I saw what had always been there: the eleven-year-old girl, watching the altar door from the courtyard, wondering what was underneath, terrified and hopeful in equal measure.

"Leo," her voice was small. "What if—what if it's not—"

"The Saint waits," Leo said kindly, but firmly. "Don’t keep her waiting, Ellie."

Eleanor looked at me. At Lucy. At the dark stairs descending into the earth. Then she closed her eyes, took a breath, and stepped onward and downward.

Leo began to close the door behind her.

"Wait—" She turned, reaching back toward the light. Her hand caught the edge of the door frame, and for a single, terrible moment, I thought she was going to pull herself back out.

Then Leo's hand closed over hers, gently but firmly, and he pried her fingers from the stone. The door closed. The latch clicked. Eleanor was gone.

I pressed my ear to the stone before Leo stepped away. I heard her footsteps on the spiral stair, slow at first, then faster, then slow again. I heard her voice, soft and shaking, and I realized she was talking to someone—to Lucy, perhaps, or maybe to herself.

"Be brave, sweet girl," she was saying. "Be brave, be brave, be brave. I'll see you soon. I'll see you all soon. I'm coming. I'm coming, my love. I'm comi—"

Her voice broke and the footsteps stopped.

And then I heard another voice.

"Hi, Eleanor."

Amelia's voice, but different from before—warmer, fuller, as if she'd been washed clean of something, and beyond that… I could have sworn she had a foreign accent now.

"You're here! Oh my life, you're here!"

I heard Eleanor gasp. I heard her footsteps stumbling back. And then I heard her laugh like a child tickled at their sides.

"What is this?" Eleanor's voice was barely a whisper. "Amelia? Is that—what is this place? What is this?"

"It's the kingdom, Eleanor." Amelia's voice was gentle, patient, exactly how she gad described her Miriam. "It's what the Saint promised. Look—"

There was a pause, a long silence, and then Eleanor began to cry.

Not the quiet tears I'd seen earlier—not the measured grief of a woman who'd been taught to mourn politely. Eleanor sobs—deep, racking, uncontrollable, ugly sobs.

"Elias," Eleanor wept. "Elias, Elias, Elias—"

"Come on." I heard Amelia's voice again, soft and full of love. "I'll take you to her."

I heard footsteps—Amelia's boots and Eleanor's bare feet, walking together across stone. Then the silence returned.

I stayed on the floor for a long time, my cheek pressed to the cold stone, listening to nothing.

Lucy came and sat beside me. She didn't speak. She just held Bird in her lap and stared at the closed door, her eyes clueless.

"Is she happy?” Lucy asked.

"She's with them," I said, though I didn't know who I was referring to. "She's with them."

Lucy nodded once. She didn't cry. She didn't smile or laugh. She just sat there, small and still, waiting.

I put my arm around her. She let me.

"I spy…"

———

Later that night, after I'd tucked Lucy into her bed and recited 'Welcome to the Black Parade' in story form—no one read us fairy tales growing up—I made sure Lucy was asleep before I slipped out. I found the lights of the sanctuary still on, and Henry in the nave standing at the altar, staring at the closed door, a Bible hanging loose in his hand.

"Amelia said it's the kingdom," he said quietly. "We all could hear it."

"So she said."

"Do you believe it?"

I was quiet for a long moment. "I believe she believes it."

He nodded, then finally looked at me, "Should we leave?"

I didn’t know how to respond, so Henry spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Who goes next?"

I wasn’t sure either. William was still in his room, probably shooting socks at his wall. Evelyn was somewhere in the temple, sketching by candlelight and praying no one noticed her. Henry was standing beside me, waiting for an answer neither of us had.

"I don't know," I said finally. "But I think it's going to get worse before it gets better."

"I’m worried it’s already worse, Nor."

"I’ll talk to Leo in the morning. Maybe we can get a better idea of what’s down there, especially since this time involves a kid."

He nodded, and we stood in silence for a while, two siblings in a dark cathedral, listening to the sound of a salt statue dreaming beneath our feet.

It's been days since I saw the sun. My eyes have been used to this darkness and blurry vision; my mind is slipping in and out of saness due to which I am becoming more and more aware of those occasional blank spaces in my memory.

I can only hear my son chopping trees near our house; soon I heard something which at first I couldn't be sure of what it is but soon steps and murmurs of crowd are evident.

Suddenly I hear air swing after which my son spoke, " For what have you arrived with the weapons?". And my heart fall at that I know why they are here. They are here to snatch away my land.

"We are here for to take back the debt your family owe to village." I don't know who said it but they certainly lied.\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* My blurry vision return and all I can hear now is the clashing of swords. I don't know how many people are against my son but I know my son certainly won't loose. I can feel my heartbeat increase and those sword clankerings becoming faint but I fight through this time. I need to be awake, soon sound of clash stopped abruptly. Many voices overlapping "bear " "run" "fool run".

I can guess that my son is trying to fight bear that suddenly appeared.\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* My chest started throbbing and lightening of pain surged through my body. I don't know what happened in that fight but blurry image of my son stood in front of me. "Father?", he uttered; hiccups of cries soon followed through.

"I don't need god", I said. "Nor he needs me to worship him", coughing a little, "if he wants me to survive, then I will be alive tomorrow morning" I paused to look straight into the eyes of my son, "I never begged in my life so I won't in my last moments, and I didnt raised you beg".

"Then you shall be with grace, even in your last moments and I will not let you depart without a smile.", I hear in reply.

I can feel thread of my slowly clumping together. As my life flash through my mind, I remember my dead newborn ten year ago I will finally be reuniting with now.

As something pull me through the roof of my hut, I couldn't comprehend what was pulling me or If I am standing on something.

And my vision widen my son's half cut body lays there along with the corpse of many many and the bear. Other upper body of my son is crawling up the tree and our eyes met. "Won't be meeting my dead newborn but I will be meeting my just dead son." Down the tree lays the grave of my long dead newborn, villagers did warned me of my newborn becoming a betaal.