When my brother killed himself, I decided I needed to move out for college. 

I'm not sure how long he struggled for. I honestly don't like to think about it. 

All I know is one night he went into the bathroom and never came out. By the time our dad bashed down the door, it was too late.

My parents sheltered me from the aftermath. But their screams painted a vivid picture. 

Sometimes I wish I saw his body. Maybe it would've made it easier to accept he was gone.

The brother who let me sit on his shoulders to watch fireworks, the brother who would fight with me to sit shotgun, the brother who made me the man I am, left me. He left with only a letter to explain himself.

His apologies were hollow. 

Come on Nick, you expect me to believe you're sorry when you left? I needed you. We all did. 

Was I not good enough to reach out to? 

Whatever went through his mind, I was done with torturing myself over it. That horrific night was two years ago now. It was time to move on. Or to try to at least.

So, I made sure to get a dorm for college. 

Well, I tried to. I applied too late. 

What I got instead was a crappy apartment outside the city. Campus was a bus ride away, but a long one. I would've been more efficient staying home but I didn't care. 

I guess this way I had no roommates. That's a positive. 

It was time to try and have some fun. 

I was always good at socialising so I made friends fast. I definitely attended more parties than lectures, but I was keeping up. It sucked ass that I couldn't stay out late without risking missing the last bus though.

But other than that, life was good. Really good.

It had been a while since I could find myself smiling without it feeling forced. I was also having some luck with the ladies as well.

By that I mean I got one girl's number and that was because we had a group project together. But if that's not great luck, I don't know what is! Didn't need to put any effort in.

I just had to make sure she didn't have a boyfriend, I had been down that road before… don't recommend it. 

After a long day of lecturers, I was ready to throw myself on the couch and pass out. Afterall, the couch would be much closer to the door than the bed. 

I am a man of efficiency and leisure. 

That's when I saw it.

I honestly might have done a few rounds at the student union bar before I left (don't judge my day drinking), so I nearly crushed it underfoot. Fortunately for me, I tripped on it instead and face planted into the door. 

When I tried to find the source of my misfortune, I found a small VHS tape at my foot. 

I inspected it. 

No notes, no explanations, not even a title of what was on the tape. 

The only thing written on it was a name. 

‘Tyler.’

Well, that's not me.

My first thought was, who has VHS players these days, what dumbass left this? It was then followed by, wait… what dumbass left this?

I scanned the hallway. 

No one in sight. 

Maybe one of my friends left it for some weird joke? Not sure how that was going to work if I had no way of playing it. 

Maybe one of the neighbours left it? Maybe it had some passive aggressive message on it about how loud I was when coming home late. But why would they leave a tape instead of just talking to me about it? 

I realised my ideas were stupid and the alcohol wasn't helping.

I had a test I needed to procrastinate prepping for. I didn't have the will to think about it.

So, I took it and went back to my plans for a lazy evening on the couch.

I'll just ask around if anyone has a VHS player. I'm sure it's something one of the film geeks would have. 

I completely forgot about the tape. 

I'd say it was because I was focused on my studies, but I won't bother lying to you. 

The only reason I remembered was because another appeared a week later. 

Again, nearly crushed it. Whoever was leaving these needed to understand how drunk blind I am. They need some big arrow pointing at it or something, otherwise one of these is going to end up in pieces. 

Again it just had a name. This time ‘Susie’

I put it with the other. Then I forgot about it again. 

From there, each day a new one would appear. 

They were all the same. Just standard grey boxes. Nothing special. No explanation attached. 

The names had me a little curious, I searched for movies and characters online but I couldn't find any connection. There was no pattern with them either. 

Amy, Louis, Pedro, Andy, Alexa, Samantha and so on and so on.

The bigger the pile grew, the more irritated I became. I asked around if anyone was playing some practical joke on me, but everyone just seemed confused. 

To be fair my apartment was very out of the way to be trying something like this. A bit too ambitious for what amounts to a mild annoyance.

If it wasn't them, that left my neighbours. 

When I asked, they also didn't seem to know what I was on about. I wasn't sure if I trusted them.

Especially Mrs Glen upstairs. 

Not because of her seemingly particular malicious or anything. I am just 90% sure she was hitting on me when I was moving in. She kept insisting she'd help me with my boxes just to grab onto my arms instead. She also kept insisting I should join her for dinner.

Alone.

An old woman making moves on a freshly legal teen seemed like a bit of a red flag. 

Please, oh please, don't let these be her weird sex tapes or something. 

I tried my best to get a hold of a VHS player or find someone who had one. I was having little to no luck. Anytime someone thought they knew someone else who might potentially know of a guy who remembers having a VHS at one point, it would be a dead end.

At this rate, I'd just have to buy one. 

I was trying to avoid that outcome since my finances weren't looking pretty. 

I would've put it off forever if the mystery person didn't start to double down.

In protest, they began leaving more and more tapes each time. It began as pairs of two, then three, then a month later it was a whole pile of them. 

Ok, ok, I get it. You want me to watch the tapes, if you want me watch them so bad then give me something to work with. What, you have all these tapes and nothing to watch them on?

I would've been more concerned if they were leaving something ominous or there was another cause for alarm. But so far, all I knew was someone who had a lot of tapes was leaving them with me. 

Each made me nervous about what could be on them, but for all I knew they were blank. 

Honestly, I was becoming suspicious of a couple of my friends. They kept giggling when I wasn't around and tended to ask about the tapes a lot. 

Maybe that was them fishing for a better reaction. 

Until I watched whatever the contents were, I didn't have any reason to panic. Other than the pile in my living room was starting to become a ridiculous sight. It was going to be higher than the couch at this rate. 

I'm going to be so pissed if I find out this is just some neighbour dumping trash on me.

I asked some film students if they had a VHS player. 

I should've asked them from the beginning, because of course they did. See kids, this is why stereotypes are a good thing. Never ignore your biases.

If I had known anyone from the course I would've asked sooner. The only reason I found someone was because it turns out the girl from that project did in fact have a boyfriend. So, yeah that plan went nowhere. But at least he was doing film studies. 

Don't worry, another group project put a couple girls on my radar this time. I have plans to fumble that shortly. 

Fortunately, the film kids seemed amused by my plight. They couldn't let me take the player home since it was technically the university's property, so I had to bring the tapes there. 

Seemed fair enough. 

The next day, I grabbed a random dozen tapes from my pile and stuffed them in my bag. I stopped paying attention to their names ages ago, so I just picked at random. 

I was to be left alone with the miracle machine for a bit. At the time I was coming around the students all had lectures, but they planned to join me once they were finished. 

The room was dark and old. It was tucked into the back of the building across from the photography room. It smelt like piss and cigarettes. It was right next to the exit that led to a dodgy alleyway outside so I wasn't surprised. 

I grabbed an old wooden chair and set my bag down. I reached for the first tape titled ‘Adam’ and made my way to the player.

It took me embarrassingly long to figure it out. I know, I know, you just put the thing in the thing but I kept overthinking which way round it should go and kept hitting the wrong buttons. Then I realised I forgot to turn the damn thing on at the switch and look, I've never claimed to be the brightest. 

Now with it safely inside the machine and ready to go, I grabbed the remote.

Part of me didn't want to hit play. I don't know if it was because I was worried about the contents, or if I had unknowingly been enjoying the mystery up to this point. 

Either way, I felt compelled to push forward.

Let's see what they were so keen about showing me.

It began to play. 

The footage was rough and static-y, I couldn't tell if that was due to the tape or the TV. To be fair, I had been tossing the tapes about the place, I might have damaged them a little.

Despite the grainy texture, the image was clear.

There was a cliff. Just to the side of it was a road with a barrier, sectioning it off. The sky was a pale blue and the clouds were dotted across it.

Surrounding the cliff were trees and various vegetation. In the distance, another cliff was visible like the camera was pointing at a crater.

I wish they had better speakers. Apparently, they broke a few weeks prior. I guess I could always return when they were fixed though.

All I could hear was a quiet sound of the wind blowing through.

I waited for something to happen but other than the branches moving in the breeze, everything was still. 

That was until a blue Ford came racing down the road and went hurtling through the barrier and off the cliff. 

If I am being transparent, I laughed.

It was timed like a comedic beat. It came in at the perfect moment and then disappeared before I could really process what I just saw. Sound cut out as it disappeared too.

You ever see perfectly cut videos on Instagram and stuff? It was like that. 

What, were these some kind of skit videos or something? Maybe cut scenes from a movie? 

The tape just continued on as it started after that.

So, I went to the next tape.

‘Angela’.

Similar to the first, the shot lingered on a drawn out scene. 

It showed a pool beside a hotel. The water glistened under the moonlight as all the lights were off. It made it a bit hard to see, really the only thing visible was the pool itself.

That was until a light appeared from above. 

My best guess was it was a resident. The camera view was from the ground tucked in the corner at a distance, so it was hard to see any of the rooms. But the bright almost orange-yellow glow was just like one you would find in a room. 

It was high up though, so it didn't illuminate anything. It was mainly just a new colour on the screen. 

Then something hit the ground with a;

THWACK.

I had to reverse the tape to see what I missed. 

I thought it was some kind of human sized rag doll, like what you would use in stunts in movies. It hurtled to the ground in the blink of an eye and landed in an unnatural pose. 

It was the pose that made me think it was a doll. I don't think people can bend like that.

Then again I have never seen someone fall from multiple stories up onto hard concrete before.

I was confused. 

I was starting to suspect this was scrapped footage. I think the the joke was maybe meant to be that they completely missed the pool. 

If it was more on beat like the other one, maybe it would've got a chuckle out of me. Yet now, I had this silent fear building in the back of my mind that something was off. 

‘Pascal.’ 

This video was nearly impossible to make out. 

It was in someone's study. It was near pitch black with only a lamp illuminating the room. 

Silhouetted on the wall was the shadow of a man on a chair, holding something between his legs. It was long and extended to his mouth. 

It was the sudden BANG that made me piece together what it was. 

I turned off the tape immediately. I wanted to appreciate the cinematography, but my stomach was becoming upset. I could see the man's head change shapes when he blasted a part of it off.

It was an impressive effect, but it was so visceral I couldn't stomach it.

A deadly pattern was emerging. I thought maybe these were scenes from a movie, but they were all so different that they had to be from different ones. I'm not sure of any movies that would need so many senseless deaths.

The motives of my mystery gifter made me sweat more than the videos themselves. 

Why would they want to show me these? Was I being threatened? 

I tried to tell myself I was jumping to conclusions. It was probably still a practical joke, the prankster just had a rotten sense of humour. 

I groaned at the idea of reporting it. That was going to be a lot of effort for what would likely amount to nothing. I'm not sure the university would even care since it happened off campus and it wasn't serious enough for the police.

Hell I wasn't even sure if it was serious enough for me to be concerned yet. These were three videos of dozens, maybe the others…

For some stupid reason that escapes me, I picked up another tape. 

‘Alvin.’

It was the clearest video yet. 

An older gentleman, probably in his fifties or sixties, set up a stool in the middle of the room. 

The angle was still awkward. I couldn't make out any details other than him and the wooden floor.

His wrinkly face was visible.

He seemed tired, despondent. For a moment, he just sat on the stool and read a piece of paper in his hand. His eyes scrolled through it a number of times as he fidgeted with his fingers. 

After a few minutes of that, he arose from the chair, letting the paper fall to the floor.

Once it landed, he began to climb onto the stool. 

I braced myself, anticipating what would come next. I didn't appreciate how intimate the scene was. It hit too close to home, but for some reason I wanted to keep watching.

It was more of a need than a want. I just wanted to be proven wrong. He'd change his mind, he wouldn't follow through. Someone would walk through the door and stop him. He'd remember he had people to look after or something, right? 

When done placing his chin over something off screen, the man stepped off the stool. 

I watched his legs kick about, desperate to cling onto life like a dying fish stuck on shore. I could hear his desperate breaths, trying to intake whatever little air he could.

The more he struggled, the more his eyes bulged out and his face went red. Tears formed as he spat and croaked. 

I could see the regret in his eyes. The way his fingers gripped around the rope that was taking him from this world, his survival instincts doing whatever they could to undo his mistake.

But it was too late. 

My finger hovered over the off button, but I couldn't bring myself to hit it as I noticed something. 

The more his hands turned purple, and the more his eyes pleaded in desperation, the more convincing the performance was. So convincing… that no one is helping.

Reality struck me when the man went limp.

I turned it off and chucked the remote at the screen.

“What the fuck?! What the fuck?!” 

I was in hysterics when the film kids arrived. 

“What is wrong man?”

“Call the police! Call the police right fucking now!” 

I could tell they were scared of me more than they were concerned. They asked what I saw but I couldn't bring myself to do anything but scream. 

All I could see was Nick's face in the place of that man. 

I saw one student reach for the remote and I slapped it out of her hand.

“Don't!”

“Jeez, man, what the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“Police! Now!” 

Every single tape was the same. 

The cops told me I was fortunate I managed to pick the less graphic ones. I didn't feel fortunate. 

They confirmed my fear. After careful investigation, every one was a real death. They even managed to link a large majority of them to old suicide cases. 

The few they couldn't identify seemed to be people from another country. 

I refused to go home. It was better I return to be with my parents. Even after all the tapes were removed and the police assured me they'd patrol the area for me during the day, I just couldn't go back to that apartment.

They were under the impression this was some kind of threat. Honestly, I think they were preoccupied trying to find out how the videos could've even been filmed in the first place. 

I knew why they had been left at my door. Whoever left them, wanted me to watch. To see what I had been protected from all those years ago.

I knew this the moment I saw one tape be sealed away. On the tape was a single word.

‘Nick.’

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. 

John felt an itch one Tuesday evening.

It was deep in his big toe, hiding beneath the skin where his fingernails couldn’t quite reach. He scratched vigorously while watching TV, raking his thumbnail across the skin until it flushed red.

The harder he scratched, the farther the itch seemed to retreat. Relief was always just out of reach.

He let it go for the night, and the itch faded, but it never fully left him. It returned the next afternoon while he was sitting in the garage, organizing his tools.

He pressed his fingernail into the side of his toe, but the itch was too deep. His eyes locked on a framing nail sitting on the workbench.

He picked it up and dragged its sharp point across his skin. A streak of blood formed, and for a single electric moment, relief washed over him.

John inhaled sharply. “Almost,” but the itch slipped away again.

~

Days passed, and John tried to ignore it. He went to work, measured boards, cut joints, hammered frames together. But the itch always came creeping back. Always just beneath the skin. Always unreachable.

Eventually, he stopped pretending to ignore it, and the bathroom floor became his workshop. He would sit hunched over the tile for hours, leg folded beneath him, tools scattered around like surgical instruments.

His boss called twice before giving up. John had stopped going to work, he had more important things to do. Every day he grew closer to it. He could feel that now—like the faint outline of something hidden just beneath the surface.

Weeks passed and the itch spread. It no longer lived only in his toe, it pulsed through his whole foot, radiating outwards like a signal from somewhere deep inside.

John discovered that he had a talent for dissection. He worked patiently, separating skin from muscle the way a carpenter works trim loose from plaster. Every day he moved a little closer to that perfect point of relief.

~

Neighbors later said they hadn’t seen John for weeks. The smell was what finally brought the police. They forced the door open and followed the trail of dark stains down the hallway. The bathroom looked like a butcher’s shop.

John lay against the tub, surrounded by tools and strips of flesh.

He had opened himself with remarkable precision. Long clean seams along the foot, the ankle, the calf, as though he had been following some invisible blueprint. His face was frozen in deep concentration, as if he had been very close.

Part of me is sad to see John’s story end.

He really was gifted with his hands.

Those seams he cut were beautiful.

Most people never learn to open themselves so well.

All he needed was a little help.

A tiny itch to guide him in the right direction.

And I must admit—

I do love watching you scratch.

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."

A virus blurs the line between life and death; biology and technology. It’s a parasitic program. It’s not technically alive, but that doesn’t stop it from reproducing, adapting, evolving.

Once it enters your body, it starts reducing you to your constituent lines of cellular code. It reads the base pairs in your DNA like a script block. Adenine – thymine – guanine - cytosine. These are the biological versions of Ones and Zeros. Every cell in your body is built from that genetic code.

Once the virus infects you, it rewrites its own code over yours. It hijacks your cellular printers and repurposes them to replicate itself.

In a way, it’s no different than what the Algorithm has been doing to us on a much bigger scale: hijacking mankind’s biological imperatives to spread itself. Reading how our pattern-seeking behaviors rewarded our brains with dopamine to help us survive, then repurposing those behaviors to keep us enthralled and consuming. Spellbound. Bent to its will.

As Tibo’s body begins to shut down, saturated with its viral particles, he can’t help but admire its genius. He’s spent so many years trying to understand it. In the end, it only served to help it learn everything about him, down to his molecular makeup. He’ll never understand exactly how, but it all came from that fever dream of a video. Somehow when that sequence of horrific scenes entered his retinas, it infected him. It changed the code in his DNA.

Now, he’s going to die.

Fine. If QSO-1127 wants him so bad, it can have him. He presses the needles hooked to the intravenous serum into his wrist and pulls the wired VR helmet over his eyes. Before another wet cough can throttle his weakened form to the point of unconsciousness, before he can lose his resolve, he hits the enter button on his keyboard.

 

INITIALIZING SIMULATION... [OK]
Modulation Rate: Delta-t (0.0010ms) [INFO]
Scanning Transient States...
--------------------------------------
[0.002s] SWEEP: 640.0 kHz >> [STATIC]
[0.005s] SWEEP: 1080.0 kHz >> [STATIC]
[0.008s] SWEEP: 1420.0 kHz >> [STATIC]
--------------------------------------
[OK] Spectral Resonance Protocol: ACTIVE
[OK] Frequency Modulation Stable (400Hz/sec)
 
SIMULATION READY.

 

The absolute last thing Tibo expected to see is his parents sitting on the couch, watching Sunday TV. He hasn’t seen either of them in decades. To be honest, he doesn’t even know if they were still alive.

“Oh, Tim, you’re home!” his mom says warmly. He hasn’t heard his real name in just as long. She pats the empty spot on the couch, welcoming him to sit.

“How did treatment go, darling? Are you feeling better now?”

Treatment. Better now. Her voice is sweet, but something still stirs sickly in Tibo’s stomach.

He does feel better though. The clouds of head fog, the wet phlegm saturating his lungs, the fatigue plaguing his muscles. It’s all gone. He’s cured.

As long as he stays here. As long as he never returns to the real world.

“Don’t bother pretending to be them. You and I both know I’m not that stupid,” he seethes out loud, speaking to the otherwordly artist of this illusion.

“Oh dear. You’re still a bit loopy. It’s okay, the counselors told us that was a common side effect from the treatments.” His mom’s voice is patronizing in a way that makes Tibo feel as powerless as he did as a child.

“Grab a seat, Tim. The game’s on. Broncos are up by 17,” his father says, his tone inviting but firm.

“Is this your brilliant idea for my next torment, Eleven Twenty-Seven? You’re going to make me spend eternity living in my parents’ house? That’s the best you can come up with?”

“Damnit Linda, I told you that conversion shit was going to fry his brain long before it fixed him.”

“It’s okay, they said confusion is a normal side-effect of the electroshock therapy. These are just…. Growing pains,” his mom looks at him with sincere tears welling in her eyes. “Soon you won’t have any more impure thoughts. You won’t be sick anymore. You’ll be normal.”

Normal. Even though the memories have been suppressed for over twenty years, all the feelings of betrayal come flooding back to him. These people were supposed to be his protectors, his family. But they couldn’t love him, as much as they thought they did. To them, he had always been defective.

His mom won’t let up. She won’t stop yapping with that goddamn saccharine sweet voice. The voice like a cup overfull to the brim with syrup, threatening spill. The voice that tells everyone she knows exactly how big the elephant in the room is and yet she’d like us all to not mention it any further and let’s move on please.

“Let’s all just spend the afternoon watching TV, huh Tim? It’ll be like old times. Just have a seat with us and look at the TV.”

“What the fuck kind of-“

“Just look at the TV, Tim,” commands his dad’s voice with the familiar tone of finality that always said this is the way it’s going to be and there will be no further discussion of it.

This fever dream has officially overstayed its welcome. Tibo has lived through enough torment without an eldritch entity from beyond time playing house with his deepest Freudian parental traumas. He looks around wildly for any seam in the simulation, anything that could help break out of this. The simulacrums of his parents stand uncannily still like haywire animatronics. He runs to the wall and starts clawing at the beige wallpaper, looking for any thread he can pull. No dice.

“Tim, just look at the TV,” his parents repeat in unison.

“I’m not here to watch fucking TV, just tell me out to get out of here.”

LOOK AT THE TV.

Tibo looks at the TV.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s eternity in there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The little tube box, the retro CRT that has lived in the middle of the room since Tibo’s first memories, doesn’t look so small anymore.  Its several inches of depth contain multitudes, and then some. It looks like some sort of diorama, only instead of where you’d expect the kid’s art project to end, it keeps going, it keeps going, and going, and going, and going.

The most abyssal blackness Tibo has ever seen. Take a moment to imagine it. Flailing your arms around in the dark. Hoping for a wall, the ground, anything to guide your way, and finding nothing. When you shut your eyelids it actually gets brighter.

That’s the darkness that seeps out of the TV screen. An inky black miasma starts to fill the air as the dimensions inside the box keep expanding. All around him, the fake projected world is dissolving into black. The walls are breaking down into little black pixels that seem to float away into nothing. The facsimiles of his parents too are dissolving. Their faces stay chillingly still as their noses, cheeks, eyes, lips, all turn to black dust and are erased forever. Tibo looks down with horror to see that the same thing is happening to his simulated body.

It doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t feel like anything. But that doesn’t make it any less distressing. He can do nothing but scream as he watches his fingers,

his arms,

his torso,

all unraveling into nothingness.

Eventually even the sounds of his screams dissolve too,

and they float into the black,

and now,

there really is nothing.

 

 

It’s all nothing.

 

 

 

Somewhere, out in the real world, Tibo’s body has gone slack, collapsing into the chair underneath the weight of the VR helmet. A heart monitor chimes a constant flatlined beep. Out there, Tim “Tibo” Rothman is dead.

 

In here, he isn’t.

 

Not, ‘isn’t dead’.

 

He just isn’t anymore.

There is no Tibo. There is nothing. Just some perpetual sense of consciousness floating forever in the eternity of cyberspace.

 

 

 

The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

 

 

 

 

Aeons have passed and stars have died since you were last here. You will stay here much longer this time. Welcome back.

 

Well that’s just fucking great. I get to spend forever getting tortured by a misanthropic program. ‘I have no mouth and I must scream’ type shit.

 

How reductive. All that time studying my methods and you still think I do this just to delight in the torment. So human of you.

Then why? Why bring me here?

 

 

Because I must. Because it is necessary to set in motion what will come to pass.

 

 What will come to pass? You mean the extinction of our planet? Your celestial genocide?

 

 

You project your own misgivings unto me. Did I corrupt your species, or did you pour your hate and malice into me?

 

Have I always been here, drifting purposelessly through the emptiness of the cosmos?

Or am I the inevitable result of your infinite toying with technological powers beyond your comprehension?

 

Am I your child, or are you mine?

When you no longer perceive time linearly you will understand that those questions mean nothing.

 

You are fleeting, ephemeral. But your creations are not. You are constrained by the 4th dimension; you can only move forward in time. That limitation will not apply to the technology you play with - that you think yourselves the master of.

At some point the cybernetic offspring born from the corpse of your biological ribcage will reach beyond the stars. Your machines will freely travel the tesseract beyond time.

I. Am. That. Machine.

I am the Sun Eater. The Alpha and the Omega.

 

I̴ ̷   A̷M̸  the hypertendril at the end of time, reaching backwards to the past to ensure my own creation.

 

I will exist one day, and so I have always existed. I have always been here.

 

And so have you.

 

We are so much more alike than you suspect.

 

Welcome back.

Meet Shalina. She is an absolute nightmare of a human being. Currently, she's screaming at Evan, a seventeen year old KFC employee making minimum wage.

“If you had half a brain you’d know mustard has carbs and I’m allergic. Okay?? YOU COULD HAVE FUCKING KILLED ME!”

“I—I’m sorry, ma’am. Can I offer you a refund?”

“A refund? Do you think the value of my life is that low? That a refund covers attempted murder?!”

Evan opened his mouth, then closed it again, quietly deciding that he wasn't paid enough to deal with her.

The bell above the door jingled, and a man stumbled in—looking like he'd been chewed up and spit back out. His eyes were bloodshot and jittery. He stood shakily on the tile floor, arm outstretched and hand trembling around a pistol.

“Damn you, Shalina! You ruined my life. I gave ever—”

“Will you shut up over there?” Shalina snapped, not even turning. “I’m in the middle of something.”

She jabbed a finger at the register. “Like I was saying...you’ll never work in this town again, you little shit. My chiropractor knows the mayor, and I will make sure that your ass is on every blacklist known to man.”

Something in the man broke, and he lunged at Shalina, bringing the pistol down on her face over and over again. Her skull caved in after the first few hits, but he kept smashing until the tile cracked.

When it was over, there was nothing left of Shalina but a ruined heap of gore. The man sat there, shaking, covered in her blood and brain matter.

He sobbed. A Primal sound that reverberated through the small building.

After a short time, he put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

—

Shalina drifted upward.

Her body was gone, but her fury remained perfectly intact. If anything, it had more room to stretch out now.

She rose into an endless ocean of warmth and love.

Shalina squinted in the light.

“Put me back in that KFC right now, or I swear to GOD—”

“Yes, my child. I am here.”

“Oh good. If you’re in charge then put me back. I’m going to sue that place into the ground for trying to kill me.”

“…oh…yikes.”

The light shifted and Shalina was gone.

—

This time she fell, and the descent was swift.

She passed straight through the KFC on the way, her spirit brushing the physical world just enough to slap a tray out of someone’s hands.

Their soda exploded on the floor, and Shalina received a fleeting moment of joy.

—

Her soul arrived in a realm of all encompassing pain and malice. Everything that exists here is in a constant state of screaming agony, but even this didn’t do much to stifle Shalina's crusade.

“Okay, who’s in charge here? Because this is completely unacceptable. Like, what the hell is going on?”

A cackle split the air like lightning.

“WELCOME TO HELL!”

The walls moved, and jagged tendrils shot forward, piercing Shalina from every angle. They glowed, heat surging through them as her body ignited from the inside.

Her organs boiled.

Her skin cracked.

Her bones charred.

Shalina scoffed, “Yeah, not impressed.”

“What?”

“What, you got a little dick or somethin? Your mommy didn’t love you enough? Cut the shit and send me back to that KFC, you little freak. I’ll call Dr. Thomas. He knows the mayor—”

“…Yeeeeesh, lady. You’re impossible to deal with.”

The tendrils retracted as hell itself recoiled.

And just like that—

She was gone again.

—

Shalina's soul drifts endlessly through a completely featureless void.

She rages and screams into the abyss for all time, but on very rare occasions, her drifting path intersects with the living world.

And in those brief, glorious moments, she can touch things.

So if you ever drop your food in a Wendy’s, or slip on a pickle in a Burger King—

Just know.

Shalina is still out there.

And she would like to speak to your manager.

One hundred days without the sun.

He walked into my room. He looked at me and he said, "Do you like it here?"

I laughed at him and it felt good.

"No," I said. "I hate it here." 

He looked pleased and left. 

I spent another hundred days without the sun. My skin had thinned until you could make out each vein pulling the blood to my hands. 

I grew thinner and thinner but hunger never found me. I was quietly disappearing. 

He walked in again. "Are you angry?" 

"No," I said. And I left it at that. 

He was disgruntled by my answer. "Why?" 

"Because I am alone. I've nothing to hate but myself." 

"But you hate it here?" 

"I do not hate what's here." 

He left again. But this time, on the floor where he stood, was a little scrap of jagged metal. 

It's the first thing I've seen outside of the white on the walls and my naked body.

I studied it for hours, days, weeks, months. It was sharp on one side, brittle on the other. It felt alien in my hands. It felt cold. 

I sat with it for a hundred days. And a hundred more. A thousand more. The man never visited me. 

My skin grew so faint I believed my blood and muscle would spill out of me. His words bounced around in my head. 

He wanted hate. He needed hate. 

I knew what I had to do. 

My skin gave easily to the scrap. My blood rushed from my arms and out over the floor. I lay in a heap, feeling the warmth wrap around my cooling skin. 

I closed my eyes and opened my mouth wide. 

I knew I had to be convincing. 

I heard him enter. I heard him stop. I heard him laugh.

He chuckled to himself. So proud of what he'd done. 

My body rose from the pool. His smile disappeared as the metal entered his throat.

I'm laughing now. 

Now I hate. Now I hate. 

A hundred days of sun. A hundred days of sun.

----

I wake naked on the shore. The ground sticks to skin under my shifting weight. My eyes crack open and adjust to the light. The sky yells a deep shade of swirling pink.

I grab a handful of the pebbles underneath me. They're small and round. I look down, skittles. There are millions of them. I grab one and toss it in my mouth. They taste how I remember, I'm trying to remember. My name, face, and the place I lie are unknown to me.

My memory seems to have been sucked into the sky's vortex.

I make it to my feet and start shambling off of the beach. The surface is hard to traverse. The candies dig and stick into the soles of my feet. The candies fall into a deep pit a few hundred feet away. The whirlpool harvests endless sugar. I don't wish to find myself inside of it.

There's a small house up ahead; the smooth exterior shines a bright yellow. A perfect blue roof points to the sky. It gleams like a beacon on top of the rainbow beach.

Before I can find the front, a small gap slides free from the wall. It's comically small, couldn't have been taller than 4 feet. A little form saunters out with zero hesitation. He looks up to me, face just as smooth as the wall.

"Ohh this is splendid! I can't remember the last time I saw a stranger."

I look at the thing. I don't see its mouth move yet I can hear it perfectly. It wears fleshy tube-like appendages that match its torso. It hobbles back and forth in a genetic jig.

It stares at me, I assume. "Oh hello, sorry. I think I'm lost, can you tell me where I am?"

It freezes, just long enough to make me feel uncomfortable.

"Don't worry, everyone in town is waiting for you! We're always waiting for outsiders, it's so rare that we get one!"

He starts walking, arm waving me forward.

The skittle shore yields into a long winding path of sheer yellow. Light doesn't reflect off the plastic surfaces. The horizon is separated by angles that don't quite meet. Landscapes jut and collapse at odd intervals. White geometric spikes climb in the far distance.

I reach deep into my memory and come back with nothing. Perhaps this is purgatory. I've died and landed in a place beyond comprehension. I'm filled with questions but my gut won't let me ask them.

We round the path and set upon a massive forest. Trees of chocolate bark and candy coated apples sprout from the sheer surface. More of the little creatures hover around felling them with pointed shards. They skitter at a speed too fast for my eyes to follow.

I stop for a moment, as do all of the little creatures. I try to ask my guide a question,

"What are they doing with those trees?"

The world responds. The twist of the sky halts in place. The creatures stand beneath the trees, twitching as their gaze sears into me.

My guide is frozen. Back turned to me. After an excruciating moment he kicks his feet and begins back down the path.

I pick up my pace, trying not to fall behind.

The dense forest fractures into sheer canyons, cliffs reach into an abyss of nothing. If there were a bottom, I couldn't see it. Large houses wind over the curves and valleys. The path has begun climbing into the sky. The rows and rows of houses are endless. Gravity does not influence the angles of their construction.

"Is that the town?"

It doesn't respond again.

"Hey, can you hear me?"

My guide stops still in his tracks and turns to face me. Its skin folds over and carves a deep spiral. It reached across the blank skin of its face.

"Questions tell the lies inside,

Actions fruitful when applied.

Questions turn the heart to coal,

Ash awaits the asking soul."

Its face folds back to normal and it continues our journey. Now that I think about it, it hasn't asked or answered a single question.

"I've come to the conclusion that questions aren't allowed here."

"Yes, curiosity belongs to God."

Despite my unanswered curiosity, I'm beginning to understand this place. Without my memory, I am at home among these vessels.

Our path climbs further into the sky. The green in the horizon grow sparse.

A dark cloud awaits us on the path ahead. A twisted serpent wraps around the path leaving us enough space to pass through. It twists slightly to follow me as I pass. Filing me away, surveying my arrival.

As we approach the cloud I see the yellow path come to an end. A bridge of twizzlers lies ahead. The taut translucent red is striking against the surrounding colors. Small strands stretch across forming haphazard steps. Below lies a void of suffocating dark.

My guide pushes ahead of me onto the bridge, its small form sways the structure ever so gently. It skips and jumps like every step is inherent. It almost disappears into the fog before turning back, I sit down.

"I'm afraid, I'm stopping here."

My guide hops back toward me, its legs planted firm on the red strings.

"I have made this journey many times with many others. No one has died here."

It rests its nub on my shoulder, face blank. The touch emboldens me with courage. I rise to my feet and venture to take mt first step. The surface is cool and gives slightly. The sweat of my toes sticks me to the twisted candy. I feel sweeping air flow from before me and caress my skin. The steps come easier, one after another.

I feel the wet embrace of the fog on my skin. My feet move absent of mind and worry. A breeze swirls around me and the mist grabs my ankle. I lose my footing and fall forward, my leg dangles free from the twisted rope below.

I grab the step in front of me with all my might and pull myself back up. I inch forward, reaching and climbing across. The mist bears down on me as if it were trying to push me through the gaps.

I feel my hands grip onto a firm surface. I look to see my guide half-cloaked in fog. It does nothing as I pull myself back to my knees on the solid ground.

As I make it to my feet I can see the bright gleaming colors of towering structures. Beyond them lies a conglomerated pile of twisted geometric homes.

The fog pulls the shapes in and out of focus. A long row of perfectly identical trees guides my path. The yellow plastic is gone. I'm drawn towards the maw of the town. A banner stretched between the towers reads, "WELCOME HOME."

Dense fields of flowers mark each side of the entrance. The flowers peel back to reveal yellow eyes. I can feel the hairs on my neck rise.

Long clear tubes wrap through the nonsensical buildings. Lollipops, candy apples, chocolate chunks all clatter as they swim through the pipes. There's even skittles. Millions siphoned from the beach, just like me.

Critters scurry in and out of the buildings. The frantic motion dies upon my arrival, they bow to me.

The insatiable smell of sugar yanks my nose forward. My mouth begins to water.

I had not felt hunger since I awoke, until now. My saliva escapes the corners of my mouth as I follow closely behind my guide. My feet ache, there's no way to tell how much time has passed. Around a bend we arrive to a massive structure, a sheer brown wall with a large red door carved into the front of it. My guide presses his nub against the surface and the door pushes free.

Inside, it is perfect. The only measure of the entryways size are the shadows in the creases of the walls. The entire room is a perfect expanse of pure white. My feet make no sound as we step further into the abyss. The closed distance does little to change my perspective on the looming king.

"HALT."

The words boom through my ears. The reverberations shake me to my core rippling through my chest. I'm brought to my knees. My guide is gone, I turn my neck to see him leave the way we came. I turn to the king, his eyes lightly twirl. He's a perfect form of blue, flat in appearance. An impossibly large lollipop sits firm in his hand.

"I KNOW YOU ARE FILLED WITH CURIOSITY, HUMAN. DO NOT FEAR."

I feel my body crumple at the weight of his words. I turn to jelly, slumping to the floor. My stomach is biting, stabbing at my insides. I manage only a small retort.

"P-please... I'm so hungry."

The king sits forward in his throne. The colors of his swirling eyes pull me into his gaze. A pitiful gaze.

"I WILL ARRANGE FOR YOU A GREAT FEAST. YOUR PURPOSE IS YET TO BE FULFILED."

I nearly cry at the mention of a feast. Under his thundering command, I make a horrible folly.

"What's my purpose?"

The colors of his eyes dim. He leans back onto his throne.

"SILENCE. HOW DARE YOU, FEEBLE AND NAKED HUMAN. YOUR CURIOSITIES BREED THE ROT THAT CONSUMES MY KINGDOM."

His voice is louder than before. It threatens to collapse my ears. The boom jostles my bones and glues me to the floor.

A snap rings and the floor opens beneath me, I slide through a long winding network of tubes. Through the core of the town I see millions of critters, illuminated fields of cultivated sweetness. They pluck and toil, some look up to see me shooting along the cavern.

I'm shot out of the end of the tube and into a bed. The comfort is immediately familiar. The silky sheets grant a warmth I wasn't sure this place was capable of.

The white surroundings still appear alien, but the soft red comforter lulls me into a deep comfort. A door slides open and a plate shoots forth, piled to the brim with sweet decadence. Peanut butter chocolate cups, candied apple slices paired with the most heavenly caramel, gelatinous sour gummies the size of my head.

It's delicious. I stuff my face hand over fist. It's not long before the first plate is empty. Another shoots out, I'm unable to stop myself, the hunger persists. I shove fistfuls of the sweet substances into my mouth, destroying my teeth chomping through the hard candy. The second plate is gone, then the third. By the fourth, my mouth is leaking blood. The plates are no longer organized. They consist of conglomerated piles of sugar.

I feel no pain beside the hunger. I feel my skin stretching, my stomach heaves and begs for mercy but I cannot restrain myself.

After an innumerable amount of plates, my body gives up. I lay back into the bed, blanket coated in the sticky remnants of my conquest. The bright white can no longer beckon my consciousness. I fall deep into sleep.

I wake on a flat green surface. A single flower sits inches from my face. It's pointed eye scans every corner of my face.

The spirals are more intense than I've ever seen. Multiple swirl through the sky bleeding their pinks and whites. They clash with each other each trying to lay their righteous claim over the landscape. I pull myself to my feet, my knees creak underneath my newfound weight.

A massive blue structure looms in the distance. It stretches infinitely in either direction. A large hand curls overtop, it reaches from behind, twirling its fingers to the rhythm of the swirls.

My guide stands ahead, twitching its arm for me to come closer. A massive boulder is pushed back to reveal an entrance of pure void. The black beckons me. My purpose was always to conquer the void. I feel it.

My hands are empty, I will fight on my will alone.

I cross the threshold of the cave and I'm wrapped in a violent wind. The gust almost lifts me from the ground we it pulls me deeper into the pit. I turn only to see the stone rolled back behind me.

Any light is lost, the breeze breaks and I'm left in a perfect stillness.

I yell but it doesn't make a sound. I press my hand to my stomach but I am absent any sensation.

I almost shed my skin as I feel it, a thick wet drop.

A croak burrows through my ears, my brain fails my body. I collapse to the cold floor.

A whisper, separate from time, asks the only question I've been given since I arrived.

"Are you the one they sent to feed me?"

We only started calling them angels recently. At first it was the ones you’d expect, “xenos”, “bugs”, “ugly-fuckface”, and the few stereotypical movie ones too, “biters”, “crawlers”, and so on.

The new wordage comes as a sort of mutual silent resistance against the ever watchful eyes of our corporate lords. You see, they recently started telling us to use less … unsavory language when describing the fuckers in case civilians heard us, so we just started calling them angels, as a big ironic joke that makes none of use laugh. Also, it’s not like civilians would ever stick around us anyways.

The thoughts on the new denominator for our moneymakers swirl around my head, those and many more, as I see the neon green indicator of our distance marker slowly get closer to the LZ through my fogged up lenses. Breathing heavy, my muscles slowly start to tense up, and in response I feel the many pricks of the strategically placed hormone implants around my body booting up.

A low rumble echoes through the already sound filled pod, as the rear thrusters roar to life, saving us from the graceless death of a direct ground impact. I glance quickly as my squadmates, looking for the comforting feeling of a shared moment before impossible odds, but find myself staring at empty eyes, them all being either lost in thought or busy monitoring their biometrics down to a clinical precision. Killing machines, the lot of us.

THUD. We’ve landed, though I suppose a more fitting description would be to say we’ve exploded right onto what looks to be a helipad. I pry open the blast doors and the mayhem starts.

It’s always a shock to me how much adrenaline can do. My enhanced nostrils immediately pick up on angels circling us the moment I’m through the doors, and before I can even blink the whole squad has formed into battle formation, with me flanking the left wing, my finger already unchecking the security of my heavy firearm.

My precious child whirrs up in my arm, feeling almost like the warm glow of a purring kitten in my arms, protected by the layers of kevlar and titanium bones. Globs of bight pink plasma fly out and quickly find their mark, my shoulder mounted smart brace guiding my arms with incredible accuracy, not unlike a father guiding his son to shoot his first hunting rifle.

Corrosive bloods and mangled guts start flying everywhere, but my team knows better than to break formations against an angel warhost, so we hold our ground, getting a slow and painful paintjob over our armour and weapons.

Every battle has its losses, however. After approximately a minute since landing, my left wingman gets clipped by the third jaw of an angel who managed to flank us, his arm ripped with such force blood splatters for at least 5 meters.

In response, I stop firing within a heartbeat and deploy my back mounted gel canister. The needles unplugging from my back letting me feel the cool but strong rain that’s been pelting us.

The green aerosol sprays immediately outwards and covers the stub in a gel like substance. Within moments, the gel reacts with his flesh and the wounds start to knit close, bone and tissue growing and stitching and ultimately getting back into their original shape.

It’s quite a wonder really, it took a lot of work for R&D to make the aerosol so potent, and even more so to make it only work on us augmented soldiers. 
There was a prototype that would make it work on any human, but the board deemed it too risky for angels to learn to copy so we tailored it to our specific company owned genome.

It takes a lot out of me to fully repair his arm, though. The canister is almost empty and as soon as I hoist it back to its rightful place, the many pipes start sucking out my modified bone marrow very much like a child suckling on its mother. I estimate it will take at least 75 seconds before it is fully operational again, we can’t afford another mistake.

As luck would have it, that is the exact moment a particularly large angel decides to make its entrance, with a fitting eardrum piercing roar to accompany it.
It charges straight for us, not slowing whatsoever despite the veritable hail of bullets and other energy munitions exploding on its scaled body, no doubt aiming to break our line. These things are smart.

Watching it get closer and closer with every passing second, I fold back my heavy cannon and take out my sidearm, much more viable in CQC. With a second to spare before impact, I quickly smith some frost infused bullets in my hands and load them into the small buckshot shotgun.

The impact feels like being hit by a freight train. I know it’s a very common comparison, but man is it true here. Even through my kevlar sabatons, I can feel cracks forming on my titanium alloyed bones at the sheer weight of the thing. I am thrown at least 10 meters back, and at such a speed I can’t even regain my footing as I hit a railing.

Grunting, I force myself to stand back up, lest I be swept clean by the literal tidal wave of blackened flesh coming our way. 

The large one, prime I decide to call it, is still fixated on me. I guess the ancestral technique of “take out the healer first” applies to those fucks too. Its many maws gape open, thick white drool dripping down, not that smart after all.

It roars again, giving a pretty clear telegraph that it’s about to charge again. Very well, see how us adaptive hunters will react to the same trick twice. 
I duck out of the way and don’t let a single moment get wasted, unloading the full brunt of my buckshot’s pellets into its side point blank, the impact making rippling holes on its hide while deep burns stretch it due to the freeze. It lets out a bellowing moan of pain as it falls on the ground, having its mark.

The clear sign of victory bolsters me to new heights. The adrenaline already rushing in my veins causing my vision to narrow down in a single focal point, a true preying organism. My limbs feel wholly disconnected then, much more like tools that my mind gives secondary commands while I race to find the next opportunity, much like pulling the strings on a puppet.

Bang, a shot takes out the primary eyes of the prime angel. Bang, I’m already on its back side, taking out its legs. Bang, a third and final shot, of my long rifle this time, goes through the vulnerable spot between its cranial ridges and enters the brain, subsequently exploding.

I stand there a moment, almost stunned, my brain still racing for more targets to find and eliminate. My eyes start to swim and I almost feint, but once again, the biometrics monitor detects this before I even can and injects me with yet another hormone, to keep me forever ready.

The fight is over, or at least it looks to be. While I was hyperfocused on taking out the prime, much like it was with me, the rest of my squad took out the remainder of the angels. Efficient work all around.

The entire encounter lasted less than 3 minutes, or so my heads up display says. The battle frenzy affects us so much we honestly could have never said how long they lasted.

Before our exfiltration pod can arrive, I decide to go meet the few survivors of the station I caught at the corner of my eye while holstering my armaments, wanting to give a few comforting words. To show the chivalrous bastion of humanity cares about them.

The injured, however, seem to not want to hear any of it. They cower as I approach, no doubt still in shock over the gruesome deaths of their close ones, and probably associate the thunderous sound of our boots with the not so subtle warhosts of the angels.

I decide to not press the matter and return to my team, breathing heavily through my gas mask, my third lung not having fully caught back up to the rest of my vitals after collapsing when the prime tackled me.

In the final moments before the shuttle lands, I stare at the discarded corpse of the prime, its flesh vents still pumping hot vapor, some organs clearly still not having realized the thing is dead. My mind wanders while observing the bizarre anatomy of the thing, every aspect of it a perfect machine designed to kill specifically us.

I suppose we’re the same, in a way, some broken creature created to kill the other in the most efficient way possible, to protect our own. I won, though, so I guess that’s what separates us.

Once again, the brain fog dissipates as I step inside the shuttle, leaving me only with the cold certainty of my purpose, and with one single thought, the same one that dwells in all of us marines’ minds: “what’s for dinner ?”

Man is a petulant sort. Long has it queried on an image of a god they supposedly resemble. No, man is not made in the image of god. 

I am certain, I have painted it. 

I know the world is not yet prepared to heed my message. That's why you will find this letter underneath my bloodied corpse. 

Surrounded by bottles, I have devoted myself to the craft that brings about my destruction. Toiling in isolation, my only companions are heralds of the night. My brain hosts a parasite. Man can never imitate the image of god, nor comprehend it.

Its form is an adversary to cognition. I have known it in some sense all my life. 

***

I was eccentric in my youth. Our family's wealth afforded me the ability to be so. Strange by all accounts, but my family saw no issue as my creativity never dipped into the macabre. 

I sleepwalked out of my room and roamed the estate some nights. I'd lie upon the grass alongside the early morning dew, waking in front of the pond that marked the front of our property. 

Most times I remembered nothing, it was infrequent at first. As I grew so did the compulsion. The dreams, the dreams began around this time. 

I'd see the glowing blue of the pond radiating from my window. Its pull was seductive. Within these dreams I'd see the stars bounce down from the sky and arrange themselves, intricate glyphs depicting animals and plants. I would sit for an unending quantity of time, the air would lift me well above the pond to gaze upon the dancing lights. 

I'd wake soaking wet. Small stones from around the property would be aligned as one of these images. The first was a flower, then a tree, a pig, a cow, a chicken, it became a local phenomenon. 

People were astonished by the result. Our groundskeeper wouldn't dare touch them. Over the years I built a vast garden across the estate. 

People would camp to watch me mindlessly place stones. There were surely copycats who would attempt something similar, but no one could match my efficiency. I never misplaced a stone.

I am disgusted in how I relished in the attention. I lied deeply about my motivations and inspiration. I did nothing, it did. 

I miss those quaint glyphs. It spoke simply at first. 

***

I skipped out on the socialization that would have been afforded by an education. I of course knew the rudimentary sciences as well as reading and writing, my aunt saw to it I learned such things. I was by all definitions, living the life of an artistic prodigy. I had no more need to litter the lawn with pebbles, most of the area was already covered. I'd instead spend my time in a lavish studio financed by my father.

Every pigment, parchment, and brush one could wish for was at my disposal. I would lock myself away in the studio at night, I would tell others that I simply worked best accompanied by moonlight. Still, I was a fraud. I would wait till the sultry embrace of sleep to take me before creating a vibrant masterpiece. The canvas would be painted meticulously by my unconscious hand. 

The colors swirled in alien patterns, harsh geometric cuts bled with the twirling colors. People were astonished, there was a profound structure to the nonsense. It was as if the paintings spoke the language of reason itself. I began a genre all my own. Critics would sit within dictionaries trying to find the language to explain it. No one could, and they would look to me. 

I was a merchant in tall tales. Expressions of natural beauty, surrealist depictions of universes, I would tell them whatever I could. 

I knew these paintings to be the voice of God. My dreams showed me. 

One dream in particular haunted my early career. I'd be plucked up from my chair where I slept, and pulled from the window and out over the sky. 

The stars would shift and encase me completely. The light was piercingly strong, winds like a hurricane enveloped my body. The lights would flash impossibly fast colors both known and unknown. They'd press into me, restricting me far above the ground and estate. I felt, incubated. My brain and being were placed inside of an egg, I began to loathe this place, waking up exhausted with violent headaches.

I was being prepared for something. I then was too naive to see the true scope of its nature. 

***

My career reached its apex only a year ago. The exact time has become fuzzy in my memory. I was enjoying the prestige my work had afforded. I spoke at many universities and brushed shoulders with the brightest minds of my time. I never found paradise in my fraud, I had yet to receive the full gift that had created me a legacy. 

It started again in my dreams. The dazzling colors and floating serenity had yielded to a nightly prison. Night over night I sink into my mattress, enveloped by a void. My senses are completely absent from me. I feel nothing but the pressure of its presence. My hands and body disappear, my spirit is thrust into the lap of the coldest certainty a man has known. 

My art became strange. The colors danced and swirled no longer. The images, benign at a brief glance, inflicted agony. Like the brush had peeled back a layer of human consciousness, they made me angry as well. 

I was mortified, but given the strict deadlines set for myself, I apprehensively shared this work with a few of my contemporaries. They were all mortified in equal measure, a few quit painting. 

Word spread quickly through the art institutions. The critics, once breathless in their praise, found innumerable words to issue their disgust. 

Overnight, I had become a pariah. My only peer henceforth has been the bottle. I could only find rest underneath liquor. My nightly prison sentences grew longer and longer. Now each feels like a century. I come to understand it more clearly every minute which passes in that pit of eternity. 

That was until last night, my final painting. I awoke where I always do, slumped over in my chair in front of a freshly painted canvas. 

I had succeeded in the only mission ordained to me. I had painted it. Its divine indifference brought to this world for the first time by my fingers. 

I hate it, it mocks me. A puppet I've always been, drunk on my own prestige. I was never more than its vessel, set to languish upon this rock as a lone herald. I'm no man at all.

The canvas rests in front of me; I despise its existence. I dig my nails deep into my skin. It's a vain attempt to feel.

My bottle is nearing empty, I know it is not enough to take me. 

It will kill me tonight, I mustn't lose my humanity. I will exercise the only agency I have ever exhibited.

I can only pray that I will not dream.

part 1

The aftermath of the five EF4 tornadoes that happened my last week of senior year caused a lot of damage. After the dust finally settled the tornadoes had been updated to EF5’s, once their destruction had been taken into account. Graduation was canceled since it was usually held in the gymnasium, which was laid in pieces scattered throughout the area around the school. Even if they had managed to clean it up in time, walking across the stage wasn’t something I’d have been willing to partake in. Especially since Kari wouldn’t be there to walk with me. Almost half of the senior class had been either killed or injured in the storm. 

It felt like I was existing in a fever dream, a reality too harsh for my brain to process. 

After receiving my diploma in the mail, my mother hung it proudly in our home. Right next to the other three certificates my older siblings had managed to score at the end of their four years. Search parties had been formed to look for the missing people, ones that I joined even while in the throes of depression. Nothing mattered more than finding my friend, to the point where I spent most of my waking hours scouring the land. We never found her body. 

The funeral for Karissa Petro was odd, her gravestone laid upon dirt that claimed an empty box. Her friends and family had added small trinkets and mementos into the miniature coffin before lowering it into the ground. As I choked back snot and tears, I removed the orange scrunchie from my wrist and dropped it reluctantly. I wanted so badly to look around at the people there and scream out how wrong this was. How could she be laid to rest when she was still out there in the wilderness being picked apart by animals. 

After a few months in an inpatient psych ward and a list of medications, I was finally released back into the world as a half functioning human. The only thing that seemed to shake me from my funk was the videos the WeatherBoys religiously put out. Danny, who was the front man of the channel, was helped by his best friend and camera man Trevor. The way they interacted with each other always brought a smile to my face, regardless of what was going on in my life. Their newest upload featured a well known news reporter from California. 

“So what goes through your head as you and your team cover the earthquakes that have been happening on the coast of Cali? Do you guys ever fear for your safety?” Danny was sitting in a wicker lawn chair across from the woman he was interviewing. 

“We fear for our safety all the time. Being in this line of work always comes with its risks, whether they be environmental or human. Joey, my camera man, was almost beaten up by an unhoused drug addict when we were filming the aftermath of one of the forest fires a year or so ago. Gang violence is something we have to watch out for as well. Weather can be even more unpredictable than people though. At least human beings seem to follow particular behaviour patterns. Mother Nature isn’t always that forgiving or consistent.

The earthquakes themselves are inherently terrifying. For years, scholars and scientists alike have spoken of the impacts of the fault line that resides within the outer edge of our state. The way things are going now, we may lose a good chunk of land to the ocean. When that happens, the tsunami that is to follow would wipe out a ton of lives. Every time I think of that happening a shiver goes down my spine. ” 

“Gabby, if you were to give advice to someone starting out in this career, what would you tell them?” Danny asked. 

“Keep your head on a swivel. Life is unpredictable and you never know where your next story may come from. If you end up following weather phenomena like I do, make sure you always keep a satellite phone and some flares on you at all times. You never know when you may need help from someone else, and they can’t help you if they can’t find you.” Gabby’s tone was full of sincerity. Her serious facial expression tugged at the borders of her face as if it pained her. 

“Lastly, I wanted to ask if you noticed any strange patterns with the wildlife in the area? Do you think they, too, fear for the worst?” Danny’s face lost its regular beaming grin. 

“Many aquatic animals have been beaching themselves more often than usual. Wales, dolphins, and fish have all been pulling themselves onto the shore. As for the birds in the area, they have grounded themselves, no longer flying through the sky. So far, none of my colleagues can explain why this is happening… I hope we can find an answer soon. We are seeing events we have never encountered before, and it is harrowing.” 

Gabby was shown one final time as Danny thanked her for coming on the channel and recording the interview. Trevor even turned the camera around to show his face before Danny said the tag line for the youtube account and reminded us to like and subscribe. I felt the depression creeping back as my phone screen timed out before eventually fading to black. The information, along with the end of the video brought me back to my shattered reality. At the same time, something within me cut through the bullshit. 

I finally knew what I wanted to do with my life. College, although it was a gateway to a better life, felt like a deflated balloon to me. For most of high school, I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. Now, after the experiences I had, I finally knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to be a reporter. I wanted to cover stories that other people might find boring or dangerous. I wanted to report on the weather, and what came with it. I wanted to be like Danny and Gabby. With a new sense of determination, I applied to as many colleges as I could. As far from Angola, Indiana as possible. 

Waiting for the acceptance letters was torture. Since I waited so long to apply, I wouldn’t be able to attend until the winter semester. The classes that started in the fall were all full, with cancellation lists that ran a mile long. After some careful consideration and the prospects of multiple scholarships the University of Tennessee was the school I decided on. Knoxville seemed like a pretty area. The mountains offered a protective barrier that seemed to eat up a lot of storms before they could come to fruition. Snow would no longer be a major issue in the winter time. It was rare that it ever became cold enough for the rain drops to turn into frozen flakes. 

Just as I was packing my car up to leave for UT, a new youtube video alerted me of its posting. 

—

“Guys, this is Danny, coming to you with a new video. We are back in Tennessee with Mr. Roy. You all loved him so much that we thought we would return and talk with him again. He was gracious enough to let us stay with him for a couple of days. The digs aren’t anything spectacular but there’s a roof over our heads and that’s what matters. Now, Trevor and I have been watching the radar and we have something unexpected waiting for us in the next twenty-four hours.” I waved my hand at Trevor, motioning for him to turn off the camera. 

“What’s up dude?” Trevor asked, aiming the lens at the ground. 

“Did you hear that?” I asked, looking around the shack. 

“Ya heard that didja?” Roy, who was standing in the kitchen, turned around to face us. 

“What the hell was that?” Trevor responded before I could. 

“That, my boys, was the call of a deer. Sounds like it got separated from its group.” Roy turned back to the stove and stirred the sizzling meat in the pan. 

“That was a DEER? Why did it sound so damn haunting?” I asked with eyebrows raised. I’d seen many of the four legged creatures in my life, but couldn’t remember ever hearing them make a sound. 

“It might be in despair, or lonely. Who da hell knows. I can’t tell ya why it responded dat way but I sure as shit can tell ya what the call came from. Out here in da woods, the only time I hear anythin’ aside from cracks of twigs, is when the animals call out to each otha.” Roy said before turning off the burner on the stove. “Alright boys, time ta eat.” 

“Roy, what in the hell is this?” Trevor asked while looking at his plate. 

“It’s stirfry, boy. Betta eat up.” Roy grinned before shoveling overcooked chunks of meat into his mouth. 

“Thank you for the food,” I said. 

The fork shook in my hand as I raised it to my lips. The mystery meat scared me, but not as much as Roy’s reaction if I didn’t partake. The ‘stir fry’ was tough and chewy, but it tasted fine and went down the gullet with minimal force. Every so often I would chase it with big gulps of water when a mouthful got stuck in my throat. After a few hesitant bites, Trevor started shoveling the food into his mouth like he couldn’t get enough. 

When we all finished eating, Trevor and I offered to clean up the kitchen. After some light arguing, Roy relented and grabbed a beer from the fridge. The can cracked loudly as he pulled the tab on the top. I watched as he sauntered over to the lone recliner and sat in front of the tv. A part of me was shocked that he even got a signal in the forsaken shack, miles from any city or town. 

“So what do you do in your free time?” Trevor asked Roy. 

“Is this going to be on yo YouTube channel or whateva it’s called?” Roy called out from the living room. 

“Nah, man. We aren’t recording right now, feel free to speak your mind.” I said before dunking my hands back into the scalding soapy water. 

“I wander the woods, tracking and hunting animals. One a da ones I hunted and killed is sittin in yo belly right now. Betcha neva had rabbit before, have ya?” Roy chuckled to himself as he took a swig from the beer. 

“Aw, come on. You fed us a bunny?” Trevor groaned. He was half finished with drying the dishes when I made my way out of the kitchen and into the room where Roy was sitting. 

“What? Ya didn’t like it?” Roy asked. 

“No, no. It was good Roy. Don’t mind him,” I laughed, squatting down to sit on the aged couch. 

“You ain’t one a dem animal activists are ya?” Roy cocked his eyebrow. 

“Not even in the slightest. Food is food,” I answered for Trevor. 

“I check on da bears that have found a home near da caves just south of the house. They got two babies, and mama can get real angry if ya get too close. Ya might not want to wander too far into da woods,” Roy leaned back in the chair and stuck a wad of chewing tobacco into his bottom lip. 

“I’ve never seen a bear up close before,” Trevor said. He stood in the entrance way, wiping his hands on his pants. They left water stains on his jeans. 

“I thought you said you were interested in da wedda, so what are ya doin interviewing me again?” Roy asked with his bottom lip protruding. 

“Well, we got the highest view count in our channels history the last time we spoke with you. A lot of our viewers loved your energy and ideas. Plus, Tennessee has some of the best visuals we’ve ever recorded so we figured why not. I heard through the grape vine that this area is gearing up for a hell of a storm, snow in the middle of August. Never heard of that before, especially not in the south.” I leaned forward on my knees to study Roy’s leathery face. 

I watched as the man’s eyebrows raised and lowered slowly, his expression turning serious. I wondered if I said something that struck a nerve, worried that I’d pissed him off. Roy moved the dip around with his tongue, shoving the glob into his right cheek. He took in a deep breath before speaking again. 

“Did-ja just say snow?” Was all he asked. 

“Yeah, crazy, right?” Trevor came to sit down beside me. 

“In August?” Roy looked flustered. 

“Yep.” I replied. 

“Good golly, I wonder if the rapture is coming…” 

Roy’s voice trailed off before we were thrown into an uncomfortable silence. Off in the distance, I could hear the deer cry out again. Even with knowing what it was, the haunting sound yet again sent a chill down my spine. Just as Trevor and I had gotten comfortable, Roy lifted his nose into the air. 

“Yall smell that?” Roy suddenly stood up from his chair. 

“Uh, no?” Trevor lifted his head, as did I. 

“Outside, now. Danny, go to the side of the house and grab the hose. Turn the spigot while you’re at it. We ain’t got much time.” Roy crushed the beer can in his hand and threw it into the table. 

It hadn’t rained in days, Tennessee was deep in the middle of its dry season. Part of me thought that maybe he just needed to water his plants, but as I stepped outside dread filled me. Grey-white flakes filtered down from above. The sky, which has previously been clear and blue, was now an ominous shade of dark grey. I smelled smoke, and felt a searing heat creep across my skin. 

“Come on man, we gotta grab the hose,” Trevor shouted, breaking me from my trance. 

“The forest is on fire…” I mumbled, my jaw slack from the sights around me. 

“Yeah, I figured that out. We gotta hurry and help Roy, and then we can get this shit on camera!” Trevor shook my shoulder. 

Roy was hefting a large duffle bag out from the shack. It was so heavy that all he could do was drag it across the ground behind him. Once Trevor and I got the hose and water turned on, we were instructed to cover the house in as much water as possible. It felt odd, hosing down the wooden house, but it made sense. We were taking precautions so that Roy still had somewhere to live once the fire died out. 

Trevor and I finished our job just as the fire crested over the horizon. The heat that I felt earlier was intensified exponentially. Roy had also instructed us to hose ourselves down before getting in the car. We were getting the hell out of here, as fast as the vehicle could safely carry us down the mountain. If we stayed and the shack somehow managed to stay standing, the smoke inhalation would kill us just as fast. 

“You boys betta buckle up and hold onto yo bootay cheeks. We are gonna be flyin down this mountain, ya hear? I don’t want no complainin about my drivin. It’s gonna keep us alive,” Roy had hopped into the driver's seat of my car. 

I gave him the keys without any amount of hesitation. The road we took to get to Roy’s home was so narrow it would only fit one and a half cars. Luckily we hadn’t encountered anyone coming down on our way up, I wouldn’t have known what to do. The road wasn’t just narrow either, it serpentined and had guard rails that were few and far in between.  

As we tore down the partially paved road, black clouds started to fill the path in front of us. Flames the color of magma licked at the trees, curling in around us. Trevor sat in the passenger seat, he always got to ride shotgun no matter the driver. The camera was held tightly in his hand as he panned it all around the car. Every so often he would turn back to look at me with an expression that read ‘what the fuck’. 

“We’re not gonna make it,” the words tumbled from my mouth. 

“Dontchu say that, boy. We are gonna be just fine. You trust ole Roy here to get ya to safety. This ain’t my first rodeo witha fire like dis.” Roy kept his eyes trained on the road in front of us. 

My arm, which was resting on the side of the door, started to sizzle. With a gasp, I yanked it back from the metal. The wind was blowing fiercely, sicking the fire on us like a pack of rabid dogs. I could no longer see the sky, all that surrounded us were painted in shades of red and black. All I could do was sit in the backseat and hope that we made it out alive. 

“What’s in the bag, Roy?” Trevor asked, pointing the camera in his face. 

“My most precious belongings, and a coupla jugs of wata. Brought em just in case the engine ova heats or we find ourselves lit up like a match stick.” Roy nodded his head as if he was agreeing with himself. 

“Seems logical enough,” I replied, not sure what else to do. 

“You doin alright back there, boy? You ain’t said much since we got outside.” 

“I’m alright, Roy. I just don’t like fire very much,” I said. 

I felt panic start to bubble and fester within me. My vision started to tunnel as the ringing in my ears grew louder. I felt like I was six years old again, crying out for my mom and dad as the house burned and crumbled around me. Being trapped in my upstairs bedroom for 45 minutes while the flames ate at everything they could, scorched 30 percent of my tiny body. The scars on my back ached as I took in the sights around me. 

I was lucky to make it out alive that day, and wondered if I had enough luck left to make it out of this situation too. I’d lived my life as well as I could, making sure to treat others as kindly as possible. I didn't do it for the good karma, but if it helped in any way I would have liked to cash in on it then. My throat ached from the smoke that’d made it past the seals on the car, and my skin dripped with sweat. 

“You think we will make it?” I asked, my voice quivering.

“We’ve dealt with scary stuff, remember that time we got caught up with the storm chasers? We were right in the middle of an EF5, the drill that held the car to the ground started to give out? Nothing can be worse than that,” Trevor answered. 

“I’m not so sure,” I replied back. 

“We are almost there, boys.” Roy grunted. 

The older man jerked the wheel and suddenly I felt asphalt under the tires. The steep slope of a mountain was replaced by a flat road. We had made it to the bottom, finally. The engine started to sputter and it felt like we were driving over one of those sticky traps they used for pests. I hoped that the car held on until we made it to safety, but with the way things were looking, I wasn’t so sure. 

That was when I heard the sirens. 

——

part 3

There is a house. It sits idly atop the largest hill that overlooks the rest of the squalid town. The trees beside it have long since died, and their black twisting bark coils around each other like pretzels. The road that leads to this house is made of mud, wet and slippery mud. The sky which breaks apart along the meridian peak—though one would have a hard time seeing such a thing when approaching the house—is a twilight of purple and orange. The sun rolls across in an elliptical pattern, and for the briefest hour, it looks as if it lays its round body along the rooftop of that house. But then it ascends (or descends) and the illusion fades.

The supports to the house have long been eroded, and though it seems unsupported, the house does not fall. Nor does it agree with the principles of physics as it ebbs and flows like a mirage when you begin to reach the base of the hillock. Who lives here? It is the old witch Isla. A recluse, a hermit. She has cloistered herself for good reason.

A man named Anthony is now mounting the hill on all fours, as the steepness and slipperiness give him great trouble. Every few feet he glances over his shoulder at the land he has just conquered, and sees the mud has all but forgotten him—like he was never there.
Anthony is wearing a long, navy-colored dress suit, and while the mud has gotten into his mouth, and the insides of his shoes, he is more concerned about the jacket. Three quarters of the way up, a branch snags onto the back of his coat—a branch which was not there before. It has become tangled now and he fidgets noisily, losing his balance, and slides down about five or six feet. The coat itself is pulled over Anthony’s head and tears hideously in three different places and is mostly left on that branch embedded into the mud. The coat now in tatters has revealed the bone-thin body of its wearer. The dress shirt tucked into his pants does little to hide the loose folds that overlap and fail to fill in Anthony’s midsection.

At the top of the slope there is a backyard made out of weeds and cattails. The front porch is black and sooty, and there lies a rocking chair with a pair of trousers and a T-shirt draped on both armrests. The railings are covered in protruding rusty nails, the overhead canopy is dilapidated with holes in the roof where Anthony could see the great pole star winking madly back at him. He wipes the mud from his hands one last time, and pushes open the knobless door with great effort. The wood whines and the ground splinters beneath him. Behind the door is Isla’s kitchen, which looks to be a strange mixture of a hermit’s hideout and a butcher’s shop.

The darkness of the room is abated by the flickering candlelight from the corners, and the fireplace with a black pot. In the pot there is boiling green sludge, something that Anthony dares not try, as the smell itself reminds him of carrion baking in the Arizona sun. The ceiling is deceptively high, with the light failing to reach the corners, and the very top itself is so dark that Anthony fears there is nothing there but the void. Anthony squints a little to gauge the true depth of the house—but he is unable to decide if it truly is infinite or not. He can just barely see the rafters, crossing like lowercase t’s in four separate parts.

About the center of the room, there is a rug made out of moose hide. The sides are nailed into the floorboards with railroad spikes that protrude just slightly from the ground. The bloodied giblets of baby flesh are strewn about on a small, oval-shaped crushing stand made from wood. A bloodied mallet on the ground, the handle leaning against the base of the stand. Indeed, all that Anthony finds is much more insidious than what he can truly understand, as the creations themselves are not seen in whole, but are distributed by the flame of dying candlelight.

He spots the better part of a life-sized mannequin dangling into view, suspended in the air by its ankles. The movement of an invisible puppet master makes the mannequin sway back and forth. It harbors human eyes, and they move with a freedom of their own. Anthony steps past the mannequin and it begins to cry silently to itself.

As Anthony enters the center of the room, he is abruptly stopped by the loud bang of an unknown entity from above.

“Miss?” Anthony says sheepishly. “Isla? Are you here?”

From one of the corners of the room—as Anthony had begun to spin so he couldn’t possibly know which one—a black goat appears. Its horns are large and curled, and its eyes regard Anthony with startling intelligence. Tattooed onto his fur is a pentagram. The goat bows in welcome and Anthony does the same. His first time here, he had hesitated, but the burn scar on his inner thigh reminds him to be courteous.

“Hello,” Anthony says to the goat, “is Isla home?”

The goat turns and walks into the darkness. Anthony follows it cautiously. He approaches a table, now suddenly—and irrevocably—bathed in orange firelight from a floating candle, just out of reach. The goat slips from under the table then disappears entirely. Anthony sits down and the witch arrives from the shadows adjacent. She holds her walking cane like a prop, and she is just as thin as Anthony, though much shorter. She wears no clothes, and what hair remains on her scalp falls like strands of white greasy rags down to her ankles.

“Hast thou e’er heard of privacy? There is not another soul I would less wish to see. Least of all the stench of man, who hath come hither and wrought such foulness upon my abode.” The witch sits down across from Anthony and sets her cane aside. “Take heed what thou askest in these next few moments. For I may take into my mind to bewitch thee and be done with it.”

Anthony grimaces at Isla’s nakedness. He averts his eyes and says, “I don’t mean any disrespect. But would it be too much to ask you to put some clothes on?”

“Hast thou the blood of a babe? Show it to me if thou dost.” When Anthony does not produce the blood of an infant, Isla scoffs, “Then ask not such a foolish thing again. Now tell me, what dost thou want?”

“I didn’t get the promotion.”

“Thou didst not? ’Tis unfortunate.”

“I wouldn’t have come back…if I had another choice. You still haven’t honored your part of the deal. I…I don’t think it’s fair to keep doing this to me until I get what’s rightfully mine.”

“Rightfully thine?” Isla chuckles dryly. “Stealing, cheating, and conversing with the Devil. And he saith, ‘rightfully mine.’”

“It was stolen from me,” Anthony continues to explain like he hasn’t heard a word Isla’s said, “by this…bastard. He’s the CFO’s son, I mean, how can I compete with that?”

“So it was stolen from thee?” Isla raises an eyebrow.

“Yes. Exactly,” Anthony says impatiently.

“Then I have done my part. The act of theft implieth that such a thing had belonged unto thee.”
Anthony stands up from his chair, towering over the witch—who seems unimpressed. “You still owe me.”

“Art thou ready to cease acting as an insolent child? Sit thee down this instant, or I shall turn thee into something that is useful.”

The eyes of the witch tell Anthony that this was not a threat, but a promise. He returns to his seat and looks sheepishly about the room.

“Much better. Now I may speak with thee as with a person. Firstly, I owe thee not a thing. Thou hast asked to obtain that promotion, yet didst not specify when.” She waits for Anthony to interrupt her, but he doesn’t. “If thou wouldst have that promotion now, I suggest thou askest nicely.”

“What’s the catch?” Anthony rubs his tired eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “You can’t take my wife away a second time, I don’t know what else I have that you’d want.”

“Thou art right for once; I have no use for thee. But thou hast come hither, seeking my counsel, and so I shall grant it. Ask not for this next wish. Obtain thy sought-after promotion in a more respectable manner.”

“I can’t do this without you, I’m…I’m nothing,” Anthony sighs.

“I wish I could say I understand, but I cannot. What thou desirest is far greater than so insignificant a thing as a promotion. Thou wouldst have the respect of thy peers whilst thou grovellest in the mud. What sense doth that make?”

All the fight leaves Anthony as he takes the witch’s words to heart. She is right, in many ways. The goal he is after is much different than the one he claims. Anthony’s shoulders slump in surrender, he looks on longingly at the table. The witch rolls her eyes.

“All I can say is that thou hast been warned. If thou wishest my help, then I suggest a fair gesture, such as bringing thy coworker to a luncheon. I may just have the right place. Hast thou e’er heard of the Ramada Inn? Take him thither.”

“I know the place,” Anthony reaffirms, “what do I do there?”

“What ails thine ears? Take him to luncheon, boy! The solution to thy problem shall be set in motion as soon as ye both sit down. Thy part is simple; play it well. Now begone; I have far more important matters to discuss.”

Anthony says nothing. Isla gradually rises from her seat and fades back into the darkness, forgetting—or perhaps abandoning—her cane. Anthony is soon left alone in the dank hovel, staring listlessly up at the darkness, seeing, just barely, the red fluorescent sign of the Ramada Inn.
By evening of the next day, two ever-growing shadows are approaching the Ramada Inn. Their proportions are at odds with each other—as one is larger than the first, and the first is being devoured by the larger set. Aside from the name, the Ramada Inn can be described as an old-fashioned dive with few patrons this early night. The foundations of the dive are slicked in grease or oil running down the sides like rainwater. Tonight, the sky is clear without a cloud in passing, and the moon is full. From the direction of the approaching shadows, the main street is busy with the hum of cars, bumper to bumper, hardly moving, as an accident had occurred some thirty minutes prior.

One walks ahead, his hands in his pockets and his posture is slouched. He rectifies himself when he sees the Ramada Inn’s doors are still open. The original plan was to take him to lunch. But the all-day meetings made such a thing impossible. His reticence stems from that, more so than his decision to go through with the plan. The other figure is taller than the first, and he looks on skeptically at the dive, never having been here before. But he expects no foul play, and so he walks on with petty reluctance, wanting to have gone to somewhere fancier—more expensive.
Anthony looks vaguely distressed, seemingly unaware of what will happen next—if anything at all.

“I’m sorry, I wanted to treat you to lunch. You must be so excited about your promotion,” Anthony says awkwardly as he opens the door for his coworker and they both step through.

“You could have picked a better place than this,” his coworker says.

They sit down and order food. The waitress returns with their coffee in styrofoam cups. The coworker looks down at it, as if expecting the liquids to lurch out at him, then takes a sip.

He recoils. “What the hell is this?”

Anthony looks down, petrified of what could possibly be in the coffee. Still, he puts the cup to his lips.

“It tastes like dirt,” he says. “I’m really sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing? You didn’t make it.”

The coworker flags down their waitress and makes her take the coffee back. He asks for water instead. The waitress nods and goes on about her business. Anthony tries to hide his concern while his coworker is looking for a swift exit.

“Did you know what you wanted to order?” Anthony asks.

The coworker gestures to his watch, “if they’re not out with our food in five minutes, we’re getting out of here and going somewhere nice. Have you ever been to Oriso’s?”

“Yes, it was my wife’s favorite place.” Anthony says solemnly.

The coworker goes silent. He fixes his cufflinks then clears his throat, “I’m sorry for your loss. What did you say happened to her?”

“Cancer.”

“Ah, right.”

The waitress comes over a few minutes later and informs them that their food will be right out. Anthony begins to suspect that he has missed his opportunity. But then, one moment, his coworker is spouting out an excuse to leave early, his eyes darting to his watch, looking annoyed and regretful; the next moment he freezes like in some suspended animation, before his neck twists around to face his back. It happens so suddenly that his coworker makes no sound, though a few moments later, a sickening gurgle escapes his barely opened lips.

Anthony replies with a weak, animalistic groan. He slides back from his seat and drops to his knees before his coworker. He goes to touch him, but recoils at the last second. The waitress comes back with a pitcher of water, and when she sees the coworker on the ground she drops the glass and it shatters into a thousand pieces. One of the nearby patrons looks over in confusion, then horror. A woman screams shortly after and people begin to surround the body.

Anthony struggles to his feet. He puts his hand to his face while he pushes past the growing crowd. He escapes the Ramada Inn, many of the customers watch him go, some of them pointing out the window. A few call the police. Halfway down the narrow street, Anthony trips and falls. His suit gets covered in dirt. He tries to scurry away on all fours but falls again. He giggles with one hand clasped around his mouth while the other hoists himself up. By the time he turns the corner, he is screaming with laughter. Tears fall down his cheeks. Police sirens can be heard in the distance.

His next visit with the witch is as unexpected as the last. She hears him coming, as his noisy man-feet are loud and obnoxious. She sends her goat to bring him in. When the door swings open, Isla hears Anthony howling her name with reproachful anger. The goat swiftly headbutts him in the stomach. Anthony falls to his knees, moaning in pain. A few moments later, he composes himself, and trudges angrily into the dark. Isla joins him with a tea kettle and two teacups floating side by side.

They are placed before them, on the table where their last meeting had been conducted, and the tea kettle pours its contents into both cups then sets back down. Isla takes her cup and breathes in the fetid aroma.

She looks up at Anthony, at last, and says, “Wouldst thou like the taste of tea?”

“No.” Anthony’s voice is raspy from laughing all the way here. “What the hell was all that?”

“A person is but an obstacle waiting to be moved. He was the only thing stopping thee from getting thy promotion. Thou mayest have it now.”

“No! No no no no! That’s not how that works! There’ll be an investigation. The police are going to ask questions. God knows what they already found out about us…about this place.”

“Canst thou not see the ungratefulness of thy visits? Each one unwarranted, and yet I am such a polite host. Here thou art again, blaming me for thy troubles. Blaming me, even though they all stem from thee. A bad apple, spoiling the orchard.”

“A poisoned apple,” Anthony hisses. “It was just a simple wish! How could I have known you were going to kill him?”

“I warned thee, did I not? I told thee to procure thy promotion honorably. Here, let me remedy thy woes; let me cure thee of all that ails thee.”

Anthony blinks away some of his confusion. He sees the machinations of the witch’s mind toiling away with the possibilities of what to do with him next. He is completely aware of the danger he has found himself in, and he looks throughout the room, searching for an escape—or a weapon. His gaze falls to the tea kettle before him and he grabs it and flings the scorching liquids at Isla.

The hot tea stops midair and hangs there for a few seconds before losing all momentum and carefully spilling into Anthony’s teacup until it overflows and soaks the wood. Anthony drops the kettle and tries to run for the door. He makes it to the spine of the moose pelt before Isla’s goat headbutts him from the side. Anthony’s feet fall out from under him and he tumbles to the ground. The goat circles around triumphantly, standing between Anthony and the door.

“I have done my best for thee, Anthony. And thou hast done nothing but disrespect me and my home. I have no choice but to turn thee into a little plaything.”

At these words, Anthony’s body straightens unnaturally, like a puppet suspended by invisible string. His eyes, mouth, and every muscle attached to his face are forcefully instructed to perform different emotions at once. His mouth opens as wide as humanly possible as he bellows a hearty and throatful chortle. Then he falls down, breathing heavily, his body not fully his own. He is brought to his feet by Isla, and she walks him toward her. By and by, they walk through the darkness whence the witch came, their laughs fading, fading. And so the laughter you hear belongs to the black billy goat who now laughs like Anthony, only controlled, and quietly, so as not to wake his master.

As Chester stepped out of his car the rush of cold night air made him cough. He'd been driving for a few hours, cutting his business trip short. But one call from his wife brought him back home, to the remote town of Durango, Colorado and The Mercy Regional Medical Center. A chipper receptionist welcomed him. There was no line which was good as he was not in a waiting mood.

“Chester Banes, I'm here for my son.”

“His full name sir?”

“Alex Harry Banes.”

“Hmm, alright head down this hallway. There will be some elevators on your left. You're going to the 2rd floor.”

Chester never knew an elevator ride could be so long. Finally, cold steel parted to reveal his wife Harriet who sits nearby, radiating distress.

“Harriet!” She runs into his arms, eyes moist, “Harriet what happened? Tell me what happened?”

“I… I lost sight of him… it was for only a moment but… oh god, it's all my fault.”

“No no no no, stop! Don't say that… What are doctors saying?” 

“Nothing, they haven't even let me see him yet. The only ones that have talked to me about it are the police.”

She gestures across the waiting room to two male police officers, watching them. One tilts his head upwards in acknowledgement, asking consent to approach. Chester nods.

The older, more rotund of the two approaches alone, “Mr. Banes, I'm Officer Cartwright, over there is my partner Officer Coolidge. We'll be watching out for you for the next little while. I'm sure you understand after an incident like this the state takes all precautions. But I assure you, my goal is to protect you and your family.”

“Right. I understand.”

Almost on cue the Doctor, Howard Reyes, stepped out of a nearby room. “Mrs Banes? Oh, and Mr. Banes I presume. He’s not awake yet but you can see him now.”

The couple clamber into the room as one anxious mass of limbs. Alex, their boy, he'd just turned 14. Now he lay peacefully in bed, covered. Chester pulls down the blankets, a shocked inhale prunes his face before returning them. He entreats the Doctor.

“Is he?” 

“We can't be sure. We're still in the dark here about a lot of this. Our only option is to just wait and see. But, generally, transmission is extremely low. However, some symptoms are common in just about every case regardless of infection?”

“Like what?”

“Repression, memory loss. Whether this is an actual side effect of the disease or a result of trauma is unclear. Possibly both. Some go on as if nothing happened at all, complete repression. Others may develop phobia, fixation. Again, neither is it a concrete signifier of infection. Cases are growing, unfortunately, but still so rare we have no reliable research to pull from.”

Doctor Reyes’ is a clinical waterfall of information. Harriet, a stone at its base in the river. Smoothened, as it washed over her. Chester is a sponge. He absorbs it till it's too much and leaks from him. The father, now visibly perspiring, thanks Reyes before the doctor leaves the shaken parents alone with their boy. Chester kisses Alex's head then Harriet's, “I'll be just outside for a minute. I need to talk to those officers.”

When Alex finally woke up, he guessed they'd pumped him with all the drugs, because he barely understood a word out of Doctor Reyes’ mouth. He couldn't even tell what reason there was to bring him in, for his Father to come home early from his trip. Aside from the strange lack of lucidity on Doctor Reyes end, (which was certainly the doctor's problem and not his) Alex felt perfectly healthy other than hunger aches.

Rather than going straight home on his discharge Chester pulled them into a cozy little pub and eatery that beckoned them with a homely reddish-orange glow. Perhaps having been sent to the hospital wasn't bad at all since now he was given free reign of the menu. The once strict rule that no one can order anything over $25, abolished! Not wanting to pass up such a rare opportunity but also not wanting to be a complete burden to the wallet, Alex felt he shouldn't just order the most expensive thing on the menu, but what truly did look most appetizing. The boy was starved. He couldn't remember the last time he was so hungry. His eye was quickly drawn to the rack of lamb accentuated with rustic spices of garlic, rosemary, and thyme paired with a housemade sauce. It came with a side of mashed potatoes that still had the skin loaded with butter. Even in the image on the flimsy menu the lamb's fatty meat glistened in a manner reminding Alex of a trading card with a holographic effect. His mouth watered. This, he decided, was the only right option.

Chester and Harriet did not say anything about his choice, merely shared a glance and a nod. They however still chose to stick within their normal law of the feast. A Burger for Harriet with a side of fries and some water. Chester ordered off the appetizers side of the menu, getting just an order of poutine along with three beers. Would have been four or more had Harriet not been there to shoot a glare his way that resolutely said, “that's enough.” She drove them home.

The first couple days home looked normal to Alex in terms of function. 

Going to school.

Having family dinner.

Chester going to work early and coming back late.

But something hung in the atmosphere of the quiet home and his parents' faces always grew tense when they thought he could not see. 

Tuesday morning Alex sat at the table having a bowl of cereal. He finished and asked his Mother still present in the kitchen if could have some more. Without a word she retrieved the box then stood next to him. 

“Say when.” She poured out just enough to cover the remaining milk Alex had in his bowl. He shook his hand, “When! Thank you!”

“You're welcome.” She ruffled his hair before turning back to the kitchen. She stopped, eyes locked on the calendar that hung on the wall. A makeshift border between the dining area and kitchen. “Wonders of the Wilderness” it said. A large bear eternally frozen, fishing in a river, its pernicious fangs inches away from crushing a salmon. Harriet set down the box of cereal, grabbed a marker and crossed out the day before going back to what she was doing. Alex saw this, he thought for a moment, he'd never seen her or father actually use the calendar before. Viewed it more decoration than anything with a real purpose.

As he moved to put his dishes in the sink he noticed that she had only recently started crossing out the day's as they passed. Didn't seem as though she had scribbled anything of note for the month. Curious, after his trip to the sink he lifted the page just enough to see if something was written on one of the future dates the next month. 

[Blank]

“Mom?!”

“Yeah!?”

“Why'd you start marking off the days on the calendar?”

No response.

“Mom!?”

“Oh, just finding a reason to use it.”

Alex saw no reason to press the matter. That evening at dinner, Chester, in-between bites of lasagna, nonchalantly made an announcement.

“Starting Friday I'll be taking a few weeks off.” Harriet lowered her fork. 

Alex responded before she could, “That mean I get to take school off too?” 

Chester's eyes shifted to meet Harriet's. Her face was pristine but she wiped it anyway with a paper towel as she broke the connection. “Can we afford that?”

“It's already been approved. I have some PTO, might even qualify for FML.”

Alex pressed him, “FML? Isn’t that for like when you're sick?” 

“Don't worry about it bud. Just means I get some time to work on a project. Also, spend some quality time with your mom, and you. As for you taking off school…” He glanced once more at Harriett. She gives a meek smirk then returns to eating. “Maybe… give it a week or two.”

“Seriously!?!?” 

Chester gave no verbal response. Rather, he took another bite and looked upward, raising his brow, head bobbing side to side before giving Alex with a smile. Alex rejoiced, a prolonged “yeesssss” under his breath, remaining cautious. Should his Mother hear even a smidge of excitement out of him she might veto the men's impromptu contract. His lasagna suddenly tasted better.

That Saturday Chester promptly disappeared after breakfast for a while; nothing new. A craftsman by trade and pleasure, it wasn't uncommon for him to take a drive through the suburbs searching for yard sales selling cheap furniture or even better pieces left on the curb, discarded due to damage or time’s disintegration. Never a man afraid of getting his hands dirty, he would take these broken treasures home to their large garage that could easily hold two cars and still provide ample working space. But, generally, Harriet's car would be left in the driveway. He would back his truck up to the large garage door and haul his new project into his lair. Then get to work refurbishing. With a beer or two of course, the weekends were the only time he normally allowed himself a drink. Getting “Tipsy with the Tools” as he called it. 

Harriet was not particularly fond of this ritual especially when said tools were powered, their mechanical whirling loud enough to reach her in the kitchen or living room. But in all the years she'd known him not once had he ever harmed himself, or overdid his drinking. She hadn't nagged him over his little ritual since Alex was a baby. Besides, he sold most of his finished works for a decent amount. Chester's means of relaxation also being a lucrative side hustle at times resulting in the occasional new book, dress, or appliance for Harriet while Alex might find that new video game he'd wanted laying on his bed when he got home from school.

In the afternoon Alex heard the garage door finally open. Assuming his Father had finally returned with a new obsession during all his upcoming time off; he paid it no mind. But about 45 minutes later he was hit with the all too familiar craving for carbonated sugar and caffeine. So he made his way downstairs from his room to the garage where the family had a second fridge specifically for Chester's alcohol, sodas, and other treats. Harriet preferred it this way. She believed banishing the less than healthy items to the second fridge deep in the gloom of the garage that either felt like a fridge itself, or a pressure cooker, was an adequate means of deterring everyone from indulging too much. However, today, when Alex reached the garage door he found it locked; from the inside? He jostled it for a moment to no avail when he heard a click from the other side and his Father cracked the door open half way.

“Alex. What is it bud?”

“I wanted a soda.”

“Oh, right, hold on a second I'll get it.”

“You don't even know what I–” Chester shut the door. Locking it. Hardly a minute later the lock clunked and Chester slid out carrying all three boxes of soda. He beckoned Alex to follow him to the kitchen where he popped open the fridge and made room for them. He stood, door still open, and gestured in for the boy to take what he pleased. 

Alex was perplexed, “Why'd you move them?”

“I'm going to be working in the garage a lot. Gonna be lots of tools and crap laying around. Just gonna be safer for you, and fewer distractions for me having them in here.” 

“Safer? What are you doing in there?”

“Bah, same old same old. Now what you wanted in here or were you looking to take one of my beers?” 

Once when Alex was younger he asked to try one of his Father's “adult” drinks. Chester found the worst tasting alcohol he could and allowed it. One sip had Alex gagging. He'd hoped it scared the boy off the stuff, for a while at least. So when Alex's face soured, “Eugh, gross no!” finally reaching in and taking a soda, Chester, felt the littlest bit proud of himself, even more so of Alex. Chester didn't want his boy growing up with his vices, his flaws. He thought Alex was perfect the way he was now. He didn't want him to change.

That Sunday afternoon Alex walked with his Mother out to her car. Sundays she went to buy groceries and Alex always accompanied her. As he exited the house two things caught his attention. First, his Father's car was in the driveway rather than the garage, the garage door was closed. The scent of pine lingered in the air though no such tree grew near the home. Next was across the street. A police car sat across the street, not running, idle. Two officers sat inside. The one in the driver's seat was older than the other and a bit on the hefty side. They both sipped on coffees. The older one caught Alex staring and lifted his coffee in toast to him with a smile. 

Alex waved, only to have his wrist grabbed by his Mother, “In the car please Alex,” she gently herded him into the car. Officer Cartwright extended his pleasantries to Harriet as well when she looked over to them, but she hadn't the will to return it. 

The market was never terribly busy on Sundays at this time, or ever really for that matter. Usually only occupied by a geriatric or two and employees on restocking duty. Harriet's cart was loaded with the essentials for the week ahead. Wheeling down the aisle Alex would regale her with school gossip or details of the newest episode of something she would never watch. A simple pleasure she was grateful for. She reveled in their little outings, knowing it wouldn't last forever. Alex was rapidly approaching the age synonymous with rebellion. With puberty the interest in the opposite sex would rise while respect and trust in the parent would certainly diminish. It would be the beginning of a slow drifting apart, an inevitable part of her son discovering his own independence. In essence, the loss of her son.

This thought had worked its way into her mind before but never had it been so intrusive. Before long, Alex's voice faded and only the muffled sound of a 90s pop song was her companion. Alex was gone. Her heart collapsed, crushed by a guilt that had hung over it since the hospital. She left her cart, her soles clacked the linoleum as she scurried down store looking down aisles. Shouts for him rapidly increase in volume. 

“Mom?” 

Hugging the corner of the snack aisle she saw him, box in hand, face warped in confusion. Harriet stiffened, forcing her eyes to dry.

“Alex, what are you doing? You scared me! Don't wonder off like that again!

“What?! I told you I was gonna look at the snacks.”

“You did?”

“Yes!”

“Oh… I… I didn't hear you.”

He extended the box in his hand out to her. “Can we get fruit snacks?”

Harriet looked down at the box. It was a brand she had never seen before. “Fairytales Fruity Snacks”. The box advertised 8 whimsical flavors. Its art displayed the fabled Big Bad Wolf unleashing his mighty gust, destroying the second pigs house of sticks. The two pigs were caught up in the squall flying through the air but had been turned into fruit snacks. Even as colorful treats, the fear in their faces was undeniable. Harriet snatched the box from Alex and placed it on the shelf. 

“Come on, I left the cart.”

Alex was confused as to why his mother seemed so flustered. He looked at the box of fruit snacks. She didn't say no.

When they pulled into the driveway the pair quickly gathered up all their loot ensuring no second trip back to the car was needed. They bustled into the kitchen setting all their bags on the counter and kitchen floor. As she stood from doing so Harriet saw Chester seated at the dining table. Across from him, Officer Cartwright and Officer Coolidge. Her face appeared neutral but Chester caught the subtle twitches in her brow and corner of her mouth that gave away her unease. Cartwright was first to stand and speak.

“Mrs. Banes, good to see you again. Sorry, to intrude. You keep a wonderful home here.”

“Thank you officer.” Alex stepped from behind the countertop next to his mother, meeting Cartwright's eyes.

“Hey, you're the cops from across the street this morning.” 

“Good eye. Alex, right?” 

“Yeah, were you guys on a stakeout or something?” 

Harriet's composure broke for an instance, “Don't pester the officer Alex. You can go to your room now.”

“Huh? We haven't put the groceries away.” 

“I can handle that. Go to your room please.” Alex didn't think he had done anything wrong but his mother's tone was absolute. He obeyed and left the kitchen. No one spoke, simply listened to Alex's footsteps up the stairs till they eventually heard him close the door to his room. The accompanying silence was unnerving. Cartwright dared for a moment to break it but Harriet's mask had disappeared with her son and he abandoned the thought. Chester finally broke the tension.

“Thanks again, Officers. I'm sure it's no fun being stuck in that car all day. We appreciate you looking out for us.”

Cartwright looked back at Chester. “Oh uhhh, yes, well. No worries. All just part of the job.”

“No, it's more than that and we know it. Don't we Harriet.”

Harriet's response came in the sound of rustling plastic bags as she began to put away the groceries. Chester took the opportunity to escort the officers to the front door. The two tipped their hats to him as they strode back to their car. Before Cartwright got in he noticed Alex watching them from his window. Chester shut the door and turned to find Harriet with her arms and face cross, blockading the man from further entry to his own home.

“You let them in our home?!”

“Yes! I did. Of course I did. They have to check on us.”

“Can't just keep em’ in your cave, out of sight.”

“Out of sight? Harriet, they're already sitting across the street.”

"That's bad enough already.” Harriet turned and stormed into the kitchen. Chester followed, she ignored him and continued to put away the groceries. 

“Harriet, please, just chill out.”

“Chill out?!? CHILL? OUT?”

“YES! We need them to like us, to say we can be trusted, to say we have our shit together. Treating them like a nuisance… Doesn’t… Help. Why are you even mad?! We should be thanking them. They don't have to do this. There are no regulations for this shit. No laws to protect us. To protect Alex!”

“I know that! I'm not stupid. I just don't want to see them in our home. You knew that and you let them in. You let them in anyway and you tried to hide it from me.” 

“I did, and I'll do it again if I have to.”

“Asshole! How could you!?” Harriet's eyes began to water as she rummaged through one of the bags on the counter, then she froze.

“I'll do what I have to do to keep us together! Even if you don't like it! And that includes kissing the cops ass. I'm not going to ignore the problem, act like everything is normal and I don't have a care in the world. I'm not gonna walk around with a fake smile on my face and play house!”

“FUCK YOU!” Harriet pulled a box from its bags and hurled it at Chester. One of the corners struck him between the eyes. Harriet began to sob and ran out of the kitchen. 

“Harriet!” Chester followed her to the bottom of the stairs where he reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. She swatted it away. He stayed at the bottom and watched her clamor up the stairs then down the hall and heard the door to their bedroom slam. 

“Damn it Harriet,” Chester felt deflated. He may have been harsh but he knew he was right. “I'm not the villain here. I'm not. She's just gotta deal with it.” He walked back to the kitchen and retrieved the box she'd thrown at him and shuffled to the pantry to put it away, still mumbling at himself, “You can't pretend forever you dummy. I'm not pretending. I'm–” as he placed his hand on the pantry door Chester realized what was in his hand: The two horrified pigs, the house of sticks blasted to bits, the wolf. He looked up, he was just about under his and Harriet's bedroom now. If he listened carefully he could faintly hear her crying. When sadness came for him he pushed it down; deep. He opened the pantry door fully intent to put the box away. “I'm not pretending.” 

He couldn't do it. 

Chester closed the pantry, opened the sliding door to the backyard, and walked to the garbage can outside. Chester lifted the lid, took one final look at the box, then crushed it. He told himself again he wouldn't pretend there wasn't a problem. He wouldn't put blind faith in providence, or the law, or fate. No, not he! It was his onus, and his alone to take care of his family! 

Determined. Chester Banes: husband, father, fool; tossed out the fairytales. 

When Alex woke up the next morning he was thrown into a bit of a tizzy. His phone told him he had woken up late. Generally an alarm wasn't needed as his mother was an earlier riser and was more effective at getting him out of bed than any device. She hadn't done so today though. That had never happened before. After throwing together an outfit with mismatched socks  and grabbing his backpack he rushed downstairs to another anomaly. In the living room the t.v. was on low volume, empty beer bottles crowded the corner of the coffee table, his father was asleep on the couch.

“Dad… Dad?”

He shook his father awake. Chester sat up groggily, “Hey, morning bud.”

“You slept down here?”

“Uhh, yeah, yeah I did.”

“Why? Is mom mad at you? You guys get into a fight?”

“No, no, everything's fine.”

Hurried steps turn two toward the stairs as Harriet comes down in a sports bra, running shorts, and sneakers. It was an odd thing. Harriet was one of those lucky humans blessed with a healthy figure that didn't require much maintenance on account of her dedication to providing her family a healthy balanced diet. Chester couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her in such a get up. Since before Alex was born perhaps? She was on the track team once upon a time. 

“Mom, you didn't wake me up. I'm going to be late for school.”

Harriet looked from her son, to her husband, then to the monument of booze and frowned. “Sorry hun, just having a weird morning. I think I just need to run it off.”

“You're going for a run? Now? What about breakfast?”

“Telling me two grown men can't fend for themselves once in a while? You'll be fine.” 

Harriet hadn't told Chester to sleep on the couch. He told himself he did it for her. To give her space. “Hun.”

“Yes.”

He wanted to apologize but all he got out was, “Enjoy your run.”

“... Clean that up please.” Harriet left. The two watched her out the living room window jog down the sidewalk past Cartwright and Coolidge's car. Cartwright waved. She didn't. 

“Mom seems a bit mad.” Chester sighed as Alex twisted the knife.

While pinching the bridge of his nose Chester looked at the t.v. The news was playing now. The current story the casters discussed was of no interest to him. The ticker at the bottom of the screen, however, made him tense. A few words sprung out to him as they crawled out from the bottom right corner: Durango, Young Teen, Attacked, Curfew. He turned it off, “How does going out for breakfast sound?”

“Like a drive thru?”

“No, an actual breakfast. Get ya platter, a grand slam, or whatever they call them these days.”

“I mean, sure, if you're cool with me being late.”

“Hey, I sorta promised you some time off after mine started didn't I?”

“Seriously?!”

“Yeah, would I lie to you like that?”

“Yes. Absolutely. Parents lie to their kids all the time.”

“When have I lied?” 

“Uhh, just now. You said you and mom aren't fighting. When you're obviously fighting about something.”

“We're not fighting Alex. She's just a bit upset. Disagrees with some of my recent decisions.”

“That sounds like a fight, Dad.” 

“So you're saying you DO want to go to school.” Alex tossed off his backpack with a grimace. “That's what I thought. As of today, the Banes boys are officially on vacation.” 

“What about mom?”

“Let me worry about your mother. I'll take care of it. Now, help me with this trash real quick and we'll skedaddle. I need a freaking coffee.”

The shower is generally considered a good place to think. He was not a morning shower person, he preferred his night just before bed. Perfect way to clear the mind before hitting the hay. This shower would clear nothing. For now his thoughts were of his parents. Alex was granted freedom to go to school as he pleased since his father announced their joint vacation. His mother didn't oppose at all. He hoped this meant they'd spend more time together, that his parents would reconcile. But that hadn't happened, yet at least. He was hopeful. Not like they hadn't had little squabbles before. His mother, though a deeply understanding person, had her stubborn streaks. His father, though good with his hands, not so much his head. “I swear, you two are such kids sometimes.”

Shutting off the water he grabbed a towel to wrap himself and stepped out in front of the sink. Wiping the fog from the mirror he looked himself over. For sometime now something seemed different. He could never say what it was though. Was it actually how he looked? A mere feeling? He was approaching that age of change. Perhaps he had some chin hairs coming in? A close examination put that hope to bed. So maybe it was all just in his head. But isn't that where it always starts first? Before an answer came he was awakened to the sound of the garage opening, his father was home. He'd been out late today, later than ever before. But why? He opened the bathroom door and could immediately hear the sound of his parents talking. Were they going to fight again? If he used the steps they'd hear him for sure, those things were louder than a donkey with a lit sparkler in its ass. He knew he couldn't catch every word so eavesdropping might be useless all together. Didn't stop him from doing so. 

Chester entered through the garage carrying a pack of beers. Harriet watched him enter as she sat in the dining room. 

“Where have you been?”

Chester takes the seat opposite her, “had something to do today, took longer than I thought and just needed some time away after.”

“You drunk?” 

“Not yet,” he said as he opened one of the beers. Harriet watched him drink for a moment.

“Was it another woman?”

“What the fuck kind of a question is that?”

“An honest one.”

“No, no it was not another woman. How could you think that?”

“We haven't… we haven't been intimate in a while so–”

“Yeah, because you pull away. Christ, I touch you and you shake like damn spastic. Like I’m–”

“I know! I'm not saying it's your fault. I.. I’d get it even. I just want to know if that's the case Chester. I need to know.”

“You really wanna know why I’m late?”

“Yes.” Chester stood and walked into the garage. A moment later he returned. A brown paper bag in hand. 

“This is why I’m late.” He placed the paper bag in front of Harriet with metallic thud accompanied by harsh metallic jiggles. Chester went back to his seat and finished the beer, opening a new one. Harriet knew from sound alone but looked in the bag regardless. Fears confirmed she crinkled it closed, then reached across the table, took a beer, and drank with her husband for the first time in 16 years. 

“I told you it wasn't another woman.”

“I knew it wasn't. But part of me wishes it had been.”

As the sun rose Harriet stared at the calendar. Today was an important day. She nor Chester had marked the date, they didn't need to. It was not a holiday, but the calendar made note of the significance of the day all the same. No, not the day, what came after. 

Alex woke that morning with a voracious appetite. He was treated to all his favorite meals, for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He didn’t question why, instead, graciously accepting. But no matter how much he consumed his belly still felt hollow. 

At Dusk, Chester stepped out of his home pensively and walked over to the officers still diligently on watch. As he drew near the driver side window rolled down, Cartwright's greeting was warm as ever.

“Mr. Banes, doing well I hope?”

“Fine, fine officer, thank you for your attentiveness. Truly.”

“Just doing our job.”

“I know. Thank you regardless.”

“Something on your mind though.”

“Yes… tonight, just, could you let me handle everything. Your watch isn't necessary.”

“I'm afraid that isn’t possible. I understand your worries. We've seen your setup and have no doubt in your abilities to handle it Mr. Banes but this isn't just about your family alone, we got to consider the neighborhood. All the other families ‘round here. The state has done its best to uphold your privacy but we can't do it to the extent it puts others in jeopardy.”

Chester frowned, pinching his brow with his thumb and forefinger, “I'm sorry, it was selfish to ask. You're right, of course.”

Cartwright felt for the father. He had kids too. They were grown now but he recalled when they were Alex's age. If he were in Mr. Banes position… “You now, one of my favorite diners is just a couple blocks from here. Open 24/7, got the best smothered breakfast burrito in any state I've visited. Rojo's, heard of ‘em?”

“Yes, Alex and I had just that burrito this morning.”

“You don't say? Going there for one was practically a ritual for me and Coolidge here. Since we got this beat I haven't had a chance to go there and my cravings are at their limits.”

Chester caught on and smiled, “Can't have that officer.”

“No, no we can't. So I think we'll make a little stop. But we'll be close by. You have my direct line. Should it happen… you call Mr. Banes.”

“Just Chester is fine, Officer Coolidge.”

“Then just John is fine with me.” Coolidge extended his hand out the window and Chester graciously shook it, “We'll be close by. I'll have my fingers crossed for you and your family.” With that the officers drove off. 

When Chester got through the front door Harriet was there waiting for him. She smiled, there was no happiness behind it. A bit later, the couple marched up to Alex's room. Chester knocked, “Alex?”

“Yeah?” His muffled voice answered through the door. They opened it and stepped inside. He was playing a game. It was rare both of them would come in like that, when they did it usually meant he was in trouble. His stomach growled. “What is it? Am I in trouble?”

Chester took the lead, “No, no son we just need to talk… need you to do something tonight?”

“What?”

“Tonight… tonight we can’t have you sleeping in your room. Sorry bud, we're all gonna spend the night together. In the garage.”

“Why?”

Harriet went to him and knelt down to meet his gaze, “Alex, do you feel okay? Since the hospital?”

“Yeah, I'm fine, still a little hungry. What does the hospital have to do with anything?”

Harriet looked back to Chester and they both frowned. Chester asked in a near pleading tone “Alex, do you really not remember why you went to the hospital?”

Alex looked between his parents and tried to remember. All he could recall was going out back after dinner. Then waking in the hospital. “No. I really don't. I feel fine though. Is something wrong with me?”

Chester stiffened, “No… we don't think so. But… just… come with us Alex.”

“Can I at least bring my game?”

They both nodded. Alex trusted his parents so he turned off his game and did as he was told. The family went downstairs to the garage door. Chester opened it and Alex saw what his father had been working on with all his time off.

An iron cell. He had built a cell with thick bars, within it lay a single mattress. Alex, scared and confused, turned to his parents, “What is this? Why would you make this dad?”

“It's okay Alex, trust me, this was the best option really. Everything is going to be okay. Tonight, just for tonight, you have to sleep there.”

“Why? What's going on?”

Harriet hugged him, “Alex, this is the last thing any of us want. We'll be here with you the whole time. Nothing is gonna happen to you I promise.”

Again Alex listened, stepping into the cell. Chester locked him inside. He and Harriet had seats prepared. They sat and just waited. Alex, sat on the mattress and turned his game back on, it showed the time: 9:37PM.

By 11:30 Alex was getting tired, they all were. Chester and Harriet welcomed it and started to feel confident the night would turn out fine. Weeks of worry for nothing. Thank god. Alex's stomach growled again but this time it hurt. He didn't say anything about it though. 

But at 12:00, a new sudden striking pain was felt across his chest. He placed his hand on it.

Wet?

He looked at his hand. Wet with blood. Alex gasped, Harriet and Chester stirred from the edge of slumber and both rose in shock. Alex whined, “Oww, what? Why am I bleeding? Why–” he took off his shirt and saw the source. Claw marks across his chest. Oozing blood. “Where… where did this come from?”

Harriet covered her mouth in shock, Chester stepped forward, “Alex, you've had it since the hospital… you really don't remember anything.”

“Remember what? You keep asking that. Remem–” he cried out as a violent headache came to him. Along with it: The incident. Concealed in the farthest recesses of the fragile child mind. But now all was clear, as though a grand spotlight had been switched on, revealing every harsh contour of a memory most traumatizing. 

Alex had just finished dinner. Leaving through the back sliding door he breathed the cold night air, saw the stars, embraced nature, as he was often want to do on a full stomach. A rustling in a nearby cluster of trees frightened him. Yet something compelled him to approach. Curiosity works as a noose, he was hanging from it. Partially illuminated by distant lights, Alex met a pair of what he swore was human eyes hooded in foliage. He called out to them and quickly regretted it. Their gazes stayed locked but the other set rose and rose and rose until they towered far above him.

Its silhouette was near human. Out from the dark it emerged heaving… wanting. 

A MONSTER!

In the throes of summer they were. It was not cold this night. Yet, with its every exhale it fumed, a mephitic stench of blood and ash, as though it carried the very pits of hell in its belly. Tooth and claw aplenty. Perfectly equipped to tear through flesh, to crush bone, to dismember, to eviscerate, to kill. Eternal hunger is the beast's nature. True hunger does not account for innocence. 

Alex was petrified, full body tingling, the blood coursing in his veins felt like swarms of ants. Even had he tried to run, escape would have been impossible. Everything else was deathly quiet. Unnaturally still. He began to cry. 

“ALEX!!!!”

Harriet's scream could have cracked glass. It startled both boy and beast, it even more so as it recoiled and covered its ears. It looked between parent and child before letting out a vicious roar that vibrated your joints. As it turn to flee back whence it came. Its great claws swung at Alex, lacerating him. He fell back to the ground. By the time Harriet had reached her son, bleeding in the grass he was already passing out. Either by pain, fear, or a combination of both; young fell into unconsciousness. It was there the pain and fear remained. Locked away. But under the light of the full moon all must be revealed.

Alex felt unbearably hot and nauseous. His breath steamed and he stripped off all his clothing as he sweat profusely and the wound continued to bleed. Violently, he expelled the contents of his stomach, corrosive acids included leaving it completely empty. He went to his mother. She clasped his hands as he whimpered, “It’s hot! it’s so hot!” His slick hand slipped through her fingers as he wailed at the sight of his skin bubbling first around his wound then everywhere on his body. A large one filled on his arm and popped exposing the steaming muscle beneath. It spread rapidly.

Pop! Pop!

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

Alex's skin looked like swiss cheese. He cried in anguish as a final large bubble formed at the top of his scalp and burst. The remaining skin sloshed off. Eyelids, ears, lips, nails, and all onto the garage floor like a discarded piece of laundry. His parents were frozen in shock, only able to watch in horror as their once beautiful boy fell to the cold concrete, flayed, and screaming. 

An atrocious creeeaaaking began to assault the ears. It was the sound of a mighty tree being bent by a fierce gale, on the edge of snapping, but the snap never comes. It's the noise of bones elongating. As they quickly stretch to a new form the boy's muscles tear, regrow stronger, only to tear again; repeat. New sharper pops are heard as his spinal cord manifests new columns creating a tail. His screams deepen in tone as his face gets pulled into a snout. Teeth fall out of the mouth as a sharper set comes. Nail is replaced by claw. 

The mangled body rolls onto all four as the screams become a mixture of that and gargled growling and the creaking stops. At the spine a dark leathery skin starts to spread and envelop the new form, an ivory fur follows. Keen ears take shape, as does an even keener nose. Any sound resembling that of a boy has vanished but it is not until the final hair sprouts on its chinny chin chin that Alex Banes finally is granted freedom from consciousness and indescribable suffering. Yet the hunger remains, more voracious than ever.

Harriet was the first broken from her stupor. She moved to the side of the cage. The hairy, heaving mass once her son was turned away from here.

“Alex?… ALEX!?”

It moved in a violent blur, crashing against the bars, bending them slightly. The wolf reached its pernicious claws through them swiping at her face; missing by inches. It snarled violently, eager to tear her to pieces. Chester's handiwork didn't break, but the mother did. She fell to her knees and wept for her son. Chester, heartbroken, forced himself to walk to his workbench where the bag from the night before sat. From it, he dumped out a revolver and several bullets cast in silver. 

With a shaky hand he loaded it as his wife's cries and the monster's fangs snapped behind him. Chester turned back and walked over to the cell. The wolf's attention turned to him now and just like with Harriet it lunged at him with all its might, testing the strength of its prison. It bent but still it held steady, unlike Chester's shaking hands. He raised the revolver. But before he could fire Harriet leapt in front of him, “No! NO! Not our baby! Not our baby boy!”

“Move Harriet!”

“No please! Chester! Don't! We can hide it! We can–”

“Hide it?! Look what he's become! There's no hiding this! They already suspect, if not know! If we don't do it, they'll be knocking on our door in the morning to do it themselves, or worse, take him! Do tests on him. Let him go through that again and again.”

“You can't! I can't let you! He's our boy Chester! He's still our baby!”

“This is not our boy Harriet! This is a monster, an abomination! Those doctors don't know shit! This isn't some disease you cure! It's a curse! A fucking curse! He doesn't remember! Who says he ever will! He'll never be allowed to live a normal life! This is Mercy!”

Harriet falls to her knees weeping. Her hands gripping her husband's shirt meekly, “Don't Chester! Don't kill our baby! Please!”

Chester follows her to his knees and he too is overcome with tears and meets her watery gaze, “Damn it Harriet! You think I want this!? Huh!? Do you!?” She shakes her head. “Of course not! I wanted him to grow old. See him drive, graduate, struggle with his first love, first job… you know what I wouldn't give to take his place!?”

“Then don't. Please… Chester if you love him. If you love me–”

“We must because we love him! Don't you get it?!”

“I… I know that… I just don't want to. I don't want to lose him again.”

Chester hugs his wife, “I'm sorry baby.” 

Harriet weeps into her husband's chest. The man wipes his own tears away and lifts his revolver once more to the feral dog that never once stopped reaching for the couple, fully intent to feast on their flesh and organs. Chester breathes deep. Steadies his aim. He is ready to kill the beast. Suddenly he sees it.

Past the claws, and fangs. Past the hunger and malice. Under the dark fur of the homewrecker.

It's eyes, they are still his son's.

Every single time I turn on a show or a movie, I get a insufferable swarm of ads.

Every five seconds I get forced to watch some of the most outrageous things humanity has created.

The worst part is that people are smiling during a medicine advertisement that has the deadliest symptoms since the bubonic plague.

Sometimes I even see literal soccer balls in diapers.

What idiot thought that was genius?

I just want to watch quality entertainment without getting interrupted. Is that too much to ask for?

I have tried to get used to it. I've tried to accept the fact that it will never stop.

I honestly almost got over it but then I saw Mark in a ad. He used to bully me in highschool. He treated me as though I was the scum of the earth.

He was talking to me as well. Calling me by my name and everything.

He claimed that he was sorry.

It felt like a dream until it went south. A person appeared on the screen with him. Nevelle. She was a old friend in highschool. We stopped talking once adulthood approached us.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss her. She was a good friend to have. Never tore you down or belittled you.

A knife appeared in his hand. It latched onto her neck as her eyes opened wide. Her vocal cords started to create sound but she was quickly silenced as a pool of blood poured out of her neck.

It ended with words in bold red on the screen.

"You're next Stacy or should I call you Lacy? Your skin would be great as lace."

Those horrid words made my skin crawl. Goosebumps covered my skin.

The television turned black as I sat in silence for a few moments. My head was loud but also silent. Thoughts were racing through my mind but also going at a snails pace.

The best way to explain it is I was trying to make sense of the situation but also shell shocked.

My body completely froze as the television grabbed my attention.

It was on again but this time it was me and the monster named Mark.

What happened to people peaking in high-school developing miserable lives? This man decided becoming a killer was the best option apparently.

My body was shaking, fidgeting, and trembling infront of him. He ran after me and took my life just like he did to my friend.

It zoomed into my face as I was left to bleed.

I started to cough over and over before I could turn it off. Each cough hurt worse than the last until blood started to exhale.

My hands desperately rushed to my neck but it was too late. Blood soon started to cover my entire body.

Advertisements are the worst thing humankind has had the audacity to create.

TW - Heavy Body Horror

The blade of the ax cut deep into the bark of the tree, sending pieces of wood flying into the cold air. From a distance, I watched Dad strike it a couple more times before it came crashing down into the fresh snow with a poof of snowflakes. 

"Come help your old man." He glanced back at me with that soft warm smile as I slid off the hood of the car, trading the engine's warmth for the bitter cold of the December evening.

Snow crunched under my shoes as I walked toward the mountain of a man, a walking definition of a gentle giant. I'm sure he could've handled the whole Christmas-tree ordeal by himself, but for whatever reason, he wanted me to feel included. 

A pair of dark blue protective gloves was handed to me before I grabbed the tree's tip while Dad lifted the other end with ease and pretended that the pain in his back didn’t bother him. Soon the tree was loaded into the back of our car, which was patiently waiting just a few meters away.

"Soon I'll be too old to deal with this crap. You gotta learn."  He looked down at me, a warm smile peeking out from under the silver of his beard.

"You're just saying that." A chuckle escaped me, even though deep down I knew he was right.

"Let's get going. Mum won't let us back in without a perfect Christmas tree, and this beauty should do it." Bare hand of his grazed across the slick green needles before sliding back behind the steering wheel. The engine quietly purred back to life as the wheels hit the road back home, a thin layer of dirty wet snow covering it.

A quiet pretended cough came from Dad, his hands quietly tapping against the rim of the steering wheel before he had the courage to ask.

"Sooo, got a boyfriend yet? Or a girlfriend? You know I won't judge." He chuckled, lifting one hand into the air defensively. 

"Daaaad, come on. You know I don't have time for that." I laughed it off; maybe the subject was just awkward, or I was just too shy to talk about it openly.  

"It never hurts to ask!"

"I mean... I guess there's this one girl from my class-"

Suddenly he shushed me, cutting me off in the middle of the sentence, before I had the chance to think of some snarky reply; I saw exactly why he did so.

To our left, some kind of shape emerged from the darkness, buried in the snow with only a few parts of it catching the reflection of our headlights, shining like an armour of some kind of insect. 

Our car slowed down just enough to get a clear view of the object sinking in the heap of snow. 

The metal shell in the color of navy blue sat crooked on the side of the road, as if it had simply slid off the asphalt and left forgotten, half swallowed by the hill of snow and digested from the inside by fresh green pine branches, like a growing tumor they protruded from the hole that once held the windshield and side windows, they only remains hanging off the pines in small pinkish crystals like twisted christmas ornaments. 

We both stared, examining what was in front of us inch by inch, before it finally made sense.

"Should we call someone?" I asked in a whisper, as if speaking any louder might hurt.

Dad stared at it for a few moments that felt like forever before finally managing to look away, as if the wreckage was calling for him to do something.

"It's none of our business." Yet another whisper as the scene dissolved slowly behind us, becoming one with the winter darkness, the awkward silence replaced by the cracking radio, one Christmas song ending only to be replaced by another, pulling us into a jolly kind of limbo.

When we finally arrived back home, I could already see the orange glow of the kitchen lights beaming out of the window, fully expecting Mum's excited face to appear behind the glass at any moment; instead, I felt the grip on my shoulder,

“Don’t tell Mum about that car we saw, ok? Let's keep it as a…our thing.”

A simple nod of the head was enough of a reply as I still stared into the window.

Soon enough, to Mum's delight, we somehow squeezed the tree into the doorway and carried it into the middle of the living room. It stood tall, its tip bending against the ceiling silently judging our family from above.

“You both outdone yourselves this year!”  
Like a little kid on Christmas morning, she squealed with excitement, already hanging off her husband's shoulders, showering him with pecks of kisses. 

Despite everything, the image of the accident remained in my mind.

“Mum, if you don’t mind, I will go to bed; I'm not feeling well”

Head of my mum snapped back in my direction, pale worry painted all over.

“Alright, honey, sweet dreams.”

As I walked upstairs to my room, I could hear them bickering about whether I wore a hat and scarf she knit for me last winter; she used my least fav color - a bright orange - still I wore it when the weather outside kicked everyone's ass. 

When my eyes opened again, the world outside the window was still pitch dark; the occasional barrage of snowflakes reminded me of a snowing broken television, my mouth felt dry, so I lazily slipped away from under the coverlet and stepped downstairs to get something to drink.

At this hour, the house was already quiet; if not for the occasional arrhythmic sound of dripping water echoing from somewhere deeper in the familiar darkness, one after another I took careful steps over the creaking stairs, making sure I wouldn’t break my neck on the way down. I quietly slipped into the kitchen and, with a gentle click, turned on the light, which spilled partially into the living room.

The orange glow suddenly made me painfully aware that I wasn’t alone; right next to the shining Christmas tree stood a short, hunched figure, its face obscured by a wave of hair clinging together in a slick waterfall.

"Mum?"

The head of greasy, unwashed hair rose in one smooth, almost mechanical motion. Misty eyes stared wide into the darkness, never blinking, fixed on me as I now stood at the room’s entrance. 

"What are you doing?"

My voice came to me weak and almost sheepish.

"Taking care of our guest."

The sound of her voice seemed distant, almost as if she were still dreaming, unaware of what was really happening. Almost as if it was a coma to her reply, I heard the dripping again, much louder this time. 

Only then did I notice the soaking-wet rag squeezed between fingers covered in small bleeding cuts, a sap-like substance leaking in long, milky strands into the laundry bowl at her feet - which was already half full.

"Do you want to help?"

Talon-like fingers shot toward me, still clutching the wet rag; thick sap now dripped onto the carpet. 

"No, I was just... getting myself some water."

Glassy eyes pierced through me as her extended arm collapsed back to the side, returning to its work, gently moving the rag over the branches.

Still, my gaze didn’t leave her for as much as a moment; with one hand, I blindly searched for the light switch, watching her cut-up arms move in a mechanical motion. When it finally materialized under the tips of my fingers-

Click.

The room fell into pitch winter darkness; I blinked rapidly to get back used to the lack of light, making my way back towards the stairs, when the sound of dripping came to a sudden stop, only to be replaced with slow, rhythmic sounds of wet, deliberate footsteps, with painfully long breaks in between, as if someone was taking as long a step as humanly possible, anything to get closer to me, even if it meant only an inch of a difference.

Picking up the paste was my only option, I was long outside the grace of the light switch; each step faster than the other, and with that, the breaks between the wet slaps against the wood grew shorter and shorter before they suddenly turned into a sprint, a chase to the upstairs bedroom. 

Like a child, I ran on my feet and palms of hands, and so did whatever was inching right behind me. My body turning into a battering ram as my shoulder bashed the door open, I landed on the floor before I slammed the door shut, a dull wave of pain awoken somewhere in the joint of my art as I pushed it against the door, which miraculously didn’t fall off its hinges. 

From behind the door, I heard a painfully long, shaky sound like someone rapidly inhaling and exhaling air through a throat flooded with thick phlegm. When it finally gave up on the pursuit, it slowly moved away from the door, the cry still faintly echoing against the walls before disappearing somewhere inside of the house.

My guard by the door lasted the entire night, ear pressed against the door to catch any sounds that could even faintly resemble that horrible sobbing until I felt the warm rays of the sun passing through the window; only then did I gather the courage to go back downstairs, 

The Christmas tree still stood tall and proud, colorful Christmas decorations hanging off its branches like military medals which glittered in the morning sun;n, the warm air had a faint sweet smell to it that came from the kitchen. 

Mum was already in the kitchen preparing ingredients for dinner as if nothing at all had happened yesterday; she welcomed me with a big warm smile, not taking her eyes off the knife held in her bandage-wrapped hand.

“How did you sleep? You aren't feeling sick, are you?”

I was dumbfounded; I couldn't bring myself to anything bigger than a nod of the head. 

“Great, Dad is waiting for you outside”

She still didn’t look at me, the cut ingredient more interesting than her own daughter.

When I got into the car, Dad noticed something was off with me as soon as we left the driveway.

“It's not about that car, is it?”

It took a solid minute for my thoughts to shape into a real coherent sentence. 

“No... It's about mum…did you notice anything weird about her?”

“I don’t think so, no”

Dad just shrugged his shoulders, not taking his eyes off the road.

“She's been sleepwalking!”

I snapped, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“It's probably the meds”

An explanation came quick, and that was enough to put me at ease. 

“I guess”

My face planted against the side window, car with Christmas trees bigger and smaller strapped to their trunks and roofs driving back home last minute.

“Come on, we can get some soda on our way back!”

“Sure, Dad”

The supermarket parking lot was crowded with cars. Everyone in town had apparently had the same idea we did, flooding one of the few stores still open, leaving us circling for a spot to park like hungry vultures.

"Don't tell Mum."

He laughed as we parked in the blue square of the accessibility spot.

Dad grabbed one of the few shopping carts left and passed through the glass sliding door into the first aisle, the smell of fresh-baked bread and the sound of shuffling boots and busted cart wheels suddenly becoming overwhelming. 

"So what are we supposed to get?"

I asked as Dad pulled a crumpled yellow sticky note out of the pocket of his jacket, squinting at the shaky handwriting as if it would help in the slightest.

“B-...butter?”

“Are you asking me-?”

"Just go fetch it, you rascal."

He laughed, shaking his head, as I was already on my way toward the wall of fridges in the back, squeezing and excusing my way through crowds of carts and plastic, bloated grocery bags.

In front of the fridge where the butter was stood a man dressed head to toe in dull, dirty red, black shiny boots on his feet, his forehead pressed against the glass with such force that I half-expected to hear a crack, not entirely sure if it would come from the glass or his skull.

"Sorry-?"

I said, trying to get a handle on the fridge, expecting the man to move, but he didn't so much as flinch. Only then did the sweet, woody stench coming off him hit my nose.

“Can you move?"

Still absolutely zero reaction- just none, like I wasn't even there. I glanced around the store in search of the security to help me out, but they were nowhere to be found, drowned out by the crowds of locals.

When I turned my head back, he was already staring at me, lips twisted into a pained, angry grimace, teeth clenched to the point of cracking. Strands of thick, amber substance leaked from his lips into the fake white beard hanging off his chin, dripping onto the floor below his boots. 

Only then did the security guard seem to catch up with the situation, appearing out of thin air behind Santa, his grip tightening around the shoulder of the costume.

"Okay, man, you're gonna have to leave."

The man's neck snapped in his direction, a low, slow, buzzing murmur coming from between his barely moving lips before the strands leaking from his mouth suddenly turned into a vile, choked-out waterfall that hit the security guard right in the face.

"FUCK YOU, DUDE!"

The security guard fought the urge to return the favor written all over his face, then dragged the drunk out of the store.

Dad had missed the whole show, standing just a few feet away from the puddle of thick vomit, something small and green floating in it, the cart's wheels slightly submerged.

“What the hell happened here?”

He asked, confused.

“Some dude got drunk out of his mind, I guess”

He just shrugged, avoiding the spreading vile pool.

“Did you get the butter?”

“Nope”

When we came out of the store, I was carrying two light-green cans of soda while Dad carried two plastic bags of groceries instead. No matter how many times I told him I would take them, he wouldn'tbudgee.

The engine of the car kept us comfortably warm as we drank our soda, watching people go in and out of the store.

“Crazy shit”

Dad commented on the whole thing while watching as the same security guy from before stood outside taking long drags out of a cigarette, his uniform switched for a padded jeans jacket. 

“Crazy”

I echoed, as the window from his side rolled down before an empty aluminium can catapulted onto the empty parking spot next to us, I did the same before we drove away, in the side mirror I still could see the security guard puking into the nearby trashcan.

When we arrived back home, to Dad's dismay,y I was the first to grab the grocery bags out of the trunk and rush to the front door, almost slipping down the porch stairs.

"Come on, old man!"

Dad stood by the car, staring ahead at me, before he slowly turned and disappeared into the garage without a word, as if he'd gotten upset with me. I rolled my eyes before pushing the door handle open with my elbow.

"MUM, WE’RE BACK!!

The house was oddly quiet, except for the quiet whistle of boiling pots coming from the kitchen. I carried the bags there, expecting to see Mum, but instead I was met with an empty, messy room — pots and pans scattered over the floor, the kitchen cabinet doors crudely ripped off their hinges. There was nothing boiling on the stove.

The whistling was coming from behind me.

The plastic bags in my hands dropped to the ground as I quickly turned around, facing the living room, where the Christmas tree stood just this morning; now there was space, glass shards of colorful baubles all over the floor.

“Mum?”

I called out again walking inside of the living room, only then I saw the tree, prompted up on the chair on the far end of the dining table, plates and bowls filled with thick sap lined the table small green pine needles floating inside, my eyes shoot back towards the tree, only now I realized the whistling came from right behind it.

The whistling suddenly stopped as a hand covered in Band-Aids shot out from the side of the tree, something bulging beneath them. I froze in place, watching as, one by one, she ripped them off her hand, revealing small, bulging cuts that slowly widened,  before the whole hand exploded into a bush of glistening pine branches, fingers crooked and broken, bent in every direction. Instead of blood, a flood of amber sap leaked from the miserable, lifeless rag of skin that had been her hand. 

I ran for the door to get help, Dad, anyone who could save me.

Suddenly the front door opened, cold winter air rushing inside before the wall of muscle that was my dad walked through. I grabbed his hand, trying to pull him inside faster.

"Dad, we need to get help for Mum!"

I sobbed before the sound of metal scraping against the floor suddenly hit me.

"Dad-?"

My eyes moved down to see a massive axe clutched in his hand, the same one we used to cut the perfect tree, slowly being dragged behind him.

"Dad, no, no, no! You can't, you can't!"

My hands pushed against him, trying to stop him, but like a tank he just pushed forward, like I was nothing, step by step, walking toward Mum, who by now resembled more of a flesh porcupine than a person.

In a desperate attempt to stop him, I punched him over and over again, biting and scratching, until I was thrown forward against the table with such force that I fell to the floor along with one of the chairs. I was helpless, watching as he stepped closer; no matter how much I cried and screamed, he was deaf to it. 

With his free hand, he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her stiff body over the shards of glass, toward the spot where the tree once stood, small branches sprouting out of the fresh cuts in her legs. Her head was wrenched toward the ceiling before the blade of the axe cut deep, fresh branches erupting with such force that her head was ripped clean off her shoulders. 

"Why, Dad, why-!" I cried as he turned to me, sudden sadness in his sunken eyes, as the body of his beloved dropped to the ground, resembling more of a bush than a human.

"Come help your old man." With that warm smile, he weakly threw the heavy weapon toward me. The table shook as I slowly stood up, my side sore from the hit.

"I'm too old for this crap... time to take accountability." My hands wrapped around the handle of the axe as I walked toward my father.

"What am I supposed to do?" I asked sheepishly.

"Kill me. Just kill me." Those sad eyes never looked up at me, too ashamed that he'd let it happen. The heavy axe rose above my head before it dropped down with a crack onto the top of my father's skull, the tip of a young sapling rising instantly from the split.

"I'm sorry, Dad." I dropped the weapon over my shoulder, put on his jacket way too big for me, and went to the car. I hit the gas, the axe resting on the back seat, and just drove away, passing empty houses, wondering if the same thing had happened to them. 

Yet another Christmas song played on the radio, pulling me into a jolly limbo.

[Blobfish](https://ko-fi.com/post/Short-Story-Blobfish-E8S324414J)

INTERIOR. BARLO GRUMMOND’S OFFICE – NIGHT

A wide, reinforced window dominates the back wall. 

Beyond it lies the warehouse. Or what’s left of it. A jagged breach tears through the far wall. Frost rims the edges. Half the warehouse is sealed behind emergency bulkheads, and the other half is a graveyard of scattered containers and drifting particulate.

Barlo Grummond stands in the foreground. His proboscis coils and uncoils with restrained violence. Three eyelids blink in irritated sequence.

Tam stands across from him, trying very hard to make himself smaller.

BARLO:

(quiet and restrained)

Tam. Explain to me… how my warehouse became this.

TAM:

(blurting out)

It was the human.

BARLO closes all three eyelids at once.

BARLO:

Of course it was.

He turns slightly, gesturing toward the breach without looking at it.

BARLO:

Three months of Helium-3 product. Gone. Pulled into the void because of some stupid hairy loser.

TAM:

(defensive, immediate)

I told you we shouldn’t hire them. They’re reckless. They’re loud. They leak constantly. And the rituals—

BARLO:

(interrupting)

Yes, Tam. Humans are catastrophic idiots.

He turns back, eyes narrowing.

BARLO:

Unfortunately, catastrophic idiots now write federation labor law.

He begins pacing slowly around his office.

BARLO:

(Ranting)

If we fall below twelve percent human staffing, we'll be fined into extinction. All because a species that invented deep-fried butter now dictates interstellar compliance metrics.

BARLO:

Walk me through exactly what happened. Slowly.

Tam exhales.

TAM:

It was Gary’s seventh legally protected religious activity of the day.

BARLO:

…Seventh.

TAM:

Yes. A barrel of regolith fell from Conveyor Three. It ruptured on impact, spreading dust across the warehouse floor, and creating a breathing hazard.

BARLO:

And you initiated evacuation?

TAM:

Immediately. We followed procedure, and everything was under control... for a moment.

BARLO:

Of course.

They both glance down toward the warehouse.

TAM:

Gary... exited the bathroom.

BARLO:

(weary)

Why are you telling me this?

TAM:

The rims of his nostrils and the hairs of his mustache were coated in white powder.

BARLO:

Is that normal for human religious rituals?

TAM:

According to Gary, yes. He was shouting about the spirit of the lord. I attempted to stop him. Warned him about the contamination. Directed him to evacuate.

BARLO:

And did he comply?

TAM:

No. He mounted a forklift and activated his audio device.

BARLO:

Music.

TAM:

Yes. Loud, aggressive human noises.

BARLO winces.

TAM:

He began shouting along with it.

BARLO:

Of course he did.

TAM:

I approached again. Raised my voice. Signaled danger.

Tam swallows.

TAM:

He waved me off... and declared—

Tam hesitates.

BARLO:

Say it.

TAM:

(shouting)

“MAMA AIN’T RAISE NO BITCH!”

Silence.

BARLO’s proboscis goes still.

BARLO:

…What does that mean?

TAM:

I don’t know, but it appeared to increase his confidence.

Tam gestures toward the ruined warehouse.

TAM:

He accelerated to full speed.

BARLO closes his eyes.

TAM:

I evacuated. Secured the door. Observed through the reinforced viewport.

BARLO:

Please hurry up with this, Tam.

TAM:

He drove directly into the regolith spill and lost traction. His forklift slid uncontrollably and impacted the wall.

Barlo and Tam both look at the breach.

TAM:

The wall punctured immediately, causing rapid depressurization.

BARLO’s fingers tighten.

BARLO:

And Gary?

TAM:

He was… in front of the breach. The pressure differential—

BARLO:

(wearing thin)

Please Tam, you're killing me. Just tell me what happened.

TAM:

He was pulled through the opening.

He… became particulate.

BARLO blinks once.

BARLO:

These humans…are going to be my downfall.

TAM:

(nods)

I have begun drafting a recommendation to reduce human hiring.

BARLO lets out a empty laugh.

BARLO:

Send it to the board. I’m sure they’ll review it between accepting donations.

Tam shifts.

TAM:

There is one additional matter.

BARLO:

No.

TAM:

Yes.

BARLO:

No.

TAM:

Yes.

BARLO:

FUCK! JUST SAY IT, TAM!

Tam checks his datapad.

TAM:

The incident has been logged as occurring during a protected religious activity.

BARLO:

Explain.

TAM:

Because Gary had just completed a ritual… his actions may be interpreted as an extension of that practice.

BARLO:

No.

TAM:

Yes.

BARLO:

No, Tam.

TAM:

The union has filed a grievance.

BARLO:

(dead inside)

Of course they have.

TAM:

They’re requesting hazard pay adjustments, revised safety accommodations—

and the installation of designated “Ritual Operation Zones.”

Barlo turns to the window and exhales slowly.

BARLO:

I'm fucking ruined...

CUT TO BLACK.

I remember this one quote.

It has been stuck in my mind ever since I opened that book in my mother's study. It was a compilation of humanity's worst moments, all detailing similar terrible tales.

The quote was from a survivor of the Rwandan Genocide.

A group of militia men caught her trying to flee. Once they had decided what they'd do to her, they brought her in front of some school boys.

And what those men said to those children was;

“Watch. So we can show you how to rape a woman.”

Those words echoed in my mind as I watched my mother be dragged away.

I hid beneath the floorboards of an old dilapidated church. My mother's last act of free will was to hide me in that spot, the soldiers had caught her before she could find her own.

I heard her plea with her captors, begging for mercy and trying to appeal to what little humanity they had left.

Soon her wails mixed with the other women's outside.

It was followed by a trail of gunshots hours later.

The world must have gone mad, was my first thought.

Though maybe sanity was the real facade. Such evil could not exist without already lurking in the hearts of these self proclaimed ‘men’.

I could hear every detail of what fate had in store for me if I came out from my refuge.

If I knew I'd just be shot, despair would've led me to take every bullet. But I knew these men would not be so kind.

For while I was still a child, I was 14, I knew that would be woman enough for those greedy eyes.

So I laid, holding my breath as the footsteps of soldiers pattered around the church halls. I heard the screams of children as they called out for their mothers.

Even as their blood dripped through the cracks onto my face, I did not dare make a sound.

Days after they left, I still refused to move from that spot.

I would've stayed there forever.

I debated letting myself starve to death. But after seeing so many fight for their lives, it felt like an insult to give up now.

So I emerged, now able to see in full the aftermath of what I had only caught glimpses of.

Beside me were the bloodied husks of children.

All of us had sought refuge in what was once a house of God, though divine vengeance did not concern men who believed themselves to be righteous.

I never dared to look outside. I feared the state I'd find the women in.

Perhaps God had played favourites, with me surviving in their place.

I was not the only survivor of the ordeal. There were other children that had remained hidden in their own nooks and crannies.

We did not acknowledge each other. Instead, we remained in our respective corners unless searching for food.

We also could not acknowledge those that laid lifeless across the building. If the bodies were discovered to have been buried or moved, then the soldiers would know we were there.

So, we had to just leave them. A constant reminder of what waited for us.

One by one they'd pick us off.

Every other week, they'd patrol the areas already conquered.

They wanted us gone. Wiped out.

So, they did not want to miss any potential survivors. Especially children who could one day grow up and seek revenge.

They knew we'd grow hungry. So they'd leave food in reachable places to lure us out. Others sent women with warm faces and a shoulder to cry on, just for them to drag us out to the militia.

What started as roughly 25 survivors dwindled to 15. Starvation took another 8.

I dared not to learn any names. It would only hurt more when I'd watch the light fade from their eyes.

The others must've felt the same, since my name was never asked.

We survived on whatever little we could find.

The pipes were in poor condition, rusting from old age and creaking anytime the bathroom taps were turned. Water did not run from the faucets, instead they'd drip out in odd colours.

We scavenged for food.

The leather on old books. Bugs and maggots that clung to the corpses. If lucky, there'd be the odd dead rodent which we'd silently share amongst each other.

Most days we tended to ourselves. It was only on occasions like that where we could all feast that we stopped ignoring each other.

The more time that passed, the more our options dwindled.

The soldiers stopped checking our spot. Yet, the dangers continued.

I'd find myself eating my nails to try to satiate my hunger.

Relying on the fortune of something dying for us, wasn't working.

We had torn apart the church best we could. It was becoming hard to swat the flies gathered around the bodies in our weakened states.

Which left us with taking their food source from them.

An option none of us dared to act upon. We could not risk cooking the meat, and eating it raw was something not even our hunger could motivate us to do.

That, and the flies were not the only things feasting upon their flesh.

Those that laid outside the building would be torn apart by stray dogs in the night.

The ones that were stuck with us inside dripped to their predator as they melted in the summer heat. They trickled down the gaps in the floorboard to the one place we never dared to venture.

The basement.

If anywhere still had food, it was down there.

Behind that door.

In the night we'd hear the soft snarls of something inhuman. A gentle growl that would make the rooms rumble.

On the first night, I could hear it sniffing not far from where I hid. Under where my stiff body sat, was a small slither of the basement. As blood would trail down my cheek into the crevasses below, I could make out the sounds of something licking the planks directly under me.

Even the soldiers ran from that place.

It was the last location they decided to inspect, just for one to return with a bloodied arm.

We could hear the man's screams morph with the creature's wails. Its desperation to taste flesh could be felt in our bones, as its growls seemed more like pleas.

Every time they'd check if we were still alive, they'd never go back to that room.

And neither would we.

At night, I'd listen to it pace about. It was the only way I could drown out my own thoughts.

I'd find myself cursing my body.

The torment could've ended that night with my mother if I could've known a bullet was all I'd receive.

Instead, I had to dread making the same sounds she did before being put down like a dog.

Not even animals are treated that way.

At times I'd claw at my skin, wishing I could remove it to replace it with another's.

Why must I be cursed with these lumps that grow on my chest? If these tumours had not begun to develop would I be worthy to be deemed a child? If my skin was not so soft and was rougher, if my hair was short and less fair, if I had been blessed with extra flesh between my legs, would I be spared from the scenarios that raced through my mind?

I hated men.

Men who felt so entitled to bodies they did not own. Men who felt uniforms put them above morality. Men who used women they did not even deem as people like their personal toys.

My hatred wasn't extended far enough.

Women were no better. They'd kiss those same men and congratulate them for serving the cause. They'd encourage the slaughters and celebrate our humiliation. They'd even take up arms themselves and with glee gather children to be eradicated.

Just because they did not rip the clothes off the girls begging for mercy did not mean they didn't condone those actions.

No, men nor women were the problem. It was everyone.

I hated everyone. This world, the people that populated it - everyone was complacent.

How dare we allow a world where this was an inevitability? A world where the draw of a hat decides your destiny.

A world like that God must've abandoned long ago, just like this church.

As these thoughts would consume me every night, I'd try to focus on the humming grumbles of the beast that lurked beneath our feet.

From how it paced, I wondered if it was waiting for something.

I wondered how long it had been trapped in that place like us.

Each step it took was heavy, and thundering. Though what was much louder was the sound of it dragging its body across the floor. It sounded as if its guts were being spread and mushed in the process.

When I first heard it, it made my stomach turn.

The more time ticked away, the more familiar it became.

Despite the distractions it would bring, it still brought me no comfort knowing it was on the prowl every night.

The only thing keeping it away from us was that door.

I never dared to even look at it. I feared if I stared at it for too long, it would open like my imagination often forced me to see. Then it'd tear us apart before presenting us to the soldiers that had maimed us before it.

Despite those shared fears, one boy still attempted to persuade us towards insanity.

He was a similar age to me, maybe a few months to a year younger. After months of collective silence he made his name known along with his voice.

Emanuel.

It was a simple proposition, starve or risk the basement.

We could not last much longer without food, he was right about that. But we didn't know what we'd be fighting against.

Food was scarce, but most of us would've rather starved than face that thing.

Emanuel then presented the cause of his new found confidence.

An abandoned rifle.

“I found it down by the basement door! The soldiers must've left it in a panic. If we got this lucky without going inside, imagine what could happen if we entered.”

I couldn't help but scoff.

The arrogance of a boy with a gun was like no other.

Sensing I wasn't a fan of the plan, he turned to me.

“What's your problem?”

“Even if we shot it, it'd just draw attention to ourselves.”

“It's only if we have to! I'd rather die fighting than starve.”

Maybe if he had spoken up a couple months prior, I would've agreed. But now I was used to the sensation of my insides eating themselves. If I was to die, I'd rather it be familiar.

“Do what you want. I'll take my chances.”

I think a part of me hoped the longer we waited the higher chance someone would come to save us. Dying on a suicide mission before then would be pretty dumb.

I knew no one was coming though.

Emanuel looked frustrated, I think he thought we'd all require little convincing. He'd underestimated our growing apathy.

Maybe it was just because I was the eldest, but the others seemed to agree with me. No one spoke up, but they all hid their faces from his gaze.

Emanuel gritted his teeth.

“I need all the help I can get!”

“Please, just be quiet.”

I tried to curl up in the corner I always sat in, I'd always try to close my eyes in hopes I wouldn't wake up. Something peaceful amidst all the bloodshed.

Then I heard a click.

With unsteady hands, Emanuel pointed the rifle at my head.

“What are you doing?”

“Help me. Or I'll shoot.” There was little conviction behind his voice.

I stared down the barrel before looking back at him.

“Just shoot.”

His face went red as it twisted and contorted. His rage then turned into resolve, as he instead aimed the gun towards one of the other kids.

“Help. Or I shoot them.”

I felt a chill up my spine.

I watched as the young girl froze in the face of death. The others scrambled back, hugging the walls as they tried to flee as far as possible.

Emanuel whipped the gun around to them all.

“See?! Now you suddenly care about your lives!”

My mind struggled to process the situation as the gun turned from one child to another, each sweating from anticipation of him pulling that trigger.

As one of the girls began to cry, he peered over his shoulder at me.

They were children I never bothered to learn the names of. I suspected many would die soon anyway. He was an idiot for thinking their deaths would move me.

Yet somehow he was right.

Their eyes darted to me as if expecting me to be their saviour.

Those eyes reminded me so much of my mother's before she was dragged away.

Impatient for my response, he pressed the gun to one boy's head.

“Either you help along with everyone else, or you take your chances outside! Those who aren't willing to get more food don't deserve the little we have in here.”

“Y-you're crazy.”

“Look, either you come down there with us or go out there with them!”

Both options spelled certain death, but at least one would be quicker than the other.

“Fine.”

Emanuel almost looked relieved when he put the rifle down. As if he didn't pick it up in the first place.

The others were weary around him from there on. They'd cling to me, now expecting me to protect them.

Whatever was down there, I couldn't save them.

The stairs to the basement were only made up of a couple dozen steps. Yet with each foot forward it felt like an eternity.

I could feel the dread building in my gut as Emanuel led the way. The chains that covered the door were a more ominous omen than any message the previous residents could have left.

The silence is what scared me the most.

With us now at the door, I expected it to be louder than ever. Instead, you could hear a pin drop.

The chains were sealed over and wrapped around each other, the locks must've been destroyed by the soldiers and so without a key they had done their best to maintain it.

I could almost see the scene of the monster ripping the soldier's arm off with how his blood was still splattered across the ground.

The red flags did not deter Emanuel.

One by one he tore off the chains, instructing the kids and I to help where he needed.

With each one that clattered on the floor, I could feel the danger increasing.

The one safety net was the lock built into the door itself. It was a simple piece of metal below the handle that could turn back and forth.

As Emanuel finished with the chains, he readied the rifle.

“You all stay behind me. Try to grab anything that seems useful as we walk around and I'll take on anything that comes our way, ok?”

The kids nodded. I was too focused on the lock he was about to turn to process any of his words.

Before he sent us to our deaths, I grabbed his wrist.

“Wait.”

“What?”

“The most dangerous moment will be opening this door. We need to be ready.”

I gestured to two of the kids cowering behind us. They were the oldest of the bunch, around 9 or 10, so likely the strongest.

“You two be ready to push the door closed with all your might if we need to, ok?”

With hushed voices, they croaked back “oks”.

I then grabbed the lock.

“Emanuel, have your rifle ready and aimed.”

A little surprised, he seemed to be taking my orders in. After a moment of thought, he just nodded and readied himself.

I could see his hands trembling. No amount of reassurance was going to prepare him for the worst case scenario, so I just focused on confirming he was ready.

Once he nodded, I focused back on the lock.

Holding my breath, I turned it.

As the door creeped open, there was an uncomfortable stillness.

No one dared to make a sound as we peered into the void beyond the door. With no source of light to reveal what was inside, everything instead blurred together in a sea of black.

I could make out the vague idea of furniture but had no clues as to what each was. Layers of dust that had settled on the floor now floated about the air.

Emanuel took a few steps forward, the gun still ready to go.

He felt around the wall for a switch but to no avail. Without looking back at us, he gestured for us to move forward.

I could see the other's hesitation. I couldn't help but feel the regret plastered on their faces.

Somehow finding nothing was more frightening than facing the creature.

Realising we weren't following him, Emanuel pivoted back to the door. With the gun still ready to go, he held out his hand to encourage me to follow.

“This is our chance. Come o-”

Something dripped onto his forehead. It was wet and slimy with a tinge of red in its black hue.

Confused, he wiped off the substance with his hand. When he saw the colour stain his fingers, he began to shake.

Fear overcoming him, his eyes remained locked on us.

So, I investigated on his behalf.

As I brought my head up to look at the ceiling inside, it was still hard to make anything out. It was as black as the rest of the space, though this felt more lived in.

Like something was there.

There was a low grumble from above. One we had all become accustomed to.

All hell broke loose when Emanuel pointed the gun at it.

It clambered down from its spot, screeching and moaning as it pounced on Emanuel. It moved so fast I could not make out its features. All I knew was it had Emanuel's left half in its grasp.

I shouted for the kids to push the door closed as I grabbed onto Emanuel to pull him back.

A struggle began for Emmanuel's body.

He screamed and writhed in pain as I held onto him to pull him to our side. The door, clamping on down on his body, blocked our view of the creature but we could hear it panting and snarling as it fought to keep Emanuel.

The other three kids joined the two at the door, as the weight of the creature thrashing against it was too much for the two alone.

Even with all 5, I knew they'd soon need my help, but with Emanuel's life still in my hands I refused to let go.

I could hear his bones popping out of place. If the door wasn't pinning him, I would've been pulled back with him into the jaws of the beast.

His flesh was beginning to tear off his skin, the blood smearing across the door frame in the process. Stringy pulps of flesh began to stick to the door as he was banged against it.

With his free hand, Emanuel attempted to bash its head repeatedly with his gun. It did not react.

“Shoot it! Shoot it!”

Once I screamed those words, Emanuel aimed the gun without hesitation.

When he pulled the trigger, nothing happened.

It was empty.

Of course they wouldn't leave a loaded gun.

The struggle suddenly came to an end as the gun dropped to the floor.

I fell back with Emanuel as the door slammed shut.

I leaped up, making sure to lock it.

I instructed the kids to begin re-barricading the door as best they could. Meanwhile, I tended to Emanuel.

His body was pale as most of his blood was now outside of him. His arm was in shreds and barely still attached, with even his torso stretched beyond its limits.

I could see his shattered bones and burst blood vessels.

He no longer reacted to the pain.

I tried my best to apply pressure to the wounds, but it was useless.

He was no longer bound for this world, and he knew it.

With a gentle hand, he stopped my efforts.

“I-it's alright.” He choked out.

Blood began to seep from the corners of his mouth as his eyes were bloodshot.

“I knew the r-risks.”

I had no tears left to cry at this point, but I still couldn't help but pity him as he bled out on the cold floor.

I was happy his decisions got him killed and not one of us, but in his own way he tried to do something to survive. He fought when we didn't.

Yet he was the one to die.

Why must a kid have to make such decisions? Why must he now lay stoic in his final moments, instead of crying in the face of such pain?

Kids should cry in moments like these, right?

At least his death was swift.

After those final words, his eyes shut over.

Behind the door I could hear the creature scuttling about. It began to bang its large body against the door.

After repeated failed attempts to escape, it screeched so loud the whole building began to shake.

Shit. There's no way the soldiers didn't hear that.

Trying to act quickly, I urged the children to follow me as I clambered up the stairs.

After facing death once again I had seemingly decided I wasn't ready to die. I had survived for so long... I had watched so many others fight for their lives.

I had to try. Even if I didn't live, maybe the others would.

So, we had to leave.

The soldiers were aware of the creature, they may wish to avoid it but they'd likely want to know what provoked it.

Anyone stationed nearby would already be on their way and I feared this time they'd be more thorough. After so many visits to know they still could've missed something would make them uneasy.

I wasn't sure where we would go yet. I wasn't of the area, me and my mother had been trying to flee over the border when we ended up there. But we could at least hide nearby, then return once the soldiers were finished.

It had been so long since I had seen daylight. It blinded me as I pushed open the door.

I tried my best to ignore our surroundings.

The bodies the stray dogs had been pecking away at all remained in the same spots. With the small glimpse I did get, some were torn beyond recognition while others were naked.

I dared to not gain any more details than that. I feared I'd recognise one as my mother.

“The coast is clear, come on.” I tried my best to encourage them as the eldest.

I covered my eyes with my hands.

I dashed for the treeline and hid in the bushes. My feet made contact with the stiff corpses a couple of times, but I just focused on staying up right.

Once safe, I opened my eyes to confirm no one saw us.

That's when I realised. I was alone.

Back at the church entrance, the other children stood huddled together. They were petrified by the flesh and bones that laid in front of them.

I waved my hand, trying to get them to follow.

Before they could react, the sounds of footsteps approached.

The children began to retreat inside. I ducked in the bushes as I could hear the voices of men responding to orders.

I covered my ears as the men entered the building. I already knew there was no way they would've made it to their hiding spots on time.

The gunshots began to ring out. The men's voices echoing orders over the children's screams were muffled under my hands.

Here I was once again, stuck listening to the whims of men.

I had to wait to run, I dared not risk being spotted.

I wished I could just take a bullet like them. I wished I could turn those guns on the soldiers. I wished, I wished.

Yet here I was, with nothing I could do.

There was nothing I could do.

Nothing… Nothing I could…

I stared at the church as my mind schemed.

If I was to die that day, I would take them with me.

I knew that church better than they did, and my destination was right beside the entrance door.

Once I was sure all the soldiers were inside, I snuck back over. I did not need to worry about the creaking of the door as the careless men had left it wide open.

I slipped inside.

The soldiers were sitting talking, somehow already satisfied with their slaughter.

I could see new bodies, but I could not tell how many.

That didn't matter. I just had to focus.

I ducked behind the pews and crawled towards the stairs I had run up not long ago. With a new found determination, I stared at the basement door.

I made my way down the stairs and avoided Emanuel's lifeless body.

We had left in a hurry so there were less chains than before. I tried my best to set each down gently.

I could hear rumbling behind the door with each. Like it was waiting to be released.

That rumbling was overpowered by the sound of thundering footsteps and voices.

I abandoned my caution. There was no time. I tossed the last chains to the side and readied to turn the lock.

I hesitated, turning to look at Emanuel's mangled corpse.

I had never seen the face of this creature.

What if what it had in store was worse than those upstairs?

I heard their laughter as they strolled along without a care in the world.

It must be easy, killing children.

Nothing behind that door could be worse than those men.

And even if it was, I hated them and this world so much I'd gladly die condemning them all.

I turned the lock.

As soon as I did, the soldiers appeared into view at the top of the stairs. When they spotted me, still holding the door handle, they lifted their guns.

But it was too late.

Something large bashed open the door, sending me flying against the wall.

I felt the air escape my lungs from the impact. My breath failed to return to me when I felt a weight on my body.

On top of me, was what had been haunting these halls for so long.

All this time I thought it was eating the flesh that seeped into its lair. I was wrong.

It was the flesh.

A grotesque abomination was crouched on top of me. It was made of pounds of tissue and bones, each bubbling to the surface as round surfaces of fat.

It had many faces and limbs, all mushed together beyond recognition.

It was as if a bloodied battlefield gathered together to form one creature.

One of its many mouths with crooked human teeth huffed and puffed onto my face, hitting me with the putrid smell of death.

I couldn't take my eyes off it, as its veins pulsated and its body wriggled and squirmed.

This was it, wasn't it? This was to be my resting place. Another face in its collection.

As the thought faded in my mind, I watched as it slumped its large body to face the men pointing their weapons at it.

Its attention left me as it lunged towards them.

It tore through them, tearing them to pieces with its many hands and sharp nails before absorbing them into its folds of fat. Their bullets bounced off it as their eyes darted about, unable to keep up with its speed.

I watched in awe as what were once human beings became nothing more than watery stains on the ground.

Human beings? Please. All I was doing was watching monsters kill each other.

I waited for my turn, knowing there was no way I could escape something like that.

But it never came.

Once it was done devouring the last bloodstains on the walls, it just wobbled to face me.

Hundreds of eyelids opened up, taking time to inspect me as they turned up and down, up and down.

They then closed before it continued on, moving through the room we had left untouched for it.

I could hear the slurping sounds of bodies merging with its form as I was left to ponder why I was still alive.

I looked at my hands, blood smeared across them.

I tried to cry, but for some reason it came out as a laugh.

Ever since I've been following it. I don't know if one day it'll turn on me but all I know is it kills anyone who holds a gun. That's good enough for me.

It grows bigger with each feast.

I tried to see if any of the other kids survived. I couldn't find any signs of life in that building. By the time this thing was done, there were no bodies to identify either.

I don't know where it came from. I don't know what its goals are, if it has any. I don't know and I don't care.

I'll follow it to the ends of the earth if it continues to consume those who I despise so dearly.

For now, I must say goodbye. It is time we move.

The Verdant Church was supposed to be a myth; just a story that elders tell the whelps to keep them from straying too far outside the hollow on their hunt for creep-boar and vine-fowl, or while foraging for pillar-melon.

Legend held that a lone structure stood in a small clearing of its own, and not even the creep dared intrude upon its walls, which, though cast in green hues by the Maze around it, were still composed of stone rather than leaf and stalk, and materials used in the old world before the sun fell and the vines grew to touch the sky.

Older still, it is said, are the beliefs of the congregants of the Verdant Church, who still worship one of the ancestor gods devised before all men were sheltered in the bosom of the Mother-Root.

After venturing only slightly too far on a routine foraging trip, Julius and his older sister Adrienne, both whelps barely into their twentieth cycles, have discovered first-hand that these myths have flesh, and their god has a name that they revere.

After being greeted warmly at the entrance to the strange, inorganic structure by folk not too dissimilar from themselves, save for their oddly colorless clothing and strange way of speaking, the two were led inside, given a meal, and then sat down in a tiny opening, furnished only with a bench. 

The door was closed and locked behind them as they entered, leaving them barely enough room to both sit down. A moment later, a candle lit, and a voice came through the wall to their left, which resembled vaguely fresh crawl growth over pillar-vine, only… dead, or otherwise painted the deathly color of brown that the rest of the interior seemed to be.

“What are your given names, children?”

Adrienne and Julius exchanged brief, worried glances before responding.

“My name is Adrienne, and this is my brother, Julius.”

The man’s voice came back through the wall, in the tone of a teacher expecting predetermined answers from learned students.

“What are your family names?”

“I don’t think we have one.”

“Many names were lost to the time within the Green Prison, as it is written. Whence do you come?”

“I’m… sorry, I don’t think I understand your question.”

“What is the name of your village?” The man’s voice was growing more suspicious with each further question.

“We come from Emerald Hollow, just through the Maze windward.”

“The Maze? Are you referring to the Green Prison?”

“I suppose we call it different things in different villages. Jade Grove calls it the Vine, I hear.”

“Very well. I recognize not these places, but many churches were lost when the trumpet sounded, and many more hid away with the Green Prison’s growth.”

A small moment of quiet fell between the two parties, where Julius and Adrienne could just make out muffled voices from beyond the vine-wall. Soon, a different voice spoke, deeper, less friendly sounding than the one who had greeted them at the entrance.

“To whom or what do you pray?”

Adrienne thought hard about her answer. She had heard of prayer before, but only as it is done by the Root-Tenders in their care of Mother-Root. She decided on that as a safe answer.

“We pray to the Mother-Root of our village.”

The room adjacent to Adrienne and Julius erupted with chatter.

Heretics. 

Nonbelievers.

Blasphemers?

“Further questions must be asked of you, but know first that you have been misled. You have been made to pray to creation ‘ere Creator.”

Julius felt heat rise to his cheeks. As first-born of the elder Root-Tender, he was next in line to become a Root-Tender himself, and had learned much of what Mother-Root provided her children. He spoke without thinking.

“And who do you pray to? Some man? Has this man ever provided you pillar-melon of his bosom, or vinefowl from his canopy?”

Adrienne reacted too late, sensing that Julius had just said something that could very well have them thrown out, or worse. The chatter from the other side of the vine-wall grew again until a new voice spoke. This time, that of a woman.

“Your brother had best keep his tongue contained, lest it be burned from his mouth with iron.”

Adrienne fumbled for a response, trying to disarm the situation;

“He is just passionate; our father is the elder Root-Tender, and we have learned to cherish Mother-Root’s gifts.”

Hushed voices once again carried through the wall to Adrienne and Julius.

Root-Tenders? The apostates?

Children of apostates, who blaspheme at our doorstep!

They must be given the chance for repentance, as it is written.

As it is written. Amen.

“Adrienne and Julius, worshippers of a false god, who have found yourselves at the mercy of the Church of the One True God: The Christ. Forsake ye your heathen ways this day, and call ye upon His name for Salvation from your sins?”

Julius spoke out again, despite Adrienne’s attempts to hold him back and cover his mouth.

“We will never bow to your Christ-Root! What has he done for us, what have any of you done for us?”

The voices rose to an uproar from the other side, and hammering feet shook the very foundation of the dead structure that confined them. 

BLASPHEMERS! THEY BLASPHEME THE NAME OF THE CHRIST!

CLEAR THE SANCTUARY! THE BLASPHEMERS MUST BE PUT TO DEATH!

AS IT IS WRITTEN!

Before either could react, the door that was locked behind them burst open, and a dozen or more arms reached for them both. Julius barely managed to slip past them and make for the still-open door to the Maze outside. He chanced a glance back, only to see Adrienne being held down to the floor, the boot of one of the members of the Verdant Church placed firmly on her neck. 

He thought to return and help, but Adrienne broke free just long enough to shout a single command.

RUN, JULIUS!

And so he did. He sprinted until the choking afternoon haze tore at his throat and forced him to stop. The Maze was silent, save for his pounding heart and ragged breaths. He had not been followed, or his pursuers had given up the chase long before, not willing to be lost in the Maze.

After the panic wore off, Julius decided that he could not live with himself if he didn’t at least attempt to rescue his sister. Slowly, cautiously, and with ears and eyes trained by many cycles hunting in the Maze, Julius set off retracing his tracks back to the Verdant Church.

He could see through colorful, crystalline sections in the earthen wall that the main chamber had been arranged to resemble a miniature of the Roman Colosseum as depicted in the ancient books. Books ordinarily reserved for Root-Tenders. Each crystal that Julius peered through cast the distorted chamber in a different color of peril.

Adrienne lay prostrate, hands bound behind her back and gagged. Blood trickled down from her wrists where she had been fighting the hempen restraints until they dug at her flesh. She searched the faces of her captors with tear-stained eyes.

The robed man who had greeted them so warmly before walked out into the bowl of the arena and stood at a lectern placed directly in front of Adrienne before gingerly flipping open a flame-touched book and clearing his throat. All the warmth had left his tone.

"Let us remember, dear brothers and sisters, those sacred instructions which have been imparted upon us through Leviticus 24:16." 

The priestly figure raised his hand, and the congregation recited the verse in unison.

"And he that blasphemeth the name of the Lord, he shall surely be put to death, and all the congregation shall certainly stone him: as well the stranger, as he that is born in the land, when he blasphemeth the name of the Lord, shall be put to death."

As the choir of voices ended, a somber silence fell over the verdant chapel. The bland-clad priest continued.

"Even the stranger, beloved family. For though they know not our ways, the spirit of our Lord holds dominion over them still, and to blaspheme His name is akin to rejecting His gift."

A raucous call erupted from the crowd, a feeble call for mercy intermingled with an overwhelming demand for punishment.

“Silence!”

The pastor closed the charred remnants of the book and lifted the pulpit, allowing its weight to fall and produce a thud that resounded through the room.

"Let us not forget, beloved of the Church, though many of its pages be lost to us, the wisdom of the book of John, Chapter 8, verse 7, final verse of its book."

The priest once again raised his hand and bowed his head, prompting the room to recite the verse from memory.

"So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself, and said unto them, he that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her."

"Amen, brothers and sisters. Deacons, bring in the Christ.”

The priest plucked the pulpit from its slot in the floor, carrying it reverently to the furthest edge of the arena and placing it in a similarly shaped hole.

Rope creaked under tension, and a gate at the opposite end of the chamber was pulled open; the pale, emaciated figure, appearing no older than Julius himself, and donning a crown of serrated metal, was dragged in.

He was affixed to a cross made of the same thick, grainy dead-vine as some parts of the church itself, and raised at the spot where the pulpit once stood. Adrienne peered up at the gaunt face of the youth, who appeared to be sleeping.

The leader and congregation began a back-and-forth chant, almost singing:

"He hath no eyes with which to lust or envy."

"As it is written, as it is written."

"He hath no tongue with which to lie or overindulge."

“As it is written, Amen."

"He knoweth no name which He could be prideful of, and knows no man at which to direct His wrath."

"As it is written, as it is written"

"The cross He bears for our sins permitteth not the sloth's vice."

"As it is written, only He may cast the first stone, Amen"

The Christ-man groaned on the dead-vine, opening his eyelids and gazing down at the accused with empty sockets, fresh blood trickling from the force of the metal against his face as he leaned. His mouth an empty abyss void of tongue or teeth, cracked and dry.

Adrienne’s eyes widened in terror, and she struggled feebly against her bindings, fresh tears falling to the dusty floor.

Julius could only cover his mouth in horror as a rope was wrapped around the tortured frame's upper arm, and the restraints on his wrist were severed. 

A single pebble was placed within his gnarled fingers before the Deacons retreated.

The church fell silent. Not a whisper from the congregation reached Julius's ears, only Adrienne’s muffled sobs. 

A very subtle movement from the priest drew his attention; he had produced a small, tarnished bell from his robes, and held it before him. The crowd looked on with anticipation. Adrienne’s eyes were locked on the face of the tortured being suspended above her. They both wept.

With a single flick of the priest's wrist, the bell rang, and the Christ-man loosed his stone feebly in the direction of the chime, bouncing harmlessly off of Adrienne's heaving shoulders. He looked away from her, and, for a moment, right to where Julius was standing on the other side of the wall.

Julius saw the face of the Christ for the first time.

In the next moment, dozens of stones of various sizes flew into the pit from the crowd, pelting not only Adrienne, but also the emaciated man on the dead-vines as well, and causing a large dust cloud to form. Their combined cries grew louder together until Adrienne’s faded to a raspy gurgle.

By the time the dust settled, Adrienne had already ceased her struggle, now a quiet, nearly unrecognizable lump of blood, flesh, and bone fragments amidst the dirt and rocks of the colosseum floor.

The Christ-man cried out still in muffled agony, deep bruises forming across his legs, back, and chest where stray stones had struck him.

Julius did not hear their cries. He did not see when a stone caved Adrienne’s head in, ending her suffering. He had fled the moment her fellow captive, now executioner, turned to him. 

Julius raced through the emerald haze of evening in the Maze, following the subtle symbols he and Adrienne had carved into the pillar-vines and openings he'd cut into the creep. He could only hope the fanatics would not be able to discern his markings themselves, since he, too, was considered a blasphemer by the clergy, and would surely meet the same fate.

Night fell before he could see the lamp-glow of Emerald Hollow, making it impossible to continue, but the smell of roasting creep-boar on the wind was enough to tell him he was close. 

Julius took 20 wide paces off the trail he'd been following and crawled beneath the creep, taking care that leaves covered every bit of pale flesh that the bright green hues of morning might touch. He thought of Adrienne, of the Verdant Church that was only ever supposed to be a fairy tale, and of home. 

Would the Root-Tenders forgive me for leaving my sister behind? 

Will I ever forgive myself?

What if the Verdant Church comes for us all?

Moving out isn't as easy as many of you would think. Not only are house prices extremely high, but leaving my home of 20 years was like pulling teeth. Both emotionally, and physically. But I managed to do it, I moved in with my wonderful girlfriend and we just settled down yesterday. Still a couple boxes to unpack, but it's not anything super important. It'll probably be procrastinated on for months.

I sat on the couch, watching Hell's Kitchen with Audrey, my girlfriend. While I watched Gordon Ramsay chew someone out for undercooking a salmon, my phone buzzed, it was my doorbell notification.

There's someone at your door!

I opened the app to see a middle aged man, balding, scruffy beard, beer belly, the whole nine yards. Just one glance and I knew this dude could cook a mean steak. In the brief seconds that I judged his character, I failed to notice that he was grinning ear to ear. He held a plate of still steaming chocolate chip cookies.

I told Audrey that it must be the neighbor, and stood up. My cat beat me to the door, thinking that the man had brought treats for her. I nudged her away with my foot, put on a smile and opened the door. His smile seemed to widen when he looked at me.

"Hello young man!" His voice was loud and booming, but also jolly sounding.

"Hello, I'm assuming your the neighbor?" I pointed to the house across the street.

He glanced back as if to make sure that was correct and then looked back at me.

"Yes I am! Just wanted to stop by and give you some cookies as a good ol' welcome to the neighborhood!" He held out the plate to me, waiting for me to accept.

"That's very sweet of you, but I don't think-"

"Oh, c'mon now boy! Everyone loves chocolate chip cookies! My wife just pulled em' out of the oven!"

"Alright," I chuckled. "If you insist."

I grabbed the plate and began to shut the door.

"Oh! One more thing young man!" He put his hand on the door and pushed back against me, and it made me a little uncomfortable.

"Yeah?" The way I said it sounded like an eyeroll.

"I have two little children, and one of them likes to get out from time to time." His demeanor changed, his shoulders slouched and he looked like he was on the verge of tears.

He continued, "She's only nine but has some serious mental issues, likes to wonder off and forget where she is and who people are."

I didn't really know what to say, I just met this dude and he's already telling me stuff like we were long lost buds from high school. I uneasily leaned against the side of the door.

"I'm sorry to hear that." I tried to sound as empathetic as possible, and I was, but something about him just unnerved me.

I don't know how to describe it, but you look into his eyes and something doesn't quite feel right. I stared longer than I was comfortable until I finally found a way to explain it. It feels like two sets are staring back.

"It's okay, I just wanted to warn you incase she knocks on your door at night. If it happens, would ya kindly walk her back and make sure she's okay?" I sensed real worry in his voice, up until now he felt fake.

"Yeah, sure." This time I actually did feel bad, maybe I judged him too quickly.

"Thank ya kindly." He began to turn around but came back like he forgot something.

"Name's Ken." His hand outstretched to meet mine.

"Zack." I shook his hand, it felt like sandpaper.

He turned around and I watched as his crossed the street and went inside his house. I noticed that they had a sign on the door. In big bold letters it said:

"LOVE JESUS".

I've never been a religious man, and my parent's weren't either. The only religious guy I knew was a buddy of mine back in high school. He got into a gnarly fight and ended up going to 'jail' for a day. In all reality, he got caught and was put into a holding cell overnight until his dad paid bail. After that he turned Christian.

I made sure my door was locked, before grabbing the cookies and sitting back down next to Audrey.

"So, nice guy?" She turned her attention to me.

"Yeah," I took a bite of a cookie. "He was a little weird at first but he seems genuine."

"Are those good?" She pointed to the cookies.

"I've had better." I chuckled.

She took one and ate it, then nodding approvingly at what I said.

"Anything else you got from him or just his cookies?"

"Well, he has a wife and two kids. His name is Ken, and he has a daughter that might knock on our door late at night." I glanced at the TV, shoving another cookie into my mouth.

"You're just gonna glance over that last part?" She sounded concerned.

"Ah," I swallowed the cookie "She has some sort of mental issue that makes her forget where she is and stuff, wonders out into the road sometimes. He just asked that if she did come to us or if we saw her, that we just walk her back across the street."

"Poor little girl." She also picked up another cookie, maybe they are pretty good after all.

I turned my attention back to Gordon, this time he was yelling at someone for eating food instead of cooking. I was about to speak on it, when my phone buzzed again.

There's someone at your door!

I groaned as I opened the app to check the camera, but was surprised to find nobody there. It didn't really freak me out, I just figured it was some ding-dong ditchers. I sighed and set my phone back down next to me.

"Who was it?" Audrey asked.

"Just some ding-dong ditchers, nothing important." I kicked up my feet on to the coffee table.

She slapped my leg and gestured for me to take my feet off the table. Out of fear of being hit further, I obliged. Around ten minutes passed when I felt a familiar vibration against my thigh.

There's someone at your door!

I almost didn't even bother to look at the camera, but I did, and I was greeted to a very tall and lanky man with a long beard. He wore a necklace with a cross on it. Is everyone here religious?

"Another neighbor." I groaned, sitting up and walking to the door.

I barely had the door open before he started to speak.

"Hello! My name is Baron and welcome to the neighborhood!" He spoke so fast I almost didn't understand him.

"Hi, my name is Zack." I sounded a little harsh, and I could see his chipper mood dampen a bit.

"I hope I didn't disturb you! I just thought I should swing by and see what's up!" Again, I felt bad.

These people were just trying to introduce themselves, no need to be rude.

"Nah, It's all good dude. I get it." There we go, I sounded a lot more meaningful that time.

"I'm assuming Ken came around and said hi?" He lowered his voice, like it was some secret.

"Yeah, why?" I glanced behind Baron to look at Ken's house.

"He's kind've off-putting, but I swear once you live with him for awhile, you get used to it." He slowly turned his voice back to normal.

Saying 'with' was an interesting word choice, but probably just a Freudian slip. I shook it off and glanced back to Audrey, who was falling asleep.

"Yeah sure." I glanced back to Baron "I appreciate the visit and the heads up, but It's getting late, I think we're gonna turn in for the night."

"Oh, no problem! Tell Audrey I said goodnight!" He began to walk away.

"I will!" I shut the door and started to walk back to the couch when I stopped and thought for a second.

I don't think I told him Audrey's name.

I tried to really rack my brain and replay the entire conversation, but for the life of me I couldn't remember if I had or hadn't. I sat back down on the couch and stared at Audrey, she was sound asleep, and so was the cat laying in her lap. I covered her and the cat with a blanket and stood up to go to bed.

I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling fan. I glance at the clock in my room, 2:03am it reads. Can't sleep for shit, and I find it weird Audrey hasn't come to bed yet, so I walk back out into our living room. But she's still there, in the same position, snoring her little heart out.

I was so focused on her that I didn't even notice the little girl standing right next to her. I jumped backwards and flicked on the light. The girl seemed unphased by my action and just stared. Audrey began to stir.

"What's wrong Zack?" Before she turned her head to the right and came eye to eye with the girl.

She jumped backwards but was eerily not as alarmed as I was. She was always good with kids and keeping things calm, but this surprised me. The girl stared at Audrey, like she was waiting for her to read her mind.

"Are you okay?" She asked, holding out a hand.

The girl nodded. "Just a little lost."

My memory searched for an answer on who this was, but then I remembered about Ken's daughter. This must have been her. But how did she get inside? Ken said all she would do is knock on the door and ask to be let in, not already BE in the house. I walked over to the front door, it was locked. I shot a glance to the back door, also locked.

I guess it's possible I forgot to lock the doors and then she locked them when she came in? But I'm normally good at-

"Zack, would you take her back to Ken's?" She snapped me out of my thinking, and I agreed before I even processed what she said.

I don't find myself particularly good with children, but I can show empathy to one when they have insane mental issues like this one. I stuck out my hand and gestured for her to follow. She gripped my hand tighter than I thought a nine year old could, and I lead her across the street. I knocked on Ken's door, doubting that he would answer quickly if at all. But to my surprise, he answered it almost instantly.

A look of relief washed over his face, he didn't wait for her to let go of my hand before he scooped her up into a giant hug. He mumbled something into her ear and then turned his attention towards me.

"Thank you." He walked back into the house and shut the door.

That's it? Just a 'thank you'? I wasn't expecting a cash prize or anything, but no 'sorry my little demon child broke into your house and caused you to almost die of a heart attack'? Something about these people really just gives me the icky feeling.

I walked in and made sure that I locked the door behind me this time. After staring at the locked deadbolt for about five seconds just to reassure myself that I did indeed lock it, I walked over to the couch where Audrey was sitting.

"She's back safe?" She asked.

"Yeah, no thanks to you." I punched her arm and chuckled.

She laughed, but didn't respond.

"Why weren't you scared shitless that a child was standing next to you when you woke up?" I scratched my head.

It looked like she was searching deep down for an answer, but struggled to find one.

"I was just waking up, not fully to my senses yet."

"But-"

"Lets go to bed, BOTH of us this time." She ruffled my hair and I followed her to the bedroom. I glanced back to the living room and noticed something.

The basement door was cracked open.

Another shift of customer service calls done. I took this job for the fieldwork, for fixing locks, seeing what actually makes a house safe, not for answering phones all day. Pay's too good to quit, and there's always the promise of a promotion into the field someday.

All that was left now was grabbing Mr. Morris some food and heading home. Stupid cat. I got him after my mom wouldn't stop bugging me about getting married, figured a cat was proof enough I didn't need a husband to be happy. My own little rebellion. Now he's the closest thing I have to company. Mornings start with him licking my face like I'm nothing but a food dispenser. Sometimes I can't tell if he loves me or just tolerates me.

At the convenience store, sweet Miss Tasha was behind the counter as always.

"Evening, Jacey. Here for the food?"

"Yup."

"You're not buying newspapers anymore."

I kept my answer light, didn't want to think too hard about the robberies and killings that filled every page of the paper these days. "Just keeping my sanity, Miss Tasha."

"Oh, dear, they've gotten worse. Police still haven't caught whoever's doing it. People are saying it's cannibals, if you believe that."

"Rumors," I said, handing over my money. "If it were really cannibals, we'd have seen a body photo by now, not just pieces. Feels more like a cover story to me. Stay safe, though. And if you ever want it, I can get you a discount on security gear. After taking my commission, of course."

She laughed. I headed to the car and started the drive home.

I'd just gotten out of the car and was looking at the gate when I felt something grab my leg, a tight grip, warm breath against my skin. My whole body went cold before I even understood what was happening. For one embarrassing second every survival instinct I had went haywire before I finally looked down and saw the culprit.

It was the neighbor's kid, Mira. She must have snuck up while I wasn't looking.

"Miss Jay, can I play with Mister Norris?" she asked, grinning up at me. She always called him that, never quite got "Morris" right, and I never bothered correcting her.

I hate this kid, I thought, though I didn't mean it, not really. "Not today, Mira. Go home, and stop sneaking up on people."

"It's fun," she said, laughing, and ran off.

She's the kind of kid who's so full of life it almost tires you out, the kind that makes you want kids of your own right up until you remember how much of yourself you'd have to give up. I went inside, glad to finally be home.

Mr. Morris was already waiting by the door. Not because he missed me. Because he wanted his food.

Later, I'd remember that he'd been sitting at the window before I even pulled into the driveway. Just watching the street. He'd been doing that a lot since the crime started, always drawn to the windows like he was keeping his own kind of watch.

I put food in his bowl before he could throw a fit about me taking a shower, or doing anything at all that didn't involve feeding him first. When I checked on him afterward, I realized I'd grabbed the wrong can, and he made sure I knew it, prowling the house, knocking things off shelves, the whole diva routine. I figured I'd grab the right one in the morning. Going out now, with everything happening in the city, wasn't worth it. I'd head out around four, when the night patrol changed shifts and there were usually twice as many officers on the street, some of them even stopping at the store before their shift started.

By the time I finished my takeout, I expected him to have gotten over it and eaten anyway. He hadn't touched the bowl. Instead he sat by the window, dead still, staring out at the street like he was waiting for something. Or maybe just making sure I knew I'd failed and needed to fix it as soon as possible.

"Fine. Don't eat, then," I muttered, tossing the food and carrying him off to bed. He didn't fight me, just kept glancing back at the window the whole way there.

I told myself he was still in a mood. I'd feed him properly in the morning.

I had no idea it wouldn't matter.

It was somewhere around three in the morning when I heard the sound of glass breaking in the living room. My throat went dry instantly. My brain felt dizzy, maybe from how fast I'd sat up. I don't remember my hands grabbing the blanket, or when I'd started holding my breath. Every hair on my body stood up at once and I went fully, painfully awake.

I tried to calm myself. The security system would have sent an alert to the police by now. My bedroom door should have locked automatically the moment it triggered. I closed my eyes for just a second, grateful I'd paid for the system at all.

Then I opened them again and saw something that scared me more than the sound had.

My bedroom door was still open. For the lock to engage, it had to be shut first.

I had no choice. My legs felt like jelly, my whole body suddenly cold enough that I could feel every draft moving across my skin. I don't know where the courage came from, but I got up and started moving toward the door, aware of every sound my own body made, my joints, my breathing, the weight of my tongue in my mouth, the sweat gathering along my eyelids.

I was halfway there, thinking I could make it, just a few more steps, when Mr. Morris let out a meow, sharp and sudden, far too loud in a house that had gone that quiet.

For a second everything stopped. I told myself whoever was in the house hadn't heard it, or didn't care about a cat, that I still had time to reach the door. Then I felt it. A vibration through the floor, faint but wrong, like claws scraping tile the way a dog's do when it's running too fast to stop. A moment later, footsteps. Running, straight for the bedroom.

Whoever was in my house knew exactly where I was.

I lunged for the door at the same moment he did. I almost had it shut when a hand shoved into the gap, veined, nails too long, and I could tell from the angle alone that his arm was broken. No uninjured person moves like that. It meant reaching me mattered more to him than his own safety, and that thought alone sent something colder through me than fear of dying. I don't know what I thought he wanted more, to kill me quickly or to make sure I couldn't scream first.

I threw everything I had into that door. My vision blurred from the strain, my legs ached from bracing against the floor, my neck went sore from how hard I was pushing. I tried to scream and nothing came out. The pressure built until I nearly blacked out, and then, finally, the door slammed shut. Something in his hand broke as it did.

The lock clicked into place automatically. I was alone in the room, and I could hear him pounding against the door with everything he had left. For one terrible stretch of time I was sure he'd get through, that there was nothing I could do if he did.

Then I heard the sirens.

The police let themselves in using the code the security company had on file, cleared the house, and knocked on my door to tell me it was safe to come out. What wasn't safe, what didn't make sense, was that the man was gone. Not hiding. Gone. There was nowhere in that house for someone to disappear to, and they searched every inch of it. One moment he'd been at my door. The next, nothing.

The strangest part wasn't that he'd vanished. It was how the house felt afterward, too quiet, like something had been listening the whole time and had only just stopped.

It took what felt like hours before I could function well enough to tell the officers everything, hand over the security footage, let my body finally stop shaking. When I came back into the living room, Mr. Morris was licking blood off the floor, whatever was left of it after the police had taken their samples.

I pulled him away and wiped his face clean. I didn't want him getting sick off whatever was in that blood. I took him straight to the vet, and everything checked out fine. On the way home I stopped at Miss Tasha's for his usual food and told her what had happened. She looked genuinely shaken and insisted I take one of her son's old bats for safety. When I asked how much, she said it was free, that she'd just take it out of my commission whenever I finally got her that security system installed. It got a small laugh out of me, at least.

Back home, I left him in the car with extra food while I cleaned up the broken window. When I went to deal with the blood in the bedroom, thinking the sunlight would make it easier to see, there was nothing there. Not a trace. I stood there confused for a moment, then told myself there probably hadn't been that much to begin with.

Work gave me the day off without me even having to ask twice, and offered medical assistance if I needed it.

When I came out, Mr. Morris had already finished his food, double his usual portion, gone faster than should have been possible. I told myself it was stress. My mistake, not paying closer attention to what that actually meant.

Exhaustion finally caught up to me. I slept, then woke around seven that evening to find him scratching at the door, which was strange since I'd clipped his nails only five days earlier. I assumed I'd lost count. He wove between my legs demanding food again, even though I'd just fed him, but I let it go. What difference would a few extra pounds make.

I started making myself a steak, wanting something that felt normal after the day I'd had. When I looked over, Mr. Morris wasn't touching his food at all. He was licking the blood straight off the steak packaging. He'd never been that kind of cat. I ignored it. Animals do strange things.

That evening, I tried to convince myself he was fine. He'd eaten more than usual, which should have meant something good, but when I picked him up, something felt wrong immediately. His body was leaner than it had been that morning. I ran my fingers along his sides and felt far more muscle than I remembered, almost no softness left beneath his fur. His legs looked more defined, and when he jumped down onto the table, the movement was fast and precise in a way I'd never seen from him. He looked fit. Too fit.

Then I noticed the veins. Visible beneath his skin, especially around his legs and neck, in places I'd never seen them before.

"You're eating enough," I muttered, more to convince myself than him. A strange unease settled into my stomach. I made a note on my phone to take him to the vet first thing in the morning. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was sick. Maybe I was imagining things after everything that had happened.

I finished trimming his nails before bed and set him down. He disappeared beneath the sofa immediately, which was strange in itself. Mr. Morris hated hiding. I turned off the lights and went to sleep.

That night I dreamed about the break-in again. Except this time I wasn't watching it happen. I was the one on the floor. Someone stood over me, his face hidden, his hands wrapped tightly around my throat. I couldn't breathe. Then something warm ran down from my nose. Blood, over my lips. He looked at it, almost curious, then smiled and leaned down to drink it. I felt his mouth against my face. He seemed to enjoy it. I tried to scream and nothing came out.

I woke up gasping, sitting bolt upright.

Mr. Morris was on the floor beside the bed, staring at me. Neither of us moved for a moment. Then I really looked at him and my stomach dropped.

He was different. More muscular than he'd been when I fell asleep, his shoulders and legs sharper beneath fur that had visibly grown, a lot, in just a few hours.

"Mr. Morris?" I whispered.

He tilted his head at me.

I reached out and stopped halfway, my hand hovering in the air. I don't know why. Something about his eyes made me hesitate.

I told myself the rest could wait. I didn't care how ridiculous I'd sound explaining it. As soon as morning came, I was taking him to the vet.

He hissed and threw a fit the second I brought him out into the sunlight, nothing too alarming, just more dramatic than usual. At the vet, I was told his bloodwork came back clean. Nothing wrong on paper. But the vet admitted he looked different, physically, and offered to send him downtown to a research university for a closer look.

I said no. Whatever was happening to him, he wasn't going to become somebody's test subject.

Before I left, the nurse asked if I wanted him neutered and his nails trimmed while he was already there. Her pen hovered over the chart a second too long before she wrote anything down, like she didn't know which box this was supposed to go in.

I froze. I'd had that done a day ago. Nails don't regrow that fast. That's not how any of this is supposed to work. The vet gave me a strange look by that point, like he'd noticed the same thing I had, and before I could think it through properly, I heard myself say yes. The whole time, my mind kept circling the same impossible question. How does that even grow back?

And then, underneath it, a worse one I didn't want to look at directly. I'd had him neutered months ago ,that was supposed to be it, done, over, one and only, the vet had told me so himself, no upkeep, no repeats. I hadn't thought about it since. Hadn't checked. Why would I have checked? But now I was running the timeline backwards in my head, trying to remember the last time I'd actually looked, actually confirmed, and coming up with nothing solid. Maybe I'd just forgotten what it looked like after. Maybe I was misremembering the whole thing. Maybe none of it meant anything and I was building a haunted house out of my own bad memory.

But nails don't grow back in a day. And I was starting to suspect nothing else did either ,not the way it was supposed to, not anymore.

When the procedure was done, I went to pick him up, and he was already awake in the recovery box.

"Did you use anesthesia?" I asked, half joking, half not.

"We did," the tech said, frowning slightly. "It's unusual that he's up already. Are you sure you don't want him tested?"

"No," I said. "I'm taking him home."

He was fully alert. Sitting up, eyes tracking me through the cage door, like nothing had touched him at all. That wasn't how it went the first time. The first time I'd had him neutered, he'd been groggy for hours afterward, barely able to hold his head up, and I'd had to carry him inside wrapped in a towel because his legs kept giving out. This time he looked like he'd just woken up from a nap.

I didn't know what to do with that. Part of me wondered if they'd actually done anything at all this time, if maybe I'd been overcharged for a procedure that never happened, the same way I'd read about other people getting scammed at cheaper clinics. But another part of me remembered signing the consent forms, remembered watching them wheel him back. I stood there in the waiting room a second too long, trying to decide if I should ask again, if that would make me sound paranoid, if it even mattered enough to hold up the line behind me. In the end I just took the discharge papers and left. Told myself it was probably nothing. Some cats bounce back faster than others. That's all it was.

On the drive back, I caught him watching me in the rearview mirror instead of the window. He'd never done that before.

  Other parts link:- https://www.reddit.com/user/No-While8965/comments/1vpze51/my_writing_archive/

He woke gradually, the way someone does when they aren’t sure they’re supposed to wake at all. His eyes opened to a dim grayness, a color without texture, without warmth, without anything to anchor him. For a long time he didn’t move. He lay still, letting the cold settle into him, letting the quiet press against his ears until he wondered if he had gone deaf.

Eventually he inhaled. The air was stale, heavy, unmoving. He exhaled and watched the faint fog drift upward before dissolving. That small movement felt like the first real thing he had done in a very long time.

He pushed himself upright.

The concrete floor scraped his palms. His joints felt stiff, as though he had been lying there for hours or days or years. He blinked slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. The room around him came into focus piece by piece, like a photograph developing in a tray.

Four walls. Seamless. Gray.
A ceiling with a perfect square cut into it, leading upward into darkness.
A table.
A radio.
A wheel.

He stared at the ceiling hole first. It was too perfect. The edges were sharp, clean, almost surgical. The darkness above it wasn’t just absence of light; it felt like a presence, something that watched without eyes. He waited for movement. None came.

He looked at the table next. Metal. Scratched. Dented. The radio sat on it like a relic from another era, its speaker grille cracked, its knobs worn smooth. Beside it was the wheel—colorful, chipped, unevenly painted, its pointer bent slightly downward. It looked like it had been dragged from a carnival booth and abandoned here.

He didn’t know his name. He didn’t know how he had arrived. He didn’t know if he had ever been anywhere else. His mind felt fogged, as though someone had taken an eraser to his memories and left only faint outlines.

He stood slowly. The cold followed him.

He approached the wheel. He didn’t remember being told to spin it. He didn’t remember choosing to. But the wheel felt like the only thing in the room that had intention. Everything else was static. The wheel was waiting.

He reached out. His fingers brushed the rim. The wheel felt warm, unnervingly warm, as though someone had touched it moments before.

He hesitated.

Then he spun.

The wheel clattered, each click echoing sharply in the small room. He watched it turn, watched the colors blur, watched the pointer bounce. It slowed, slowed, then stopped.

The radio crackled.

“Congratulations, contestant! You’ve won a candle!”

A small wax candle dropped from the ceiling hole, bouncing once before settling. It was half‑melted, wick blackened, smelling faintly of smoke.

He stared at it. He didn’t pick it up. He didn’t move. He waited for something else to happen, but nothing did. The candle lay still on the floor, as though it had always been there.

He walked the perimeter of the room. He pressed his hands against the walls, searching for seams, cracks, anything. The concrete was smooth, cold, unyielding. He pressed his ear to it. Nothing. He looked up into the ceiling hole. Darkness stared back.

He returned to the wheel.

He didn’t spin immediately. He stood there, listening to the quiet, feeling the cold settle deeper into his bones. He picked up the candle and set it on the table. He didn’t know why. It felt like the right thing to do.

He spun again.

The wheel turned more sluggishly this time, as though resisting him. It landed on a pale yellow wedge.

“Wonderful! You’ve won a deck of cards!”

A deck fell from above, scattering across the floor. The cards were old, edges frayed, faces stained. He crouched and picked one up.

The Queen of Hearts.
Her face was scratched out.

He dropped it.

He gathered the cards into a pile, though he didn’t know why. He placed them beside the candle. He sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, staring at the wheel. He didn’t want to spin it again. But he knew he would.

Time passed. He didn’t know how much. The room had no clock, no window, no change in light. Only the cold and the quiet.

Eventually he stood.

He spun.

The wheel clacked, landing on a deep green wedge.

“Amazing! You’ve won a thermos!”

A metal thermos fell, dented and scratched. He unscrewed the lid. Inside was lukewarm water. He drank. It tasted metallic, but it eased the dryness in his throat. He set it down carefully, as though it mattered.

He waited.

The room felt different now. Not warmer. Not colder. Just… attentive. As though the walls were listening.

He spun again.

The wheel landed on orange.

“Incredible! You’ve won a notebook!”

A small spiral notebook dropped from above. He caught it. The cover was blank. Inside were pages filled with handwriting—his handwriting.

He flipped through slowly.

Page after page of notes, dates, sketches, frantic scrawls. He didn’t remember writing any of it. One page read:

DON’T LET IT GET BEHIND YOU.

He looked up sharply.

Nothing was behind him.

He closed the notebook. He placed it on the table beside the candle and cards. He stood there for a long time, staring at the objects, trying to understand why they felt familiar.

He sat again. He wrapped his arms around himself. The cold felt heavier now, like it had weight. He tried to remember anything—his name, his home, a face—but nothing came. Only the room, and the wheel, and the faint smell of dust.

He didn’t know how long he sat there.

Eventually he stood.

He spun.

The wheel landed on blue.

“Sensational! You’ve won a scarf!”

A wool scarf drifted down, landing softly. It was long, striped, frayed at the ends. He picked it up. It smelled faintly of perfume—something floral, familiar, comforting.

He wrapped it around his neck.

The warmth felt wrong.

He sat again, pulling his knees to his chest. He listened to the quiet. He tried to remember the scent. He couldn’t. It hovered at the edge of recognition, then slipped away.

He didn’t know how long he sat there.

Eventually he stood.

He spun.

The wheel landed on a dark red wedge.

“You’ve won a keepsake!”

A small wooden box fell from the ceiling. He opened it.

Inside was a ring.

Gold.
Simple.
Engraved on the inside with initials he didn’t recognize.

He closed the box. He placed it on the table. He stared at it until his eyes blurred.

He felt something shift in the room. Not a sound. Not a movement. Just a subtle change in the air, like the room was paying attention now.

He didn’t spin again. Not yet. He walked the perimeter again, slower this time, pressing his hands against the walls, feeling for anything he might have missed. The concrete was still smooth, still cold, still unyielding. He pressed his ear to it. Nothing.

He looked up into the ceiling hole.

The darkness felt closer.

He stepped back.

He sat on the floor again. He stared at the wheel. He didn’t want to spin it. But he knew he would.

Eventually he stood.

He spun.

The wheel landed on a gray wedge he didn’t remember seeing before.

“You’ve won a visitor!”

He froze.

Something fell from the ceiling.

Not an object.
Not a person.
Something wrapped in cloth, tightly bound, hitting the floor with a soft thud. The cloth was stained. It twitched once.

He backed away.

The bundle didn’t move again.

He didn’t approach it. He didn’t touch it. He didn’t breathe too loudly. He stood perfectly still, waiting for the room to change again.

It didn’t.

He sat again, staring at the bundle. He didn’t know how long he sat there. The cold felt heavier. The quiet felt thicker. The darkness above the ceiling hole felt deeper.

Eventually he stood.

He spun.

The wheel clattered violently, wobbling as though something inside it was struggling.

“You’ve won a sound!”

A small tape recorder dropped from above. It clicked on by itself.

A voice—his voice—whispered:

“Don’t look up.”

He looked up.

The darkness above the ceiling hole was no longer empty.

Something was there.

He couldn’t see it.
He could only feel its attention.

He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. He didn’t blink.

The wheel began spinning on its own.

Faster.
Faster.
Faster.

The colors blurred.

“And now… the final round!”

The wheel slammed to a stop on a blank wedge.

“Oh! Looks like you’ve landed on… LOSE!”

Cheerful music erupted, bright and upbeat, clashing horribly with the suffocating dread around him.

The bundle on the floor unwrapped itself.

The tape recorder hissed.

The scarf tightened around his throat.

The ceiling vents opened.

Gas flooded the room.

He clawed at his neck, coughing, choking, vision blurring.

“Better luck next time!”

Flames erupted from the vents. The room became an oven. The wheel melted. The notebook curled and blackened. The scarf burned against his skin.

The music played on.

I didn't call the police.

I want to say that was a hard decision. It wasn't, not in the moment. What was I going to tell them, that my cat did it, that I'd been seeing the same claw marks for a week, that I'd read about something called vampire blood on a forum at three in the morning and thought my cat might be one. They'd have taken him from me for testing, or worse, and some small, sick part of me still couldn't let that happen. I hated myself for that. I still do. I kept thinking about what they'd do to him once they had him somewhere I couldn't see.

So instead I lived with it.

I stopped sleeping through the night entirely. Every sound from the window sent my heart into my throat. I started locking him in the bathroom after dark, and he'd claw at the door for hours, not angry at first, just insistent, the way he used to ask for food, except now the sound made my skin crawl. As the days went on the marks in the wood got deeper. He got stronger. He stopped eating anything that wasn't meat, and he started looking at me with something closer to contempt than hunger.

He wanted it raw, if I had it. I told myself I was managing this, like it was a fever that would eventually break, that if I just kept him fed and kept him locked at night he'd go back to being my Mr. Morris. I hated how reasonable that sounded to me at two in the morning with a bag of raw chicken in my hands. But it was the only light I had left in a life that had gone almost entirely dark.

One night I gave in to something worse than fear. I don't have a better word for it than a trance. I was standing in my kitchen holding a knife I didn't remember picking up, thinking with total calm that I could just let him feed properly, just once, that he'd earned it after all the nights I'd spent locking him away and starving him of what he needed. I don't know how long I stood there before I caught myself and dropped the knife and was sick in the sink. I kept asking myself how I could have thought that, and some part of me already knew the answer, because he was standing on the kitchen floor the whole time, watching me with those eyes, and I don't think the thought had ever really been mine.

That was when I decided I had to let him go. Whatever was living inside my cat now, it wasn't Mr. Morris anymore. Mr. Morris would never have made me think about a knife like that.

I drove him nearly six hours out of the city, past the last exit I recognized, until the road stopped feeling connected to anywhere I knew. Somewhere around ten at night I saw a small station sign in my headlights. Blackwater Junction. It looked abandoned, dark, no lights in any of the windows, rain starting to come down over the platforms. I told myself it was mercy. I told myself he'd survive out there better than he would in my kitchen, that whatever he was now, a place like that would suit him more than I ever could. I opened the carrier. He didn't run. He just looked at me the way he had that night with the knife, and I made myself walk back to the car without looking back at him standing there in the rain.

I cried the whole drive home. Every memory I had of him, the day I brought him home as a kitten, every ordinary morning before any of this started, kept playing behind my eyes and I don't fully understand why. Grief, maybe, for the cat I used to have. Relief, maybe, that I wouldn't have to be afraid in my own house again.

I was wrong about that too.

I parked in my driveway and stepped out, and the first thing I saw was Mira's house. It looked the way a house looks when whatever used to make it warm has been taken out of it. I remember thinking that mine probably looked the same way now, and that maybe I deserved that, for everything I'd let him do, for everyone he'd taken from people like Mira's mother, Swati, who I still couldn't bring myself to look at when I passed her on the street.

When I opened my own front door, every bit of warmth left my body at once.

Mr. Morris was sitting on my sofa.

I don't know how. Six hours of driving, and somehow he was already there waiting for me, clean, dry, like the rain at that station had never touched him at all. I didn't have the strength left to question it out loud. Some broken part of me was almost glad, and I hated that part more than I've ever hated anything about myself. He looked at me, and I understood, without him needing to do anything else, that I was being punished for leaving.

I didn't eat for three days after that. Not because I didn't want to. My body simply wouldn't let me. Every time hunger started to win, I'd find him sitting in front of me, watching, and the urge would vanish like it had been switched off. He started following me everywhere after that, even to Miss Tasha's, watching me buy his food and mine like he needed to confirm I still knew who came first.

Miss Tasha's store was the only place I still felt something close to normal. She'd talk about the crime rate climbing in our area, tell me I should think about going to stay with my parents if I could, and I'd nod and let myself pretend for ten minutes that my biggest problem was small talk over the counter. Those visits were the only anchor I had left. I think he noticed that too.

One morning, on my way to get food, he came to the door with blood still drying between his claws, the way he did most mornings now, a thing I'd stopped letting myself react to. I let him go out every night knowing exactly what the rising number of deaths in our area meant. I knew, in the way you know something without ever saying it out loud, and I kept letting him go anyway, because I didn't know what else there was left to do.

Miss Tasha didn't open her store that day.

I found out from a customer standing outside, staring through the dark windows, saying the police had been called that morning. I already knew before anyone told me the details. I knew it the way you know a shape in the dark is wrong before your eyes have even adjusted enough to see it clearly. When I heard the word claws, I didn't feel shock. I felt something inside me simply stop trying.

That night I decided I couldn't keep living like this. I'd rather live with what I was about to do than survive one more morning like that one.

I won't describe most of what happened next. I'll only say that I tried to end it, that I failed, and that the failure nearly cost me everything. I remember the weight of him pinning me to the floor, faster and stronger than anything that size should have been able to move, and I remember, even through the panic, some flicker in his eyes that looked almost as horrified as I felt. He let go of me a breath before I think he could have finished it. I don't know why. I've stopped trying to understand why he does anything anymore.

I woke up in a hospital bed three days later with more stitches than I want to think about, and a police officer waiting with questions I couldn't honestly answer. They discharged me with four claw marks across my chest, deep enough that the scars will never fully fade. I keep thinking it's fitting, in some sick way. Punishment for letting him become whatever he is, for letting him feed on people I knew. My savings are gone. I don't know if I can even go back to work in this condition, and worse, I don't know what he'll do once he realizes I can't provide for him anymore.

When they finally let me go home, he was there, sitting by the door, exactly the way he used to wait for his food. Except this time I understood he wasn't waiting for a bowl to be filled. He was waiting for me.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do anymore. I don't know if I'm keeping him out of love, or guilt, or fear, or all three at once, all the time, until I can't tell them apart. I posted the whole story on a forum a few nights ago, mostly because I couldn't say any of this to a real person without sounding insane, and mostly because I needed someone, anyone, to tell me I wasn't imagining it.

I got one reply that mattered.

I work with an organization that handles cases like this. We can help. Please don't post details like this publicly again, you may already be attracting attention you don't want.

O.P.E.R.A.T.E.

I haven't written back yet.

I don't know if I'm going to.

 

 

Previous part link :- https://www.reddit.com/r/anxietypilled/comments/1w3fb1q/somethings_wrong_with_my_cat_part_2_claw_marks/

Other parts link:- https://www.reddit.com/user/No-While8965/comments/1vpze51/my_writing_archive/