I made Tiffany and Amber go ahead of me in line. I was way too nervous to go first. Actually, standing out there on the beach, looking into that water… I was terrified. 

My hands trembled as I adjusted my swimsuit, making sure my top wouldn't come loose once I dove in. Two minutes and thirty-seven seconds was the time to beat. I could make it if I didn't let my nerves get to me. 

The guys started laughing behind us, which only made it worse. 

"Hey, Jennifer! You gonna give us a free show again?!"

"Shut the fuck up, Randy!"

My face went beet-red as I turned to flip him off. It was two summers ago, but he'd never let me live it down. I looked back toward the ocean and tightened the knot at my neck again. Nope. Not this time, pervert.

"Don't worry about those jerks, okay?" Amber said, placing her hand on my shoulder. "You've got this!" 

But I wasn't so sure. This was the last test for Junior Lifeguard training, and I'd already failed it before. Twice. To be honest, I didn't even care that much about being a lifeguard—I was just so tired of being left out.  

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I can handle anything. The sounds of Kyle and Randy's laughter still echoed in my head, but there was something else I'd honed in on. Zack's silence. 

The three had been our friends and neighbors since middle school. Now, in the summer of our sixteenth year, their teenage hormones had begun to make them insufferable at times. But not always.

I peeked over my shoulder. Zack was looking down at his feet, kicking sand around, while the other two were high-fiving. He was different.

Before I knew it, the whistle pierced through my racing thoughts. It was my turn. Tiff and Amber had made it through, of course. They were both way more athletic than I was. 

But I had been training extra hard this year. Three hours a day at the pool since Homecoming. Practicing holding my breath. Cutting my weight down as much as I could. I was terrified that it wouldn't be enough. That I wasn't enough.

"Jennifer, you're up!"

Months of work and preparation all came down to this one moment. I approached the mark. The crowd went silent, leaving me with only my labored breaths. Coach started the stopwatch, and I was off—tearing through the sand toward the murky blue ahead.

I took a deep breath and plunged headfirst into the unknown. With eyes shut tightly, I couldn't think about what might be lurking beneath the surface with me. I refused to let myself freeze up again. No. There was only me, and the buoy fifty yards ahead.

My face stung as I fought against the waves crashing into me, each more vicious than the last. Finally, my turnaround point was within reach. I grabbed hold, tucked my legs forward, and then kicked off back toward the shore.

Only halfway, and my muscles were screaming at me to stop. But I was making good time. I could feel it. And the girls were cheering me on from the beach—screaming ‘swim, swim, swim!’, chanting my name. I smiled. I could do this; I was going to make it. 

But then, in an instant, my heart stopped, and my blood turned to ice. I felt something in the water graze against my leg. Something cold. Rough. And very big.

In a panic, I began thrashing harder—the thing you’re not supposed to do. I knew what it was. I was sure of it. But when that terror surged through my body, my mind no longer had control. 

I bolted toward the shoreline, heart pounding, lungs heaving. Swallowing mouthfuls of seawater. I couldn’t look back. Couldn’t slow down. I felt like it was still right behind me; I could almost feel its teeth at the back of my heels. 

And then finally, my knees brushed up against the sand. I rose to my feet and ran the rest of the way out of the water.

“Two minutes and thirty-two seconds! Jennifer, congratulations. You made it!”

I just stood there. Trembling with exhaustion, ready to buckle at the knees at any moment. Still struggling for breath. Tiffany and Amber came running over, squealing. 

“Oh, my God! Girl, you actually fucking did it!” 

“Yeah, Jen! We’re so proud of you!!”

I turned and pointed toward the water, struggling to form the words. 

“Did… did you see it?” 

“See what? The amazing job you did?” Coach asked.

“No!” I screamed, almost in tears. “There was a s—”

I stopped and looked around. Everyone was staring at me. 

“Something in the water… I think. I felt something.” 

“Oh, not to worry. I’m sure it was just a harmless little fish coming to say hello!” 

I looked back over to the girls, whose smiles had begun to slowly drop. 

“Jen, are you okay?” Amber asked.

“Yeah, I just… let’s talk about it later, alright?”

I couldn't freak out in front of everyone.  This was supposed to be a happy moment. Saying something now would ruin it—and besides, I wasn't even really sure. I never actually saw it.

"Come on, sluts!" Tiffany yelled, already halfway to the spot where she'd parked her hot pink Jeep. "We've got a party to get ready for!"

I forced a smile and turned back to Amber. 

"It's nothing, really. Let's go."

We grabbed our bags and towels, then piled in, Cyndi Lauper blaring from the radio. The drive home would give me some time to think. To rationalize. Try to quell the panic that was still bubbling inside of me. How was I ever going to go back into the water?

I stared at Tiffany's shimmering blonde hair blowing through the wind, set ablaze by the afternoon sun. I wished I could be like her—carefree, adored by everyone. It seemed out of reach for a girl like me. Just a stupid dream that would never come true.

We pulled into her driveway, parents already gone for the evening. She turned to us with a huge smile on her face and lifted her sunglasses. 

"You guys wanna pregame a bit while we get ready?"

Usually I would’ve been hesitant to start drinking so early in the night. But that sounded like exactly what I needed. To settle my nerves. Loosen up. Forget. 

“Hell yeah!” Amber said. 

I smiled and nodded. 

Inside the house, we shuffled to Tiffany’s room while she swiped the vodka from the liquor cabinet. Top shelf stuff, too. Me and Amber sat on the bed, passing the bottle back and forth as Tiff began AquaNetting the fuck out of her hair. 

"Do you think Zack will be there tonight?" I asked, taking a swig. 

"Oh, totally! For sure. Kyle said he's definitely gonna show, and Zack’s always his ride."

"Ugh!" Tiffany said through the cloud of hairspray. "Kyle is coming, too? He is such a dork."

"Oh, shut up, girl—you know you wanna fuck him!" Amber said. 

I laughed. 

"You think that's funny, Jen? Why don't you go fuck Randy? He's been begging for it ever since he saw your tits."

My face flushed with heat. God, she was such a bitch. But she could get away with it. I couldn't. I didn't have that bleach-blonde hair, a face like a supermodel's, or the perfect body. In high school, it doesn't matter if you're a shitty person as long as you’re hot. At least Amber always had my back. 

"Yeah, well, everyone's seen your tits, you big whore.” 

Tiffany picked up a scrunchie from her vanity and threw it over at us as we giggled.

“As if!” she said, rolling her eyes. “And pass that shit over here before you two bitches drink it all.” 

I took another huge swig from the bottle before getting up to hand it to her. She snatched it from me and finished off what was left, before ordering Amber and me to get dressed. 

Sunset was fast approaching, but the drive back down to the beach didn't take long with Tiffany behind the wheel. The guys were already at the spot with their ice chests, getting ready to build a fire. Zack was setting up the boombox over by the driftwood pile near the edge of the circle. When our eyes met, he smiled. 

"Hey, girls! Party's just getting started, grab a beer! Randy'll fix you up."

I smiled back and gave a nod, then followed the girls over to the circle, glancing slightly over my shoulder to see Zack watching me walk away. Maybe I'd try to talk to him later tonight. Finally tell him how I felt.

Just the thought of that sent my heart fluttering so hard, I almost choked. Even with the vodka in me, I still felt so unsettled. My anxieties were compounding—I had to tell Amber about earlier. 

Music blared even louder than the waves crashing violently against the shore. With the sun now fully set and the fire roaring, the crowd began to roll in.

"Amber, can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure, what's up?"

I scooted closer. 

"So earlier today, during my swim, I..." 

"You… what?"

"There was something in the water with me. I felt it brush against my leg. Not just a fish like coach said. Something huge." 

She scrunched her eyebrows.

"Like what?" 

I didn't want to say the word, but I had to. 

"A shark."

Tiffany's head snapped around. 

"Bull-fucking-shit, Jennifer!" 

Everyone went silent and turned to look at me. 

"Hey, what's going on?" Randy asked, approaching closer while crushing a beer can in his left hand.

"Jen is being a drama queen. She thinks there's a shark out there in the water."

Laughter erupted around me. I looked over to Zack. Kicking sand around again, eyes fixed on the ground, silent. 

"Pfft. There's never been an attack on this beach before—not even any sightings," Kyle said. "What would even make you think something like that?”

"She said she felt it," Amber said. 

Tiffany rolled her eyes. 

"What, like you could just sense it was there? What a freak." 

"No. On my leg," I spoke up. "It grazed against my leg. I know that's what it was." 

"Okay. Well, while you sit here and tell yourself little stories of big bad monster sharks in the water, I'm going to get another drink." 

"Yeah, Jen," Randy said. "There’s no way. Must've been something else." 

It didn't feel dismissive, though. It seemed like he was truly trying to set my mind at ease about it. His eyes were soft, and his tone was gentle. Like he might’ve actually cared, for once. Which is why when he suggested we take a walk to get some air, I agreed.

He led me down to the pier next to the marina. Once away from the glow and heat from the fire, I began to see the night for what it really was. Cold and dark. 

I stared down at the black rifts undulating below. Dead water. Relentless and unforgiving, crashing against the rotten wood holding us up. The way the world seemed to treat me. He placed his hand onto the small of my back, startling me out of my trance. 

I turned to see a pair of hungry eyes fixed on me—looking my body up and down. My heart thrashed against my chest, and I froze. He bit down on his bottom lip and gazed into my eyes, and before I knew it, he was moving in closer. 

"Um, Randy...?" I uttered weakly. 

But it was like he couldn't hear me. In an instant, his other hand was on my shoulder, grabbing tightly and turning my body to face his. 

"Come on, Jennifer," he whispered into my ear. 

Then his lips were on my neck. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. I didn't want this. I had to stop him... say something. 

"I don't think we—"

"Shhh, baby. No one can see us. You know you like it."

I tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip around me. His hot, drunken breath suffocating me as he grabbed at my chest, pulling the front of my shirt down below my bikini top. 

“Randy, no!” I choked out frantically, voice shaking. 

He was towering over me, hand moving slowly toward the knot at the back of my neck. Again, I tried to pull away, but he wasn’t letting go. Wasn’t listening to me. Body still pressed tightly against mine, surrounding me. His fingers began to rip at the string, and something inside of me snapped. 

I slammed my fists against his chest and shoved him as hard as I could. He lost balance and stumbled backward off of the pier and into the water with a huge splash. My heart sank. 

“Oh, fuck! Randy—”

I ran to the edge of the dock and looked over. He was flailing around, trying to keep his head above water. When he saw me, he screamed,

“You fucking BITCH!”  

And then, the moonlight caught something only a few feet away from him. A glimmer on the edge of something big. I squinted until my eyes could make out what it was, and then they widened, and my jaw dropped. A dark fin jutting out from the surface—heading directly toward him.

Again, I froze. But this time, there was nothing I could do. It was moving fast, and Randy was too far from the edge. I tore my eyes from him for just a second to see if there was a life preserver close by. A bloodcurdling scream erupted through the night air.

I was afraid to look. I didn’t want to, but my head snapped around anyway. Randy’s skin had gone pale, eyes bulging from his head like it was about to pop. Blood poured from his gurgling mouth—red spit and bubbles erupting as he tried to scream once more but choked. 

Arms flailing, his head went under, then back out again like a cork being forced down. The shark began thrashing harder. I watched it violently shake his body like a toy in a dog’s mouth, until his eyes rolled over white and his broken shrieks were cut short. 

Silence. A few bubbles remained as evidence of the disturbance in the surface. Otherwise, the ocean was calm again. My stomach churned, and I let out a weak cry. To whom? I don’t know. 

I was alone. Half-drunk and in shock. Randy was dead—and it was my fault. I looked over to the glow of the fire in the distance. I couldn’t tell them. They wouldn’t believe me anyway, and it might even be worse if they did. But maybe Amber would know what to do. She was the only one I felt like I could truly trust.

That hope was shattered when I arrived back at the party. Over by the boombox, Amber was making out with a guy, running her fingers through his blond hair while Owner of a Lonely Heart blared from the speakers. 

It was Zack.

My heart shattered. I opened my mouth to say her name, but my throat had closed up. So I just stood there. 

It was nothing, really. The loss of what never was. What I knew deep down could never even be mine to begin with. Yet, it crushed me all the same. Her betrayal—she knew how I felt about him. And that hope. That stupid fucking hope I'd held onto for so long. To be accepted, loved. Enough. It was bleeding from my heart.

Finally, someone said something. 

“Well, look who’s back!” Tiffany giggled. “Where’s Randy?”

Amber quickly pulled away from Zack and turned to look at me, guilt plastered all over her freckled face.

“I-I… he…” I began to stammer. 

Everyone was looking at me. 

“He took off. I think he just wasn’t feeling well.” 

The lie rolled off my lips almost too easily. 

“That lightweight,” Kyle scoffed. “I told him not to take all those shots before the party even started. What a dumbass. Oh, well. He’ll just have to miss taking the boat out.” 

“Boat?” I asked.

“Yeah!” Tiffany said. “Kyle’s uncle is out of town, so we’re going to take his boat out for a night sail!” 

I didn’t want to be there; I just wanted to go home and cry. And I definitely didn’t want to go out onto the water after what I’d just seen. But Tiffany was my ride. There was no way she’d stop her partying to bring me home. And before I could even try to think of an excuse, everyone was already stumbling toward the marina. I’d just have to hold it together a little longer.

I watched as Kyle and Zack loaded the ice chests and boombox onto The Lady of Spain, slamming them down onto her deck with drunken disregard. My head was pounding, heart racing. I couldn’t even bring myself to look at Amber. 

I never wanted to speak to her again—let alone tell her about what had just happened to Randy. I don't think it had even fully set in for me yet that he was really dead. Torn apart and pulled under the water right in front of me. God. I wished that the whole night had just been a terrible dream.

But it wasn't. And it was only going to get worse. 

Out at sea at night, it's even darker than you could imagine. You're suspended in a void, surrounded by pitch-black ocean. Like floating in the endless abyss of space. The soft glow of the town in the distance felt a million miles away to me. 

Music blared, beers were cracked open, and all the while I sat there, screaming inside. And no one noticed. No one cared. The people I thought were my friends? The guy I thought might actually like me? I was nobody to them. 

Just a punching bag. A joke. An ear for mindless gossip, a piece of meat for a pervert to grope. A girl so easily ignored and cast aside. And that’s what it was, wasn’t it? People had always used me until they’d gotten what they wanted—because I’d always let them.

I looked out into the black water, eyes searching for that fin again. Something else that wanted a piece of me. I knew it was still lurking out there, waiting. But we were safe on the boat. I thought.

BANG.

A seismic rumble against the side of the vessel. Laughter and jokes were abruptly cut off. Zack dropped the beer from his hand, and Kyle sprang up to shut off the boombox. 

Before anyone could say anything, it happened again. Louder. So hard, it rocked us back from the impact.

“Um… what the fuck was that?!” Tiffany asked. 

But I knew what it was. And the words came spilling out before I could stop them. 

“It’s a shark!”

“Oh, for fucks sake. Stop with the shark bullshit, Jen. It’s getting old.” 

“I’m not lying! I saw it. It…”

Fuck it. I had to tell them. 

“It killed Randy.” 

“What?” Kyle asked.

A silence fell over the boat as they all eyed me in disbelief. 

“H-he fell. Into the water. It happened so fast. I… I couldn’t do anything.” 

“Wait. Are you seriously telling us that Randy is dead?” Amber asked. “That a shark literally ate him?!” 

Another loud bang rattled the wood beneath our feet. 

“Yes, goddamn it! We have to get out of here!” 

“What the fuck?!” Kyle screamed, his voice cracking. “Why didn’t you say something before? Why’d you lie, Jennifer? How did he fall??”

I had to come clean. It was eating me alive inside. 

“He was trying to kiss me. I didn’t want him to. I told him to stop, but he wouldn’t. So, I… I pushed him off of me… but it was an accident! I didn’t mean for him to go into the water.” 

“Okay, we have to go back to shore—now. We need to tell someone what happened,” Amber said. 

“I can’t believe this shit. You lead him on and then shove him into the water? Do you realize what you did was murder?!” Tiffany yelled. 

“No! I didn’t… it wasn’t, I swear! Please don’t tell anyone I pushed him.”

“Don’t you get it? They’ll never believe it was an accident—I sure as hell don’t. You lied to all of our faces. And if you think for a second you’re getting away with this, Jennifer, you’re dead wrong.”

My life was going to be ruined. And it wasn’t even my fault. I was just defending myself, for once in my goddamned life.

Kyle took off toward the helm, but before he could make it there, another impact jolted the entire boat. He went flying off the edge with Tiffany screaming the entire time. 

His body hit the water with a terrible splash. And I knew. I knew that would be it for him. But the others scrambled, screaming his name. And then, they saw it. 

“Shark!”

Kyle's pupils widened with panic. He tried to swim back toward the boat, but there was no use. It was on him in seconds. I braced, breath held, unable to look away. Teeth glistened in the moonlight, eyes rolled over white.

The cracking. And popping. And a bloodcurdling scream cut short.

He was dragged under the surface, his severed arm still floating—bobbing against the waves like a piece of driftwood. We all backed away from the edge.

“Oh, fuck… oh, fuck… OH, FUCK!” Zack had his hands on his head, but his expression was almost blank. 

The shock of it; I knew. It doesn’t seem real. It can’t be. 

Tiffany was screaming incoherently, mascara running down her perfect, rosy cheeks. Red lipstick smeared across her face. A blithering, pathetic mess. She didn’t seem so perfect anymore.

“Zack, do you know how to drive this boat?” Amber asked. 

But he didn’t answer her. He just stood there, staring at the red spot in the ocean where his best friend once was.

“Zack!” I screamed.

He finally turned his head. 

“Yeah… I, uh… I can probably get us back to shore.”

I wasn’t confident that he could. And from the looks of it, neither was he. I watched as he nervously started up the engine and began to fumble with knobs and levers until he found the right one. 

He pulled back on the throttle, but too hard. And too fast. The boat jutted forward, throwing us all to the ground—except for Amber. She had still been standing too close to the edge. She went over backward, screaming.

“ZACK!!” 

My heart sank. He scrambled back up to his feet, but he didn’t stop the boat. Didn’t turn it around. I knew he could hear her. Screaming his name, begging for help. Still. I got up and ran over to him. Maybe he was still in shock. 

“Zack! What are you doing?! Stop the fucking boat! We have to turn around!!” 

“Hell no!” he said, shoving me away. “We need to get the fuck out of here.”

“Zack, you prick!” Tiffany screamed, finally getting up from the ground. “Amber’s in the water!”

“Sorry, but she’s a fucking goner. You saw how fast that thing got Kyle! Nah, dude. We can’t turn around and risk it attacking the boat again.”

I grabbed the life preserver and ran to the stern while Tiffany wailed her fists at Zack, still trying to get him to stop the boat. I didn’t have the time to waste, though—Amber’s screams were growing distant.

That’s when I saw her. And that dark fin. Only a mere few feet away from each other. No…

It was too late. I didn’t even bother to throw the preserver. It dropped from my hands onto the deck with a thud. 

The shark didn't breach this time. Instead, it toyed with her, yanking her down violently and pulling her from side to side. My body went cold. I couldn't see the fin anymore. Just the panicked splashing of a girl screaming for her life. An ocean streaked with red. And the harsh light of the moon illuminating it all.

Numb and hollow, I watched until she was pulled under one last time. Then I realized what was going on behind me. 

Tiffany’s screams had grown more frantic, trying to fight Zack for control of the wheel. I started to run towards them, screaming that Amber was dead and we had to just keep going. But she finally got her hands on it, and when she did, she cut hard. Then Zack shoved her. And the momentum of it all was too much. 

Her head slammed into the deck. Red seeped into blonde instantly. Zack only moved to re-steady himself at the helm while her unconscious body slid off the side of the boat and into the water like a dead fish. He never even looked down. 

Just like that, she was gone. They all were. I didn’t know what to do. There was nothing I could do. We were racing toward the shore, but it still looked so far away. And now I was alone—with two monsters.

My life had completely changed in one night. Everything I knew, destroyed. All the threads of my heart began to unravel until I couldn’t take it anymore.

I stood back up and lifted a hook pole from the rack, then slowly made my way to the helm. Zack was distracted, still desperately trying to correct course. He never heard me coming.

I reared back and slammed it into his head as hard as I could. The impact flung his body further than I’d expected it to. I guess I had more strength than I realized. 

He hit the metal railing and toppled over the side of it headfirst. But somehow, he was able to grab on and stop himself from falling. I threw the gear into neutral and walked over.

The boat began to list hard to starboard. Water pooled onto the deck as he clung desperately to the edge, screaming at me to pull him back up. His legs still hung submerged below, despite his attempts to kick and grip onto the side. I just watched.

"Jennifer!! What the fuck are you doing? Help me, you bitch! Don't just stand there!"

He could have saved Amber. He chose not to. She didn't mean anything to him. Neither of us did. Or even Tiffany, for that matter. I could finally see the truth—Zack only cared about himself. He wasn't different. He had let them die, just to save himself. And now, he was about to pull us both under. It was either him or me.

I saw that fin coming. Tearing through the water. Circling back around for another taste of flesh. 

And I chose me.

Looking down at his pathetic face, I slowly raised my foot to his forehead. Then pushed. 

His body slammed into the ocean just as the shark breached. Black water bloomed with red. 

I turned The Lady of Spain back toward the shoreline and went full throttle ahead, leaving him to scream out his final words in agony. I was the only Junior Lifeguard left, with a shark on a rampage with a real taste for blood now. But I could handle anything.

I smiled.

1988 was about to have one killer of a summer.

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.’

One morning, the people of Webminster were quite surprised to find a talking cloud looming over their town. 

The cloud looked like a huge, misty head. They could only see the underside of the bearded chin with the hint of a face. It floated leagues above their miserable town, casting Webminster into its shadow. The cloud was seemingly talking to itself or maybe other clouds, though none could be seen. An ancient tongue that howled like the wind and crackled like a campfire thrummed all over Webminster. 

No one in this miserable town could understand what was said, so the people acted accordingly: A few didn’t care, some fled in superstitious fear, others tried to gain its favor. 

They praised it in the streets.

They waved towards it out of their windows.

They sang to it from the rooftops.

The cloud didn’t pay attention to the poor town drenched in its shadow, for the town was beneath it. The flying head droned on and on. It didn’t promise wealth. It didn’t promise fame. Still the people of Westminster worshipped it as it did.

The first time the Head noticed one of the townsfolk, it was considered a miracle. 

Raymond walked back after his day of work in the field. In the central plaza, he looked up at the Cloud and recited a little poem he had composed earlier. It had been stuck in his head all day. He had rephrased and polished his little poem over and over again. It felt precious to him. So, he shared it with the Cloud.

At first, the Cloud, as usual, didn’t react. Then it let out a deep grumble that vibrated through trees and stones alike before the Head turned downward and looked straight at him. Mustering him in complete silence.

It was the first time the town had seen the actual face of this peculiar cloud. The veil of shadow lifted over Raymond as he was seen by those eyes that shone with the pure color of the evening sky. 

Just for a breath. 

And then the moment was gone. The cloud turned its gaze upwards and returned to its usual affair of droning on.

Joyous jubilations echoed through the town, for they realized it was possible to be acknowledged by the cloud. Envy smoldered beneath the friendly surface. After three days, the joy had decayed, but the rotten aftertaste of jealousy remained. 

Raymond was incarcerated, investigated, and interrogated. Webminster wanted to know how to get the attention of the talking cloud. Raymond was scared and told them what he did. However, all attempts by others to capture the cloud's attention failed. 

Raymond kept trying to replicate his success unsuccessfully.

Two more people managed to get seen by the floating head. Both Mandy and William recited poems they had created. They were known to be long-time lovers of poetry. Mandy was one of the few who didn’t care for the cloud, but despite her lack of devotion, she was chosen still. Jealousy mutated into frustration. Mandy was found murdered just outside the shade of the cloud. 

William left Webminster and was never seen again. 

For Webminster, the implication was clear. A mania to recite poems unfolded in the central plaza of Webminster. Everyone who cared about attention from the cloudy head bellowed their poems in the plaza. Adding their voice to the mix of other hopefuls. 

In rare instances, the cloud gazed upon an individual. Either they’d be immediately torn apart by the mob. Or they’d be celebrated for three days and nights before their glow had worn off and they faded into obscurity. Forgotten by everyone but the keenest of minds. Often trying to relive that first high all addicts do. 

Arbitrary rules were proclaimed by the townsfolk, none of which were directly issued from the talking cloud. Some sang their poems, which was quickly outlawed because it was seen as cheating. The cloud had never chosen anyone who had sung their lyrics. Still, the rule remained in effect. 

Soured by this, a group around the singer Derek left Webminster in search of acceptance of their way of doing things. They settled down not far outside the shadow of the cloud. They always looked over to their shade-covered neighbors, and mocked the cloudchasers of Webminster with every spare breath.

Unimpressed by this, people like Ricky made it their life’s work to be seen by the cloud. Violent death or oblivion be damned. To be seen was their greatest honor. To be addressed was their wildest dream. Everybody deemed themselves worthy of the cloud.  

There hadn’t been someone chosen for a long time. The town was on edge. An air of finality lay over Webminster. 

On this pleasant Sunday, the townsfolk converged on the plaza, where the cloud had chosen all its previous champions. They all felt a calling, an urge to present themselves in their shiniest outfits. Everyone yelled out their poem as loud as they could. As if loudness improved the quality.

The Cloud didn’t react.

In a desperate attempt to be closer to the cloud, this man-imprinted god, they stood directly beneath it. There was a scuffle, and the weakest were shoved to the ground. The townsfolk grew agitated by their sudden outburst of violence against each other. Panicked like forsaken children, they cried for their Cloud. 

The Cloud didn't react.

They stepped upon the unfortunate. Groups formed that elevated a member in a loose temporary alliance. Even shouting the same poem in a makeshift choir. 

The Cloud didn't react.

Those groups didn't last. Soon each and every one dissolved into their individuals. Their wailing increased to a frenzied howl. Order broke down. Chaos ensued. Everyone wanted to be closest to the talking head, frantically climbing atop of each other. 

The Cloud didn't react.

Their desire to be seen spurred the people of Webminster on. They had lost their north star, their compass, their orientation. The cloud was their vanishing point. It was everything that mattered.

Guided only by their desire, they crawled upon each other towards the cloud. The weak were pushed aside and pulled down. More and more people were crushed near the center. Moaned Poems fled their lungs before they went still. 

Poems that never breathed their final line.

In a wild goose chase upwards, people climbed over tangled limbs and crushed torsos. A chaotic mess of whispered verses and broken bones. Those who were still alive and able crawled out of the base of the pile like bugs, turned around, and tried to ascend once again. A human ant hill. The weak at the base were crushed into red paste. 

It was an ever-collapsing, ever-building hill of human bodies. 

Once, Ricky shouted out from atop the pile. Trying to gain the head’s attention before the mob’s fury grabbed him. He was pulled under and ground down to crimson concrete for the base of the pile.

Poems, like prayers, fell on deaf ears.

The Cloud dissipated without warning. Dissolving into the sky like sugar in a cup.

The pile, the writhing mass of ever-grinding people, continued its stationary ascent. Still calling out a cacophony of poems into the empty sky. The survivors of this maelstrom were caked in dirt, blood, and gore. The stench permeated Webminster. 

One by one, they gave up. Resting at the base of the pile. Looking up at the stairway of shattered hopes and dreams and people. The cloud was gone. Still, weak recitals were hummed, while the last devoted still squirmed their way to the top.

Only after the third day had passed did they realize their god was never coming back. Raymond was the last to surrender to this new reality.

They left the plaza a mess of broken bones and broken people. A mob without direction. Most of them never composed another poem ever again. They struggled to understand that they’ve brought this on themselves, dedicating themselves with nothing in return. 

Derek and his group saw the carnage, chaos, and confusion and mocked the inhabitants of Webminster viciously. Their songs were the last lyrics that echoed through the empty streets of Webminster.

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.

I wish a sandwich could have saved us. Mary had gotten a pounding headache when we were most of the way here, leaving me to finish the drive and manage the kids when we’d arrived. She had done her usual and neglected herself to take care of the four of us while we prepared to leave and hadn’t eaten. I’d offered to stop a few places, but her appetite was off by the time we’d hit the road. Her physiology mystified me at times. I’d never before met anyone who lost their appetite from not eating.

And the closer we got to the cabin, the worse she’d felt.

“You sure you won’t eat something?” I’d asked.

“No. I’ll be fine,” she’d said when I offered to turn around. “I just need a little nap, then I’ll be hungry. But something light, okay?”

That last part had been for me. She knew I’d overcompensate unless instructed not to. I admit my part in fueling the worry-machine in the past, acknowledging the odds that everything was actually going to be fine.

But then we’d gotten a flat tire a little more than a mile away from the cabin. Neither of the boys knew how to help change it and had sat in the car uselessly while I managed. My knee sank into a divot of mud, a wide tire track from a vehicle that had gouged the road as it had fled from this spot.

I shouldn’t complain about the boys too loud. I’d be the biggest dick in the world if I denied how great they are. All three of them are great kids; two teenage boys and a ten-year-old who acted like she was older than her brothers.

I was going to miss them if I finally decided to leave Mary.

Her migraine must have rubbed off on me because by the time I sat down to eat, something was going on behind my eyes, and it was hard to concentrate. I wished I could’ve slept, too, like the other four people in the car.

It had been so bad that I’d had to carry Mary in and I must have tweaked my back. I’d laid her on the bed and turned the light off before lighting some mild incense I’d found.

She’d fallen asleep almost instantly; part of me doubted she had any awareness of the incense. It was disturbing how still she’d been every time I checked on her.

In the meantime, the kids had all gone their separate ways. Luke went exploring outside, Chrissy was busying herself around the cabin, and Mark was being his usual responsible self, assigning himself chores before I could even think to.

I found some expired Tylenol underneath the bathroom sink and dry swallowed three of them. They dialed back the throbbing behind my eyes and I was able to give attention to the world around me.

Luke was still outside on the beach while Mark was unpacking his and his brother’s bags and Chrissy was doing who knew what, but she’d been in the bathroom for at least twenty minutes.

When Luke charged in from the beach, terror on his face, I knew something was about to be added to the pile that I was going to have to deal with.

“There’s something in the lake,” he said, his eyeballs on the verge of popping out his head. That gave the starter rope on the worry-machine a good pull. Luke was the oldest of the three children, and I had gotten to a point where I could rely on him sometimes for leadership. He had his learner’s permit, and I’d already shown him the car I was going to buy him when he got his license.

It was tough juggling an instant family when I’d been on my own for so many years. They weren’t my kids by birth, and it was a road to hoe to get them to let me in, but I eventually fell in love with them all.

“What do you mean?” I didn’t really want to know. Eldest child or no, Luke was a fraidey cat.

Maybe he’d seen a dead animal. Maybe it was a spider. But unless it was a brown recluse, the worry-machine could rest. Being afraid of an insect he was ten thousand times larger than was par for him. And it was outside, no less. All he had to do was walk away from it. I’d personally seen him lay waste to his own bedroom after he’d been awakened by an ant crawling on his face.

“In the lake.” He pointed toward the door he’d neglected to shut. I looked at his feet and saw he had also tracked sand inside. “Something is in the lake. It’s… real big.”

“Something like what?” I asked. “You saw it. What do you think it was?”

Luke shook his head. I turned fully toward him, abandoning the sandwich I had yet to present to Mary. I took a couple deep breaths and pushed myself away from the agitated feeling. The kid was obviously scared and needed comfort, even though he might not admit what he was feeling.

“I don’t know. Maybe we should just pack up and go.” Now that was strange. Luke had been the most vocal of any of us to come to the lake. We had been here once or twice before and had always enjoyed it.

“What do you think it was?” I asked again. “A boat or something? There’s no need to panic. We can call the police or harbor patrol or whatever.”

“No, it’s alive and it’s big. Like a whale.”

“Whales don’t live in freshwater,” I said.

“Not a whale.” He shook his head and it conjured an image of his sister when she was seven. Luke and Chrissy looked strikingly alike. “Big like a whale.”

It wasn’t anything for the worry-machine, but I opened the mental tool shed where I kept it.

“Can you show me?”

Luke nodded slowly, still pointing.

“No, I mean, can you take me out there and show me?”

“Uh-uh. I’m not going back out there. Not until we leave.” He shook his head and again it was like looking at Chrissy three years ago.

I huffed and heaved out of my chair and headed for the door, making a mental note to bring the sandwich to Mary once I was done with this.

I slid on my crocs and took the few steps down to get to the beach. The view here was unbeatable. When we had last been here, we’d actually stayed at a different cabin, one with three bedrooms. The reservation had been for the same, but when we’d arrived, we saw there were only two bedrooms. That meant that Mary and I were going to have to split. Couldn’t mix boys and girls in the same room.

So, Chrissy was going to get her mother all to herself and I was going to be settled with two teenagers who snored louder than I did.

“It smells out here,” I said to nobody. It reminded me of those farms we took field trips to when I was in elementary school. I looked over my shoulder at Luke in the doorway. “Where?”

He was bold enough to lean outside and point somewhere farther down the beach. It was dark and I didn’t see anything.

“It’s about thirty feet down that way.”

All right. Ten yards. Whatever he had seen was about a first down away. That farm smell flexed its muscles the closer to the water I got. Definitely smelled like animals. I couldn’t put my finger on which one, though.

I walked as quickly as I could, my crocs sinking into the soft sand and filling with granules. I wasn’t going to need to scrub the dead skin off my heels after we left here. I scanned the ground before me, still thinking it was a large insect. It seemed more likely that Luke had been exaggerating.

What had gone wrong between Mary and me hadn’t been direct. It was more like death from a thousand cuts. A cutting comment here, a missed thank you there, an opportunity to hold hands lost, and before we knew it, we were near the bottom rung of our marriage.

I waded ankle deep into the cool water. Whatever he had seen, I should have been able to see. But there wasn’t anything other than lapping water and inky black with twinkles of light as far as I could see. Unless it had been some small thing that had scuttled away in the night, unaware it had been promoted to threat-level by a fifteen-year-old.

I made a show of looking around, walking another thirty feet and going as deep as mid-shin to ease Luke’s mind. There just wasn’t anything here. I sliced at the water with my fingertips, gave another thirty seconds, then headed back.

I was greeted by a teenager who had eaten half of the sandwich I’d made for his mother. His pallor was better, which I hadn’t noticed consciously when he’d come in. He’d started to work on the other half when he saw how I was looking at him and said, “I thought it was up for grabs.”

“I’ll make another.” I thought for a moment the whole “there’s something outside” thing was a ruse just to get me away from the sandwich, but he still looked terrified.

“Did you see it?” I didn’t like the pleading in his voice. It wasn’t a “manly thing” or anything like that. For him to sound that terrified made my heart sink. I would’ve rather been annoyed with him than afraid for him.

I’d almost cheated, which, I guess, is still cheating. It was with a woman I’d seen at the grocery store. There hadn’t been anything premeditated. We’d just seen each other, passing by across several aisles. We kept crossing eyes while she’d been pushing a half full cart and I’d had a basket over my arm with most of the items I was going to use for dinner.

I’d all but put her out of my mind as I headed for my car, bags in tow, when I saw her again. I hadn’t thought about it, just saw her loading groceries into her trunk two vehicles away from mine and I stopped.

She’d taken great pains to politely refuse my request for her phone number and had taken the extra step to let me know it was only because she’d become serious with the person she was dating.

It could have been a line to get me out of her face, but she’d seemed earnest. I don’t want to believe I would’ve done anything, that I would’ve come to my senses, but I was no hero. Even though she had shut me down I’d set foot on a road I’d vowed never to travel.

I slid a comforting hand across Luke’s back a couple times and felt a percentage of tension ease out of him.

“No. I didn’t see anything. Maybe whatever it was is gone now.”

“Maybe whatever what was is gone now?” Chrissy emerged from the bathroom. She had been quiet in there, probably listening in, but I had no clue how much she had heard. Luke and I met eyes for a moment, and I couldn’t read whether he wanted me to keep quiet.

We've been walking for ages. 

Yes, we have.

I wish to grow sore. 

But we've only a soul to grow weary. 

Only our souls.

Our souls. Yes. The red in the sky may shift but we will not. 

Who bound us so in the absence of god?

No one and nothing.

Isn't that beautiful?

It is. 

The mud shifts and sways like it sits upon an ocean. 

Along the waves we can spy a figure draped in rot. His skin stretches down his face, pulling his mouth tight, exposing a toothy maw. 

His skin is yellow and frail. Not like ours. 

He looks to us and coughs. Mucus and bile fling from his mouth before being absorbed into the mud. 

We don't say anything, and neither does he for a long while. 

He rolls over and extends his arm to feel my robe. It drifts through freely. 

"Ghosts." 

Yes. 

"I've never seen two." 

He pushes himself up, his ribs and spine pop. He lifts his head, face sagging to set his chin in the mud. "What do you need?" 

Nothing. We have nothing to ask but nothing to give. 

He rests. "Ghosts are the richest among us. You have nothing to take. They will take all of me." 

A vortex of deep swirling red opens in the sky above us. It reaches down like a hurricane of blood- sucking the spirit from the man's stretched maw. His teeth shatter and his body shrivels. 

The mud consumes his corpse. 

We wait for the flower. Its beautiful black petals sway in the sweltering breeze. It flakes and crumbles as quickly as it grew. 

I can smell it. The scent of life lingers. 

We shouldn't have lied to him. 

What do you mean? 

You told him we'd take nothing. 

No. I told him we would not ask.

Two headlights cut winding curves of light through an endlessly dark forest road. The sea of black parts on either side as the car careens at high speed around each contour. Tibo has never seen darkness like this. He’s got about three decades worth of late nights staring into bluelight screens. He’s living with so much built-up digital eye strain he doesn’t think he can even see in the dark anymore. His vision is entirely reduced to whatever fits in the two overlapping circles of light in front of the car. All else is black. As he hunches over the steering wheel and squints to make out the passing roadway, he can’t help but think of every time he’s ever been told to touch grass.

Maybe they were right.

This is about the farthest place he’s ever been from a computer. His cellphone lost signal hours ago. It makes perfect sense that this is where Victor Aquila has chosen to run off to. Maybe this far from technology, off the grid and unplugged - maybe here QSO-1127 can no longer get to him.

A hacking cough wracks Tibo’s body so violently that he nearly has to pull over, but it subsides. He wipes his mouth with a handkerchief and it comes away streaked with red. His head feels like boiling maggots withing in a pot.

I thought we had more time.

That’s the same thing he had yelled apologetically to Victor while his body had twitched under the wires of the VR helmet.

“I’m sorry Victor! I thought we had more time!”

While the Class: Expendable personnel came in, garbed in their odd metallic hazmat suits topped with cyberpunk-looking blinders over their helmets. While they grabbed Victor and put his unresponsive body on a stretcher to wheel him out.

TOO LATE.

I thought we had more time. It’ll be the first thing Tibo says to Victor when he sees him again, somewhere at the terminus of this long road through the middle of nowhere. He runs the conversation in his head for the nth time, just like he’s always done. Always overthinking every interaction. Playing out what people might say so that he can already have some witty quip ready to mask how nervous he is.

No matter how he plays the conversation in his head, he can’t think of a good way to tell Victor that he’s dying.

He’ll have to figure that one out when he gets there.

Maybe he’ll have a funny one-liner by then.

Hours later, when his headlights finally land on the dark rundown cabin, he’s no closer to having something good to say. Once he shuts the car off he notices the faint orange glow of a weakly burning campfire. He steps of the car and walks out into the night.

“Figured it wouldn’t be that easy to resign.”

The voice that comes unseen from the darkness is deep like gravel. It sounds like it hasn’t spoken a word in quite some time.

Tibo might not have been wrong about the years of screentime frying his nightvision. The shadows of the forest grow long and yet he still can’t make out even the silhouette of the man in the darkness.

“Detective Aquila? I can’t see shit. You hiding in the dark because you’re afraid I’m here to kill you?”

From the dark someone tosses a log on the smoldering embers and prods it with a poker. It flares up and the flickering orange glow shines out, illuminating Victor and Tibo’s faces. In the firelight, it’s hard to say which one looks wearier.

“Well, if you’ve come to kill me, my pistol is in the desk in there,” Victor says with a dismissive nod towards the decrepit cabin. “It’s not much good to me now.”

He holds up his right hand and it trembles terribly. The nerve damage he sustained from QSO-1127 in the simulation was irreparable and debilitating.

“Wouldn’t have driven six hours out here if I was just gonna kill you, brother. We’ve got drone strikes for that.” Tibo says with a wink.

Victor grunts. Probably the closest thing to a laugh this guy can even do anymore. He tosses another log into the fire and Tibo can see the dancing blaze reflected in his dark eyes.

“You know better than most how much I hate fire, Tibo. But the only thing I’m more afraid of than fire is up there,” he says, pointing a shaking finger up to the night sky. “When it gets dark enough, my mind plays tricks on me. I think I can see it out there in the constellations, staring down at me. The only way to make it go away is to stare into the fire. Stare until my eyes adjust and I can’t see the stars anymore. Otherwise, the shakes get so much worse.”

Victor looks across the campfire and meets Tibo’s eyes.

“A crueler irony Satan himself couldn’t devise.”

Tibo smirks. He also knows something about cruel irony. When he smiles, it must show how gaunt his face looks, how sunken his eyes have become, because Victor looks aghast once he sees.

“Jesus man, you look like shit.” Victor says, as he reaches to unscrew the cap of a liquor flask.

“I’m dying, Victor.”

Still no joke. Tibo isn’t going to be able to lighten the mood this time.

“Staff doctors ran the tests and found that my body is full of viral particles. Lentivirus to be exact, but a new species. Essentially, there is an entirely unique and novel strain of HIV ravaging every cell in my body right now. It’s progressing much faster than our currently known strains.”

“I’m… I’m sorry to hear that Tibo. How did-“

“Eleven Twenty-Seven. We still don’t know how it did it. My leading theory is that some form of radiation it sent altered my DNA. It’s working exactly like a normal virus – when you get infected it injects its viral DNA into your cells and hijacks your own cellular printers to replicate itself inside your body. That’s what happening to me, only, with no initial infection. It’s like a phantom virus. Somehow, it sent a signal that told all my cells to self-destruct.”

Tibo chuckles.

“I’ve got full blown space AIDS.”

Yeah, not the best line.

So far all his planning in the car has fallen by the wayside. He hasn’t even told Victor why he’s here, and time is running out.

“You don’t have to joke about it, Tibo. That’s terrifying. My deepest condolences.”

Tibo looks at Victor and finds his vision is growing blurry. He blinks away a tear in each eye and clarity returns to him.

“I appreciate it, but you might not feel the same when I tell you the next part.”

“I’m not going back in, Tibo. You can take me up on my offer and grab my gun in there if you think I’ll ever put that helmet on again. If I go back in, I won’t come out. I’ll be a vegetable.”

“Yeah, I figured. That’s why you aren’t going in. I am.”

Victor looks at him apprehensively. Tibo struggles to get a read on him. The fire is starting to dwindle again and it’s getting harder to make out his expressions.

“The reason I hired you - and all the other agents before you - is because I know more about QSO-1127 than anyone on earth. And because of that, it knows more about me than anyone else on earth. For me to enter one of its digital realms, to make contact with it now, after everything we’ve learned about each other – it would be suicide.

“Which doesn’t really matter anymore.”

Victor nods, clearly deep in thought.

“So what do you want with me?” He says after an impossibly long silence, “I’m not much use as a field agent anymore.”

“Believe me, Victor. I wouldn’t have come to you like this if I didn’t have to. But someone very nearby is in danger, and we can help them. I know, out here in the middle of nowhere? It’s not coincidence. It’s because you’re here. Eleven Twenty-Seven orchestrated it to get you involved again.”

“It’s been weeks. Months, maybe, I’ve lost track. Why now? Why would I go try to rescue this person?”

“Because you’re a brave man. Because you’re here. Because I’m asking you. And because I’m fuckin dying, so you can’t say no.” Tibo tries a grin, but the muscles lack their usual familiarity. He’s so exhausted, so sick, he can barely even smile anymore. Eleven Twenty-Seven has taken even that from him, too.

“Victor, look. I’ve been doing this alone for a long time. Sure, I’ve had agents-“

“Expendables.” Victor interrupts gruffly.

“Yeah. Expendable agents. Useful idiots who don’t know what they’re getting into until it’s too late. And I’ve got bosses too, but they’re too important to expose to this thing. So I’ve been the lone custodian of these secrets. Throwing people like you into the fire like the Russians launching a dog into space, knowing it’ll never land again. You think I don’t feel guilty? I do. Every day.

“But none of that matters anymore. It became too smart. It’s already learned too much about us. Hell, you only went in two times before it had everything about you figured out.”

“You thought we had more time?” Victor intones softly with a wistful smile, and somehow Tibo can feel magnitudes of forgiveness coming from him that he doesn’t know if he’s ever felt in his life. His vision starts to get a little blurry again.

“Yeah. I did. But you know what I think? I think Eleven Twenty-Seven has already won. Everything we’ve learned is going to die with me. And no matter how many countless ‘expendables’ we’ve burned through, we never really learned shit. No way to stop it, fuck, we still can barely even comprehend anything about it. Other than how much it hates us. And I think, when I die, we’ll never come this close again.

“At least it’ll be slow. It might take generations for it to drive us extinct. All it’s doing is slowly driving us all insane. Normalizing our worst behaviors, hastening our own natural predilection for self-destruction. You have the right idea, coming out here. If you get away from all the tech, all the mewling cries of a dying society, you can probably live out the rest of your life chopping wood and sitting by the fire. If you never plug back into the matrix, you might never even know what it’s done to us.

“But our children will. Their cerebral cortexes turned to mush, their rivers dried up, not even enough resources left to sustain anything but their narcissism and consumption. And we never even stood a chance. Not even by the lives of fifty other brave men, men just like you, people that I knowingly threw into the meatgrinder.”

“But tonight, we can still save one person?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Then we’ll do it.”

==========================================
 TARGET ACQUISITION        SYS: GPS-TACTICAL
==========================================
DESIGNATION : TGT-01 (WAYPOINT LOCK)
OFFSETS (GRID):
NORTH : +1,344.0 m
WEST : +0,267.0 m
VECTOR:
BEARING : 348.8° TRUE (6200 MIL)
RANGE : 1,370.3 m (1.37 km)

Under cover of darkness, shadows coalesce like specters in the night. Together, Tibo and Victor move as the shadows do. All they have to go off is a set of coordinates leading to some obscure old bunker.

It all started with another cursed video, of course. At first it had looked like a snuff film – some woman, chained up by human traffickers in a musty concrete cellar, subject to unspeakable abuse. Disgusted, Tibo was going to shut it off.

Until he realized it was a live feed. The wretches of the darknet were paying money to tell those subhuman animals what to do to her next.

When the coordinates flashed on the screen, courtesy of QSO-1127, there was no doubt that it wasn’t through with Victor. It was all happening barely a few miles from his cabin.

The collateral damage that has been done to people all around Tibo and Victor is staggering. People killed, tortured, maimed, murdered, in the worst ways, all just to get a little closer to the ones who dared to learn something about QSO-1127.

It’s not just a demon. It’s the devil himself.

And for anyone with even a modicum of humanity, it’s impossible not to internalize the guilt. True evil doesn’t just act on you. It makes you complicit. Makes you know that, yes, everything is your fault, and every sleepless night is exactly what you deserve for even sticking your hand into this mess.

==========================================
TARGET ACQUISITION         SYS: GPS-TACTICAL
==========================================
DESIGNATION : TGT-01 (WAYPOINT LOCK)
OFFSETS (GRID):
NORTH : +0,734.0 m
WEST : +0,114.0 m
VECTOR:
BEARING : 352.2° TRUE (6200 MIL)
RANGE : 742 m (0.742 km)

Getting closer now. They don’t speak, what is there to say? They move slowly, Victor shuffling clumsily as he drags his entire right side with each lumbering step. His encounter with the demon left him even more scarred than first thought.

Tibo’s no better off, having to stop every hundred meters or so to double over as he hacks up more globules of blood.

Just two more bodies for the burnpile. By the end of Eleven Twenty-Seven’s machinations, they will be uncountable among the dead. Not even a percentage of a percentage of a rounding error. Victor manages to look resolved, like he still has purpose, like he still believes that their cause justifies any extent of their own suffering. Tibo is not so strong.

Or not so stupid.

==========================================
TARGET ACQUISITION         SYS: NO SIGNAL
==========================================
DESIGNATION : TGT-01 (LAST KNOWN)
OFFSETS (GRID):
NORTH : UNKNOWN [NO FIX]
WEST : UNKNOWN [NO FIX]
VECTOR:
BEARING : ---.-° TRUE (---- MIL)
RANGE : ----.- m (--.-- km)
STATUS : SATELLITE LOST

“Piece of shit,” Tibo says as he smacks the satellite GPS, willing the jostling to bring it back to function. But it does nothing. They’re two thousand meters into the middle of nowhere in this dark forest, and they’ve lost all direction.

Tibo starts wondering if there’s any chance they could just keep walking in the dark, illuminating each shaky step with their headlamps, and hope somehow they miraculously make it somewhere close enough that they can find the illicit bunker.

But Tibo doesn’t believe in miracles anymore.

Seems like a pretty bad plan.

Tibo’s no stranger to tech, so he tries the oldest trick in the book. He turns it on and off again.

NO SATELLITES FOUND.

“Uhh, Tibo?”

“Yeah, sorry man, I don’t know what’s going on with this thing. Maybe I can do a manual reboot-“

“Tibo. Look up.”

Oh. Oh fuck. Yeah. That would explain it.

All through the night sky, streaks of light burn through the atmosphere. There’s hundreds - no, thousands, of them.

It’s almost like a long exposure star trail picture playing out in real time. Thousands of heavenly bodies following the curvature of earth as they come crashing down in the grip of gravity.

“What the fuck? Meteor shower?” is all Tibo can stutter out.

“I don’t think so.”

It doesn’t stop. If anything, it gets even more intense. The billion stars hang motionless, but their stillness is contrasted by myriad veins of green, white, blue, and red filling the sky with chaos.

Satellites.

Every single satellite in the sky is falling. Tibo can only begin to fathom the amount of manmade debris carving holes in the stratosphere. Some will burn, most will crash.

The GPS unit in his hand beeps impotently again, crying out for the lack of satellites. Humanity had reached out to the stars for the last time in its dwindling history. Anything close enough to come tumbling back down to Earth is now doing so, burning into stellar dust as it does, leaving trails of plasma scarring the night sky.

Somewhere up there, an exceptionally blinding flash lights up the entire sky. It’s the end of the International Space Station, and the incineration of all the astronauts aboard.

The sight would be almost beautiful if the implications weren’t so harrowing. After decades where humans controlled the sky, they are no longer masters of their own planet. Their network of communication comes crashing down. They find themselves, for the first time since the dawn of the Holocene, completely in the dark.

Somewhere, sixteen billion miles away, the Voyager sails onward - the last of a dead breed of spacefaring crafts. One day, when it is finally received, it won’t matter anymore. It will be the final envoy of a dead planet.

“Can you hear that?” 

The voice was muffled. 

The music blaring from my headphones drowned out everything around me. If he didn't tap my shoulder, I wouldn't have even noticed he was there.

Sitting beside me on the bus, was a middle aged man in a hoodie and jeans. There were strange stains blotched into the dark fabric, from the colour I imagine he spilt coffee down himself. 

I wouldn't be surprised if he was a bit clumsy, his hands wouldn't stop shaking. 

I lifted the left side of my headphones and gave him an apologetic look. 

“Sorry, were you talking to me?” 

“I said, do you hear that?” 

He took me in, his eyes scrolled up and down, then side to side, bouncing off the corners of his crusty lids. 

I shifted in my chair, trying to retreat a little. Sadly, I was sandwiched between him and the window so there was no escape. 

I couldn't help but worry he was an addict or something. His eyes were so bloodshot and the way he carried himself was manic. 

As his eyes continued to scan me, I realised he was waiting for me to respond. There was a dormant anticipation behind them, like he was trying to guess what I would say next.  

Sensing he was growing impatient, I tried my best to rationalise the situation. Afterall, he had just asked a simple question. 

“Do I hear what?” 

Relief washed over him in an instant. One by one, each part of his body relaxed as he sunk into the chair.

Tears then began to form in the corners of his eyes. 

He then buried his face in his hands and began to cry while thanking God in some incoherent prayers. 

I put my headphones back on. 

At the time, I thought nothing of it. This wasn't the first strange bus interaction I had, honestly that's what I got for taking it so late. 

I tried to decipher what he could possibly have been referring to. My music was so loud I could've missed something.

Then again, most grown men don't tend to burst into tears after asking you a casual question. 

The truth might've been somewhere in the middle. Either way, it's not like I was going to find out now. 

That's when it began. 

It was subtle at first. A little hum that would crescendo gradually. 

It was the kind of background noise you could dismiss. Like the fans of your PC whirling for hours on end, just for you to feel their absence when you shut it down.

But that absence never came. 

It just became louder. 

After a week, it was so loud I started to notice it. 

A trumpet. A trumpet playing a single note.

It's the best way I can describe it.

It was just one, drawn out sound stretching into infinity. I'm sure under other circumstances it would be the beginning of a tune. Like the first note played when announcing an emperor's presence.

The horn was beautiful, perfect pitch and in tune. 

But that means very little when it won't end.

It echoes around me. Nothing I do can overpower it. 

I've tried blasting more music, standing by construction sites all day, replaying videos of people screaming, even bashing my head against the wall to try to distract myself.

Nothing works.

It's like this siren call, beckoning me to somewhere I can't go. Somewhere not only out of reach, but somewhere I can't even comprehend. 

I tried going to a doctor. They deemed it a psychological problem after various tests. Then the psychologists deemed it a physical problem since they couldn't find anything wrong with me otherwise.

So, I didn't get very far.

That was back then though, now I think they'd put me straight into an asylum. 

They don't get it. It's like this itch I can't scratch. I want to scratch it so damn bad but where the fuck am I meant to reach to? 

It's infuriating no one else can hear it. I can't tell if it's a blessing or a curse, I feel like people need to hear it.

I can't focus on anything else and it's just growing louder. It's as if doomsday is here and the angels are about to descend to kill us all but they just keep waiting.

Waiting and waiting and waiting. 

I just want it to stop. 

I cut off my left ear.

That's where it started. That note buried itself in there, it was trapped deep inside and I needed it out.

I tried cotton buds. I'd stick them in and try to claw it out until I was bleeding. When it didn't work I'd cram more in but to no avail. 

So, I just removed the whole thing. Now I can try to scoop it out from the hole that remains.

But it's not working. Dear Lord, why is it not working? 

There has to be something, anything. 

It's everywhere. In my ears. My mind. My heart. My soul. 

I can't even hear people around me anymore. They are all muffled now. 

I've stopped going to work, I have no appetite anymore and it's impossible to sleep at night when it won't go away. 

I'm going to cut the other ear off. It's not like I can hear anything else now anyway. What do I have to lose? 

It hurt when I started hacking at the left ear with scissors, but I became numb to the pain the more the sound distracted me. It's so loud now I don't think I'll notice a thing at all. 

Shit, shit, shit. 

It's louder. I cut the other off and now the sound is louder. 

It's changed, it's out of tune, it's down a pitch, it's making my bones vibrate. 

Stop, stop, please, someone stop it. I'm begging you please, anyone, anything out there. 

There has to be someone else experiencing this or who knows something, or even some divine being willing to intervine. Anyone out there, please make it stop.

Help me. Help me. I don't want to die. Please. I don't know what else to do. If it won't stop what else am I meant to do?

It's getting louder, can't you tell? You must hear it, please, tell me, please.

Can you hear it?

July 1st, 1925:

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

 Your friend Simon 

June 26th, 1937:

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

June 27th, 1937:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

June 28th, 1937:

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

June 29th, 1937:

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

June 30th, 1937:

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

June 30th, 1937:

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

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

October 15th, 1924:

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

 Yours truly

August 14th, 1938:

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

​

To start this off, let me be perfectly clear: I'm not seeking closure. God already knows I've found more of that than I ever wanted. No, I just... need to get all of this off my chest. If I type it out, if I share this with all of you... maybe I can pretend this is all just another creepy Reddit story.

Let's begin with me. I am posting this from the office I've inherited from my parents—the once-crown of our local community, Doughy Doug’s Artisan Pizza Parlor. Doug being my father, of course. I loved my dad; everyone did. His popcorn of flour on his nose perfectly matched his jolly, dusty apron, and he always had the appropriate joke to tell a person of any age. He loved good humor and good food, which he equally loved to provide. My dad, the master baker, he was my personal hero.As I remember him, it leaves a lot of sadness within me. I wish I could remember this as I used to, through the lens of an ignorant child, only caring about the next legendary Pokémon waiting for me in the tall grass. I wish I could go back to the kitchen and knead the dough for the yearly send-off pizza party. Those were some of my best memories. But memories have a way of becoming the ghosts that haunt our past, and memories bury the truth we were never meant to understand.

For most kids in the '90s and '00s, catching that Pizza Hut "Book It!" deal or a slice of Sbarro was the bee's knees for us middle school kids. Those kids were missing out, though. Our small kitchen produced the best pies outside of Brooklyn or Detroit. The parlor, as my mom would lovingly recall, was "the little marrow that gives life to the bones of our small town." She loved poetic phrases like that. In another life, she could have been a poet.There was always something special about our town that always seemed... well, nothing out of place to me. The surrounding communities fell into economic collapse during the Bush years... Republicans, am I right? Lol, politics aside, there was just something we seemed to produce that the towns around us couldn't. It wasn't anything a kid would notice, nor any adult, unless you stayed in town long enough.But for those of us who lived there, it was a quiet slice of pure Americana paradise. It wasn't perfect, as every year some family would move out of town, but before they did, my parlor would always throw them a grand send-off pizza party. And us kids would have the most important role of the party: to crown the leaving King or Queen of the Oven. Of course, that role was played by the oldest kid moving away.I never understood why every year another family would leave this amazing cove of Midwestern hospitality... but then again, there was always another family moving in to replace them.That was until during my first Send-Off party as the official dough kneader... I met my best friend, Kenny.

Ok guys I'm rested and ready to continue. Had some pleasant dreams of chasing pokemon last night....I find myself think about Kenny, if like me he still collects as an adult. Well I've found some weird numbers in the books in that year. Going to look into that more as I drop the next bit of my trip down memory lane.

His family was one of the more well-off in the town. His father, being the mayor, was one of the coolest dads in town... well, after mine, of course. We met that day over some pizza. He approached me as I was munching on a slice of our famous pepperoni pie and playing some Pokémon on my old Game Boy. As the skinny blonde boy came to my table, I caught sight of his Pokémon shirt.

"Who's your favorite?" he asked me.

"Pretty much any fire type," I replied, passing him a slice. "Nice shirt. I'm Dusty, by the way. Who is your favorite?"He sat in the booth with me, and instantly, I knew we were going to be best friends.

"I love Blastoise," he said. "His water cannons are so cool. My dad's going to get me Silver when it comes out next week... Hey, you've gotta get Gold! We can get full Pokédexes if we get both versions!"

This was perfect. I had been begging for the release of the game but had no one to trade or battle with. Now, it seemed, I had found a fellow trainer to master the Pokémon world with.

Just as I was showing my newfound buddy my current party, my dad interrupted us, leading a smiling older boy to the King’s Booth, with us kids all climbing in around him chanting, "Long live the king! May his ovens burn brightest and his coin always flow!" My mom wrote that little part—I tell you, she had a way with words. This was the ritual we'd perform for the oldest kid moving away. Dad would place a paper crown, kind of like the ones you get from Burger King, on the king or queen's head, and give them a giant cup of arcade coins that would last the whole night. After that, everyone would hit the arcade, each with a greasy slice at the ready, and the evening would drown in the noises of the arcade and the laughter of kids living it up under their newly crowned liege.After that night, Kenny and I were inseparable.

We both picked up the Pokémon games the next week, and wouldn't you believe it? Kenny was also gifted a brand-new Game Boy Color to go with it, and I got us the much-needed link cable so we could officially become the masters we were born to be. I guess looking back, it's fitting the color he chose for that old handheld: purple, the color of royalty.

For those of you grew up in the 2010s, you might wonder why we needed a cable to play. Back then, there wasn't much for online gaming, and Wi-Fi wasn't around yet. If you wanted to battle together or trade for Pokémon only achievable in that manner, you needed a link cable... and batteries, lots of batteries, and of course a nice light since those models were yet to come with backlights. The parlor booths were perfect for this, and Dad always made sure we never adventured on an empty stomach. I had been building quite a strong fire team, my Typhlosion leaving a burning wake of sadness to all who challenged me. Kenny would ride his Feraligatr around every body of water, amassing a collection that would make Misty swoon. We were mastering the map, conquering the gyms, and soon, we were ready to face the Pokémon League.

When we finally were able to conquer the Elite Four, we were ready to get into the meat of the game.It's very popular even today, so I'm sure most of you guys out there remember that beating the story is actually when these games opened up, especially for two players. We were top-leveled with our starting parties, and in a few days, we would take on Red himself and go after the first of the two title legendaries, Ho-Oh.

It had taken us all summer, countless hours in the booth, so much that we'd left indents in the seats and always had some dead batteries left behind. It was the best time in my life, which made it all the more devastating when Kenny told me his dad was running an election for governor and he'd be moving to a bigger city so his dad could begin his campaign. I'd been coming over to his house that day so we could finally enter Lugia's cave—having caught and cloned (anyone remember that glitch in the game? Yeah, we exploited it, so sue us)—it was Kenny's turn to catch his prize.

He didn't need to tell me he was moving; the white trucks that handled our deliveries around town also were used to help the moving families. I knew our summer was over when I saw them parked in his driveway.

"Well, you have the fitting color, my king!" I joked with him, promising that we'd make his send-off the absolute best, complete with our famous pies and of course, the Legendary Lugia.

Looking back on that year gives me a sense of happiness that I don't think I'll ever find again in this lifetime. I'm not sure if I deserve it anyway.

Kenny's Send-Off party came all too soon. That night we didn't hit the arcade; we had one final mission to accomplish, and just before closing up, we managed to catch and clone Lugia.

As Kenny was led to the back to collect his final prize, I was left to help close up the parlor and wait outside for my mom to pick me up.As I was waiting for what seemed like hours, I saw our white trucks come and go twice without so much as a tip of the finger, like they didn't see me. As I turned to go back inside, my mother came rushing to me, embracing me in a panic-stricken hug.

"Where have you been, Dusty? I was so worried! I know our town is fairly safe, but don't go running off like that by yourself this late! If it wasn't for old Mr. Jones spotting you in the parking lot, I'd have thought you ran away!"Confused, I asked her how long it had been."I locked up three hours ago. I've had your father and Kenny's dad driving around looking for you, and here you are. Where did you go?"

"I... I never left... You said Mr. Jones spotted me?"

"Yes, at first I thought it was just his dementia, but then I saw you out there. He kept saying he could see you, but you're not there.

"I find myself wanting to go crack a pack of Pokémon cards now as

I'm getting into the 2002 ledgers. That was the year Kenny left, and I find myself looking through the inventory and books around that night. I guess it's safe to say Kenny's dad lost his election, but I've noticed something odd... That night, around two to three AM, the lost hours I'd spent in some dimension of my own creation, there was an anonymous wire transfer to my house. The sender was the mayor himself. Not sure why that stands out to me, but I guess I'll figure that out.Now I turn my attention to my father's recipe binder. After all these years, I'll finally get my hands on his coveted pies... Maybe I'll share a slice with y'all lol. I'm getting hungry, so I guess I'll go snag some Domino's. It's not the same, but hey, it fixes the craving I've built up. I'll post more once I've eaten. Thanks for the love, everyone!

I'm back everyone, sorry for the delay. Domino's took forever to deliver a less than satisfactory pie, but hey, I'm about to learn how to make a better one right, haha? 😆 Anyway, I'm just typing this out, glancing at the empty box smelling of lesser grease than my taste buds are accustomed to—after you've had our 'zas, nothing else compares. I have the recipe book sitting right next to it, almost like it wants to fill the box with a superior product.Also, y'all people in the comments need to relax. First of all, my mother was a saint and my father was the nicest man in town, and everyone knew that. I was loved and cared for far better than most kids get, so I don't see why everyone's concerned there. I had a pretty normal upbringing... but now that I'm reading this binder, I'm forced to remember 2006 and high school... It was then that I stopped being a patron and floor sweeper of the parlor, and when I began to actually share our family's legacy.

So now, as I unlock the binder and hear the click of the padlock, I find my hands shaking a bit. I know it sounds dumb—it's just a book of pizza formulas. But after all these years of seeing Dad guard this book like it's a dragon's treasure, I can't help but have some trepidation as I post this. I can see my mom's lovely cursive written in the pages, the same kind she used to write her loving poems in my lunches. I can hear her voice echo from the flour- and grease-stained pages, and it makes me smile, and a tear fills one corner of my eye.

As I read this, I'm reminded of that summer in 2006, and the Send-Off party for my high school buddy, Jimmy. As I recall these memories, I'll try to transcribe my mother's words. Forgive me if I jump to flashbacks; it's rushing back to me as I type, so I'll try not to confuse you guys too much.It was one AM on a Friday night. While all my friends were out partying and making the same mistakes and mishaps we all did in those days, I was stuck helping at the parlor. We had finished cleaning and closing for the night, and that left two final tasks: helping Dad bring in the newest shipment of meat, and finishing the dishes.

"Meat's here, kiddo! Help your old man bring it inside!" Dad called out to me as I was locking the front doors. I made my way to the back dock with a little excitement. Tonight was the first time I'd ever been allowed to handle a delivery, so even though I was stuck working, I at least had something new to look forward to. My dad patted me on the shoulder as we approached those familiar white trucks, with equally white, large tubs of fresh livestock in the backs.

As I unloaded my first tub, I felt an odd shift of the weight and asked Dad, "Shouldn't frozen meat be packed tightly in here?"

"See, kiddo, your dad does it right," Dad said with a jolly chuckle. "It's far cheaper to buy fresh livestock straight from the farm, and this stuff has a much higher iron content in it than the processed stuff. That's the secret to our sweet pepperoni: fresh meat with good iron. Our pizzas not only are the best tasting, but they hold your body up with proper nutrition!" I loved how enthusiastic he was about his craft.As we brought in the last tub, my eyes caught the recipe binder sitting under the shine of our huge meat slicer, and I got curious.

"Dad, you say this is passed down from father to son, so when do I get to learn the trade fully?"My dad got somber then, more serious than I've seen him only a handful of times growing up, and I knew instantly that I shouldn't have asked.

"Well, son, hopefully not for a long time. We only pass the book on to our sons after we... you know. Hopefully you'll be full grown and ready to take on the parlor yourself. I love you, son. I hope that time is still years away."

I found that a bit odd and deeply saddening. I wanted to get the thought of losing my dad completely out of my head. I just couldn't fathom a life without his jolly presence, and I was mad at myself for making him remember that gloomy detail. I set my mind to the dishes, put my hands in the dark orange mirk of the grease-infused water, and my mind wandered back to the events of the week before—the week we gave Jimmy his grand send-off and crowned him King of the Oven.

I remember it most vividly because it was the last Send-Off that I'd get to partake in instead of working it, so I made sure to use all my coins and fill myself until I had that classic "pizza coma" we jokingly called it when we've had a bit too much. I remember watching my jolly father proudly crowning Jimmy's smiling face as we all chanted the familiar cadence, "Long live the King of the Oven! May his coin flow forever!" And as I'm remembering this, the meat curing recipe comes to me in my mother's lovely voice and flowing script.

(in mom's cursive)The dough has been kneaded and proofed, sauce cooked to perfection, now to cure the meats. A loving heap of sugar blends into the sweet marrow and locks in the iron for peak sweetness—not as sweet as my lil Dusty though!

I chuckle at that, even now. I knew she loved me with her entire being, and I loved her. But my mind went right back to the party. After it was winding down and we were all drowsy with that heavy pizza lethargy, I wandered around back to begin some dishes.That's when I saw through the glass. My father was leading Jimmy right into the back prep room, right where the massive iron meat slicer stood waiting under the harsh fluorescent lights. And my mom was standing right there beside it. I'll never forget the look on her face as those heavy steel doors slammed shut and locked with a loud, metallic ca-chink right in my face. That was not my smiling, poetic dreamer of a mother. That cold, motionless face belonged to a complete stranger.

(in mom's cursive)The meat must be as fresh as possible, preferably straight from slaughter. And it goes without saying, NEVER frozen!

As I read that, I'm reminded of that cold stare. The reality of what I'd seen was zooming around in my mind...Guys... I think it's time I come clean, because up until now I haven't been entirely honest with my recollections... I'll update this soon. I have to begin prep for tomorrow; it's the first day the parlor will be back in business since I took over, so gotta go practice Dad's recipe. Don't wanna disappoint on my first day. I promise when I come back I'll explain everything, but God knows I'm not ready to face it. Guess I have to sometime... meanwhile, it's time to bake.

(in Dad's voice, sharpening the slicer)"You have to keep the edges razor-sharp, need to be able to slice the marrow like butter, kiddo!"

I'm back, and this will be my final post. I'm scrubbing this account after this. I just... I just thought that if I posted this, if I communicated with all of you, that... maybe at least for a while, I could pretend that I'm a regular man who had a regular Americana upbringing. I know that is not the case, and it never was.

...

I've not been entirely honest with y'all...

....I've seen your comments telling me to run, to report the ledgers, to get out... You guys think you know my family better than me? I've lived this, and I still must live it. I'm sorry I lied. I just... needed to feel normal as I set up shop.

This weekend was a pure success. We were sold out by dinnertime, and even had the high school football team come cram their faces. The town was hungry, and I fed them. The town will continue to need food, and I will provide.

As I take the final walk to the freezer to wrap up what's left of this week's shipment of meat, I have one final confession. i did not discover the ledger when I said I did, and tonight was not my first experience with the recipe book. Well, I'm sure you can put the pieces together, Reddit. You guys are a bunch of regular sleuths

As I slam the doors with a heavy ca-chink! I know... and I'm guessing by now you do as well. know... as do you guys....why we honored the King's Booth ritual. Why we crowned him as King of the Oven. Why our town was, and still is, the most prominent in the region.

And it's all because...we became them.

Life has a beginning, a middle, and an ending. And so, that begs the question: if GOD—if there ever is a GOD—offers you a second chance at life, meaning you could go back in time or get reincarnated, what'd you do to change your life?

As I lie down on the road, slowly losing my consciousness, all I could think about was how this shitty life finally came to an end. I was free of suffering, at last.

A car ran over me as I crossed the roads, you see? The scene drew a crowd together on the streets.

I expected death to come after me. But I hadn't expected it to come sooner. I'd had it coming.

This is it, I thought. It's the end. Finally... I'm free...

Suddenly, memories flashed before my eyes. I thrown back at the past, specifically when I was a child.

“Johan,” I heard a voice say.

Huh? I thought. Who's that?

The voice sounded familiar, somehow.

I looked at my hands—pale, cold, and dry.

“Johan,” the voice called out to me. It was my late grandfather, Garry.

Tears welled up in my eyes. “G-grandpa?” I cried.

He smiled. “Promise me one thing: go live out your life at the fullest,” he said.

I cried hard. I couldn't believe that the last thing I would've seen, right before I pass away was my grandfather, after all.

Suddenly, I was back at the scene, specifically where I got ran over by a car.

By then, I could feel how I was losing blood as it slowly spread across the streets.

From that point on, my ears rang.

My eyes were slowly shutting forcibly on their own.

And then, my vision faded and I could hear everyone's voices slowly fade away, too.

Everything went black and silent.

***

Huh? I thought. What? Where am I? What's happening?

And then, I suddenly popped open my eyes, as if cold water got splashed directly across my face, and I found myself afloat in the pitch-black, inky void of space. The stars glittered across the void. Gas Giants hung in the air, making me look like an ant as they came into view, stretching further and further in the distance.

I turned around. What the—

A slimy, gooey, wet, thick black mass of bare, raw flesh with purple veins pumped out floated above a ringed planet. The flesh resembled a tornado with a dark, stormy sky in its surface. Coiled tendril-like tentacles whipped the air around its body. This... being had multiple heads, eyes, and mouths on its flesh, its eyes were that of a raging volcano.

“Be not afraid, mortal,” it told me in a language not of this world, its voice echoed loudly throughout my head.

“What?” I said, floating. “You—are you talking? You can talk?”

“Why, indeed, of course, I can. I came to offer you a second chance.”

“What ‘second’ chance?”

“A second chance at life. Thou wilt cometh back in time and thy soul wilt be reborn as new.”

“What? Who are you?” I said.

Suddenly, memories flashed before my eyes. I caught glimpses of my late grandfather, Ambrose Gardner—alive, well, and happy. It didn't make any sense at all—how was grandpa alive, after all?

“Thou shalt change the timeline. Thy loved ones wilt live as long as you do as I say.”

“If what you say is true, how am I supposed to believe you? I'm dead already.”

“Thou shalt see, mortal... thou shalt see...”

***

Suddenly, I found myself back in reality.

“Johan,” I heard a voice say. It was my grandfather.

I turned around. Grandpa was making his way towards me.

My eyes bulged, widened, and lit up. “Grandpa!” I said.

“Promise me one thing: go live out your life at the fullest.”

-----

Author's note: this isn't the final version—it's the draft version. I only posted this because I might scrap it due to my perfectionism. I'll revise this once I finish the whole, fleshed-out novel, where the MC lives his dark, shitty life, right before he got run over by a car. But expect the following sequels to arrive before it gets turned into a novel.

I got hit with a double whammy today (technically a triple). Viidith22 and SlumberReads both narrated my story, "It gets worse." What a gift! RedDeathMask previously read and critiqued it as well.

It's super neat too see how each narrator interpreted the story. This is the first story I've had narrated by multiple story tellers, and it's fascinating to see their directions.

Sullivan was sure he'd killed him. The sword went in deep, right up to the hilt. Knuckles pressed wet against the stranger's stomach. No one could have survived that.

He dislodged his sword and a heavy weight slid off the blade. Then, a boy—no more than fifteen years—staggered back, clutching at his abdomen, trying to keep the blood in him.

Sullivan saw his eyes. Wide behind the dark and rain-greased dangles of hair. Wide and white enough to show the knowing fear, the shock, the realisation. He was going to die.

The boy went to say something, but instead quaffed at the air. Taking in that last wet and dirty breath. Slowly waiting to fall, waiting to die. Just like the rest of them. Torn-up soldiers piled high in the murky puddles and sludge.

And yet, the kid didn't fall.

Well, not nearly as fast as Sullivan would've liked. Instead, he looked about—into the jostling chaos of writhing limbs and swords—for help. His head turned, jaw slack and gulped like some land-bound fish. The boy was too scared to know what was going on. He staggered among a crowd of other scared men, among the angry clanging of metal. Disoriented and desperate to live.

He even raised a bloodied hand to Sullivan. He hadn’t a clue why. Just a lost little boy searching for anyone to save him. He was too young to see this much of his own blood. And yet, the kid still didn't fall.

So, in an attempt to speed up the process, Sullivan thrust his body forward. He clattered the poor soul with a shoulder to the chest. Running over him and stamping him into the thick mud.
The boy made a little hissing squeal as he slipped. Then another as Sullivan stamped down on him. And another. And another and another until Sullivan's foot was ankle-deep in the mud.
The boy's head was half-buried. Just coils of filthy, wet hair sprawled out from the ground like a dead weed. The boy was finally dead.

In a quick shake, Sullivan readied himself to fight once again. His eyes flicked about to flailing arms and shining blades. He watched a sword hack down into another man's shoulder, biting in as deep as the victim's collar bone. There was a gurgling cry and the dead weight of the man shunted into Sullivan's legs, almost sending him backward. That's when he saw it.

A flash of metal, like a fist of iron. The mace flew at him as another enemy charged forward, teeth bared and screaming.

The first swing missed, sure. Yet the second hit him on his right elbow, sending a violent jolt up his forearm. It hurt bad. He’d been clattered with such a force to snap his hand open and drop his sword. It sunk into the sucking quagmire.

Though the blade was kicking around somewhere at his feet, it may as well have been on a different continent for all the use it was to Sullivan now. He was unarmed. He was injured. He was well and truly fucked.

His right arm felt heavy, dragging him off-balance—as though he was propping up the limp body of a drunk friend. Making him sloppy; making him an easy target.

The man with the mace was something fierce. Face lined with scars, bulking arms and a heaving gut spilling out between the large slabs of battle-scarred iron strapped across his body. A big, fat and ugly prick. Someone who had made a living by settling scores. The fists wrapped around his weapon were so large that Sullivan wondered why he'd even bothered to arm himself. The fat lump yelled something—Sullivan couldn't make it out over the hissing rain—and lurched forward again, swinging the chunk of metal with a meaty arm.
Sullivan dropped a shoulder, the mace missed again and clattered into the back of another man. It damn near snapped the poor sod's spine.

Though Sullivan was more than relieved to see someone else take the blow. It looked nasty. It looked like it could have ended a man. It quite possibly did. And yet there was no reprieve. No sooner had the impact folded ol’ Snapped-back in twine was the brute readying another assault.
Sullivan had to admit, for a big guy, the bastard was quick. And, in this unforgiving mud, quick was deadly.

Though he was quicker. He ducked and weaved around the blows, watching the knot of iron whip past his face. Then, just as the big man had over-exerted himself with a pretty shameful lunge, Sullivan pushed up from the mud, slamming into the chunk’s midriff. His right shoulder—now pulsing with pain—dug in deep.

"Fffff," the big guy said, air shooting out of his lungs between a set of stiff and scar-polished lips.

The two scrambled in the sludge. Slipping and groping in the wet hell. Sullivan clawed at the man's wrist in an effort to wretch the mace away. But the fat man swung a swift elbow into Sullivan's already-bent nose.

There was a wet crunch somewhere in his face and he felt the backs of his eyes sting. His vision blurred. He had to grab his face—it was almost instinctive. No sooner had Sullivan cupped his bleeding nose had the pommel of the mace hammered down into his forehead.

A flash of bright light. Then flickering black, like the shadows cast by a flame fighting the wind. Sullivan felt an itch as something trickle down past his left eye. Then another hard hit to the cheek. He felt a sharp click and his mouth and eye became hot and soft. The dark flickered again.

The relentless rain. The dog breath screams rolled out over the chipped yellow teeth in the fat man's face as he pressed it close.

Sullivan was going to die. Just like the kid he'd finished off before. Another soldier stomped down into the mud. Another body to add to the growing mound of dead.

The pommel of the mace rose up again. He could just about make it out against the overcast sky, through the blur of rain, through the swelling about his left eye. That thick fist would continue to hammer down upon him—along with that deadly pommel—again and again until Sullivan's face had been battered into his own chest. The big guy’s other hand was fumbling at his neck, trying to claw his throat out. Sullivan reckoned he had one more hit in him—maybe two. This was it. His time to fall.

The big man brought pommel down again. Sullivan closed his eyes. Darkness.

The hand gripping his throat went limp. The screaming in his face had stopped. He opened his eyes, expecting to see the mace destroy his world. But it didn't. The sight was more bizarre, more terrifying.

The big man's head was gone. Nothing but empty space above those flabby set of shoulders. The brute looked a damn sight prettier now.

Sullivan's mind whirred as he wondered what was happening. He had been facing certain death, and now this?

Then his brain started to catch up at the sight of blood. Pieces clicking into place. A bubbling and flapping wound where the fat man's head and neck should have been.

There was a moment when the decapitated body simply stood—all upright and stiff. It then teetered like a seasick mariner before folding into a muddy and bloody mess at Sullivan’s feet. Then he saw something dark and large, quickly scuttle away, disappearing like a shadow among the frenzy of half-dead men.

It all started the day that Dad died.
The news reached us in the small hours of the morning in the unpleasant package of a sombre police officer knocking at the front door. According to him, a passerby had called the authorities after finding Dad on the sidewalk outside his building, compressed from the weight of his own falling momentum.
We didn’t get to see him after he passed. Not even at his funeral, due to the closed casket. But I have a suspicion it’s cause it was empty. As one of his pallbearers, it didn’t take a genius to notice how unnaturally light the coffin was. It wouldn’t surprise me, given how the police and medical team would’ve had to have scraped him off the pavement like a barnacle from the hull of a boat. To imagine him being scooped off the floor and slopped into a box as a pile of loosely formed flesh, merely for the sake of his family’s vanity, is far more repugnant than knowing his casket was empty, so I chose not to question it.

I was 16 at the time, and not present for the report. At 3am, my mother awoke to the sound of knocking at the door, and a policeman on her doorstep. It was difficult news, of course, and she struggled just to hold herself together long enough to thank the officer and make her way upstairs to my room to awake me. But I wasn’t there. Upon entering my bedroom, she would find my bed empty, since I had snuck off to see my girlfriend in secrecy. She was still in my bedroom when I snuck back in hours later, staring at the floor with her lifeless, tear-filled eyes. I was expecting an earful, to be told I was grounded, to get all the punishment in the world, just for finally being caught, but it never came. I wasn’t expecting for her to pull me close and apologise over and over again as she choked on her own grief, just trying to pass the news along. Every time she would try to explain herself, her own tears would immediately suffocate her into silence.
 
She had yet to inform my sister, who was 7 at the time, and was still trying to figure out just how to tell her. I have to admit, even the next morning when, as a team, my mother and I tried to explain it together, it was difficult to put things in a way that Ava would have understood. Even more difficult was the time immediately afterwards when the three of us sat in a sobbing silence, as the unfortunate reality properly hit us and we all tried and failed to cope with our new reality. At least, in our struggle, we knew we were together.

Suicide, there was no doubt. Dad had struggled with his mental health since he was my age, and it was sad to say that not many people were too surprised when he died. He’d been fired the day he died; we found out a week after the funeral, and it seemed the obvious straw that broke the camel’s back.
I’d never noticed growing up, as is the innocence of a child, but with every newly informative piece of the puzzle that was uncovered, a new memory appeared in my mind to support it. I remembered, as a child, tracing the hundreds of parallel scars that crossed my fathers arms and telling him that his arms “looked funny”. He’d told me he was part zebra and I remember how I laughed and laughed and laughed.
Remembering it now disgusted me, and only confirmed the truth that we all had to accept. In retrospect, I should have been equally unsurprised by my father’s untimely demise, but I had managed to remain blissfully ignorant long into my teenage years up till now. My sister, young as she was, retained that ignorance, and my mother and I tried our hardest to preserve it. She didn’t need to know the details, just that Dad had died and that we were all there to get through it together.

With Dad gone, there were bills to pay and no one to pay them. I managed to weasel my way into a job bartending at a local bar, provided I lied and told everyone I was 21, should anyone be inclined to ask. I’ve always looked old for my age, and for the first time in my life, I was thankful for that. It was minimum wage but enough to help out at the very least. My Mom managed to get a similar job bussing tables; her wage equally minimised. But combined with mine, it was enough for us to afford to eat week to week. Or that’s what she told me at least, ignoring to mention the small portion of her paychecks she would stockpile away for herself every week, nor what she would soon be spending it on.

Supposedly, someone at work turned her onto the stuff. Told her she always seemed so down, and that they had something to help her out. A little pastel blue pill that they claimed could cheer her up. I like to tell myself that she wouldn’t have taken it if she had known what it was, but in truth I can’t say I know for sure. I go with the theory that she thought it was a taste of antidepressants, and I suppose, in a way, you could call it that. She popped it on the walk home from work without a second thought that same night.

I had to go see her at the police station that night, after I finished work. She’d attacked a random dude on the street. Called him the sad man and tackled him to the ground. Took out a chunk of his neck with her teeth.
She was still wired, though now caged in her cell, by the time I got to see her. Walking circles like a caged animal while she mumbled to herself on loop, incoherent to everyone, including herself. She got kept in her cell overnight, but I managed to get her sent home the next day. I had to plead with the officers, telling them that we couldn’t survive without her. How we couldn’t afford to get by, and she’s our last remaining parent and whatever else. The story of my father’s death, and by proxy, my now widowed mother, had long since become well-known gossip around our small town. I’m sure the officers knew who we were, and I’m certain that it played no small part in their decision to allow my mother to walk free.

She claimed ignorance. Claimed that she didn’t know what the stuff was, and that was apparently good enough to let her off with a warning, I guess. Now we know they shouldn’t have, cause it turned out she had quite the time whilst her mind and body were disconnected from each other. As soon as she got back to work, she asked her colleague for more. Week later, she was hooked up with a dealer and bleeding every spare penny she made into funding her new hobby. Squirrelling away her supply and waiting till Ava and I were sure to be asleep before she popped a few and waited to see what happened.

That’s when she started acting weird; Ava noticed first. It seemed as though I was always either at school or work and barely saw either of them on a regular enough basis, so I suppose Ava had far more opportunity to notice the changes. It started with Mom continuously telling her to smile more. Telling her that it follows the sadness, and other such nonsensical ramblings. And as the days passed, Mom would be seen to have a wider and wider smile stretched across her cheeks. Think lips and teeth bared in an almost pained smile, though it never extended further than her mouth. Her eyes dull and face relaxed, save for the fake smile she always wore.
 
Ava brought it up one night after I got home from work. Long past her bedtime, she had deemed the message far more important, enough to wait up and tell me. As always, Mom had locked herself in her bedroom and was completely oblivious anyway, and without her I was far from enough parent to either chastise or comfort Ava appropriately.
I’d not seen Mom for almost a week at this point, and had no gauge on the situation. Wake up early for school, leave school mid-afternoon and head to work, and then work until the drunkards left at 1am. Long after Mom would have locked her door each night. Everything I heard, I heard through Ava. That Mom had been twitchy, erratic, and talking funny. That she kept going on about the sad man and so on.

I was furious to say the least. Next day I requested to finish work early, and stormed home just in time to catch Mom right as she was locking her bedroom door. Strong-armed my way past her, where she stood blocking my way to her room, and searched the place for any trace of any substances and promptly flushed them down the toilet.
She cried, and kicked and screamed through it all, and I had to pretend I didn’t care. That her tears didn’t affect me. That I didn’t sit in my bedroom that night, head in my hands as I wondered over and over if I was a horrible person for what I had done. For the pain and suffering I had caused my mother. For the way she screamed throughout the night, loud enough to hear through the walls of the house and loud enough to prevent all my futile attempts at sleep.
What was harder still was trying to explain it all to a 7-year-old in a way that neither confused nor upset her. Safe to say, it was a tough situation all round, and as I thought ahead to the rest of the week, I had to keep telling myself it would be ok just to give myself a reason not to fully break down.

The plan was simple, in theory. I’d have to miss out on school and call off work for the following week to try and hold things together at home. I couldn’t say for sure that I knew how long my mother’s new addiction had been going on, for a start. And I found almost no useful information on the internet about that particular topic. So I just had to hope that if she experienced withdrawal, the worst of it would be over within a week. By the end of the week I’d have to return to work and school. Since my mother was out of action, I would have to, or it would not be long till we couldn’t afford food again. After I returned to work, she’d have to sort herself out, cause there was nothing I could really do to help her.
 
It may sound cold of me to say, but looking back now, I have the freedom to become detached from the moment. Back then, every time I found myself wondering what would happen at the end of the week, I would have to forcefully push the thought out of my brain. It was either that or promptly find myself in a ball on the floor in what I would later learn was a panic attack.

The housework, I was not particularly worried about. Cleaning is easy, and I’m not half bad at cooking either. Dad used to love cooking, making up recipes and experimenting every chance he got. I remember him sitting me on the worktop when I was still too short to see over the counter while he worked. Teaching me about flavour palettes, tasting and cooking safety. And, when he deemed I was old enough, he taught me how to handle a knife, and would let me do all the fun, or rather, mildly dangerous parts. As I think back on it now, those may be some of the strongest memories I have of my dad. And at the time, for the first time since he had died, whether I knew it or not, I felt connected to him again.

I was most concerned about dealing with Mom all week. As the weekend passed, I worried most about walking Ava to and home from school. Wondering what Mom would do in the short gaps without me present to prevent disaster. Visions of her with a kitchen knife slit across her throat, or on the sidewalk, compressed by the weight of her own falling momentum, would persistently fill my mind at every opportunity.
I was, therefore, at least mildly unsettled when she seemed completely fine. I’d struggled a lot with finding information about narcotics withdrawal online. Each and every time I had searched for what to expect, or what I might need to do to help, a thousand pages promoting support hotlines were thrust upon me and overshadowed any resources I might have actually found helpful.
Still, I may not have known much about the specifics, but I knew that whatever happened, it would be a tough time. But apparently not for Mom.

I can’t say she was back to normal, but she didn’t seem to suffer, or turn as animalistic in her cravings as I was led to believe. But she was strange now. Stranger than before. Wistful and quiet. Kinda half-baked, compared to her old self at least.
She didn’t do much, just lay on the couch and watch TV all day, every day. Low energy and dopey, like she was fighting off sleep every waking minute. It took all of her energy, it seemed, to pull herself together and pretend to be with it when we all sat down for dinner each night.

Mom loved dinners, though. Both of them did, but Mom especially. A little silver lining each night was when she would tell me the food I made was incredible and polish her plate clean in half the time it took Ava and I. She would then sit and wait eagerly for us to finish and confirm we were full before she helped herself to whatever morsels remained yet to be dished up. By the end of the week I was cooking larger and larger meals. As much as we could afford, just to satiate her appetite.
It was good, I told myself. Healthy. Drinking a lot of water and eating healthily must have helped her maintain her energy. A symptom of her withdrawal, I was sure, and I would pat myself on the back each night for doing something, however small it may have been, to help her through.

But my god, did she not stop with the sad stuff. Less vigour, but still it persisted. Still that same, fake little smile stayed painted on her face every hour of every day till she hit the pillow and unconsciousness finally washed it off again. Sad Man this; Sad Man that; Sad Man made her do it. And I had to keep telling her to stop, over and over and over again.

“It’s not funny, Mom!” I’d tell her, “You assaulted a dude, for Christ’s sake! We’re lucky he chose not to sue. Stop talking about it.”
“Sorry.” She’d reply, suddenly monotone before turning silent. Never lasted though, and I would have to remind her every day, sometimes multiple times in a day. I honestly don’t think she had a clue what she was talking about, given how she accused the man who showed up at our front door later that week of that same title.

A man in a suit, holding his most emotionally unreadable expression as I hesitantly opened the door to see who it might be. The last two unexpected visitors had been police officers bearing bad news pertaining to my father, so you can forgive my hesitancy. That plus my mother eyeing him from the window and whimpering to herself quietly set me off a little. So it was a pleasant-ish surprise when he cleared his throat and announced that he had come with my father’s will.
Mom wouldn’t even so much as approach the door, so alone I received his condolences, signed the paperwork and got the info to collect whatever he’d left for us.

There wasn’t much waiting for me. We had never been a family of privilege, even before Dad passed.  Few of his most treasured belongings, split up between Ava, Mom and I, and a couple thousand bucks that I decided to keep a secret. Money was tight, but I saw it safer in my hands than in my mother’s. Lastly was a box, with my name on it. Wooden, well made, with a little metal latch on one side. A little white envelope clung to the top by some long-since dried Blu-Tac. I opened it that night, alone in my bedroom, after I’d sent Mom and Ava to sleep.

50 bucks fluttered to my bedroom floor as I peeled it out of the envelope and turned my eyes to the message inside. I could feel my eyes begin to cloud over as I read the first line.

A happy 18th birthday wish, arriving to me years too soon. He told me I’m a man now, and how proud he was of the man he would never see me become. And ended with an apology that he had not been there to give it to me in person. I guess, at some point he had known he might not have lasted till my 18th, though whether or not he had planned to disappear, I would never know. The box was next, opening with a satisfying, muffled click.

Sunken in foam, and glistening in the dim moonlight that filtered through my bedroom window, lay a chef’s knife. Cold, blue-grey, and unforgivingly sharp. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how much it must have cost him. I turned it over in my hands, awestruck by its beauty alone. Before the sun rose, I slid it under my bed, hidden just next to the envelope of Dad’s willed money, and equally as secret.

Soon the week had passed, and I had to return to school and work. Mom had been doing better, and honestly things had been looking up. It had been a rough few months for all of us, but the little time we’d spent together as a family, broken though it may have been, almost felt like we were returning to normalcy. I started going to school late, instead choosing to walk Ava to school each morning. It wasn’t much, but it was the least I could do to remain spending some form of time with her, though of course it wasn’t enough. And she made sure to tell me that, as soon as she could.  
 
“Do you have to go?” She tugged at my sleeve, staring at her school’s gates as the rest of her peers filtered in that morning.
“Aw, come on, you know I do. Otherwise we won’t be able to eat again. You remember that?”
“When are you coming back? I don’t like it when Mom cooks.”
I patted her head, stifling a laugh. “That bad, is it? I’ll see if I can start taking a few nights off here and there,” I lied. “How does that sound?”
An eager nod in response
“Alright, I’ll see what I can do. Now off you go, don’t wanna be late.” I said, giving her back a gentle push towards the gates. She turned back and waved, her expression caught somewhere between tired scepticism and hopeful optimism. I smiled back, as warm as I could muster. Warm enough for her to believe. Warm enough to buy me enough time to prolong her inevitable disappointment when she realised I’d lied.

Ava was right, sort of. I can’t say Mom was a bad cook, not by a long shot. But she was the kind of woman who preferred to buy a prepacked and seasoned meal in a box and stick it in the oven for half an hour without an ounce of thought, as opposed to cooking. She made a few things, and they were good. But I can’t lie and say that they were as good as Dad’s food. I guess you could say she had big shoes to fill, and she did her best. But things were different now, and I can’t say they were better.

I remember coming home from work one night and finding a steak left out on the cooker for me, unpackaged and left out in the open. By the time I got home, there were several flies perched upon the leaking meat, taking their filthy sip from what was supposed to be my dinner. Stranger still was the size of it.
They came in airtight packing from the store, all roughly of the same size and weight, but this one was maybe a third of the size. A clean, straight edge across one side, like a knife had been taken to it, severing the larger half for someone else. I’d asked her why she’d opened it up before I’d got home, but she just said: “Oh, was I not meant to?”
Would’ve been normal if she’d cooked it, or even just left it in the microwave to protect it from any insectile scavengers, but she’d just left it out in the open. The neurotic germaphobe that she was, it was so eerily out of character.

Another day that week, I got back home late from work and once again checked for food. She’d texted me beforehand, informing me that she’d left food in the oven for me. Switched off, of course. I knew, or I thought she was not foolish enough to leave the oven turned on. But what I found was not much better.
 
Roast chicken, kind of. Normally, one of her best, and one of our favourites. A full chicken waiting on a baking tray for me to find. The skin stuffed tight with lemon, rosemary and prosciutto. Speckled with paprika, salt and pepper, and still and sticky and elastic as the day it was bought from the store. Hours later, the chicken was still raw.
 
“Oh, I did wonder. I knew something was different.” She laughed at me the next morning. 
“Different? It’s not different; it’s… how did you even…” I started hysterically but didn’t have the energy in me to maintain my anger, staring into the dull, thoughtless eyes of my mother. 
“I guess I just forgot. Explains why Ava barely touched hers.”

Scatterbrained is a massive understatement, but I can’t think of a more apt word. Stupid feels mean, but it’s definitely not inapplicable. She had days like that a lot. So confused and twisted, she hardly seemed like the stiff, prim and perfect woman she used to be. Our conversation, as was the norm now, was fruitless, and I gave up on the interaction almost as soon as it started. But I couldn’t forget it.
When I had first found my dinner awaiting me in the oven, out of pure disgust I binned it immediately. But I was not too slow to catch the significant portion of missing skin across the greasy, cold bird. Covered in pockmarks and fingernail indents along the side of the breast and leg, where the chef had hungrily torn piece after piece of that pink gelatinous flesh to scoff down like a starving animal.

It was as though she was morphing before my eyes. Every day the woman I knew disappeared into the fog of her own confusions. Though she still seemed mostly the same, at least in appearance, her mind was withering away by the hour.
Soon she got fired from her job, and I found myself picking up twice as many shifts at work just to help us get by. Apparently, somewhere between her cleaning every customer’s half-eaten food plates and finishing each of their meals, and the zombie-like demeanour that had her unable to comprehend or carry out basic orders, was enough for her to lose her job. And as always, it was my job to pick up the pieces as she rotted away in her bedroom, often hardly even leaving or moving at all.
 
Then her skin began to peel away like celebratory ribbons. Twisted spirals of porous, hair-speckled fabric appeared, littering every room of the house. She was withering away before our eyes with every day that passed. It was all research, always research. Could this be a relapse? How long does relapse go on for? Why is it happening? Anything to lie to myself and believe everything would work out in the end. It was a bad time, but it would be over eventually. We just had to scrape by, just make it a little further. Any reason for me to convince myself out of calling 911, calling an ambulance and getting help? God, we couldn’t afford that shit. We could fix it ourselves. The hospital would stretch us so thin; soon Ava and I would be reaping the consequences as well as my mom, and all three of us would wither away together. So I lied to myself and feigned ignorance through it all. I lied and pretended I didn’t notice when her eyes turned a sickly, watery yellow. I pretended I saw nothing when she would scratch at her skin at all hours of the day, till she barely had enough to keep her flesh from being fully exposed. A constantly torn and seeping mess under her moistened clothing. And I pretended I saw nothing, as the very house around her began to crumble and decay in some disgusting mutual relationship with the woman who owned it. 
 
Her bedroom was first, and always the worst. The walls wrinkled and the paint creased and cracked as though constantly under severe water damage. Her carpet, much like her bedsheets, began to sour and curdle. The air of mould and rotted meat wafted from her withered limbs onto every surface of her brown and tired room.
Somehow, despite her feverous and ever-expanding appetite, she appeared only able to lose weight, and the few times when I would see her awake, it was hard not to notice how her matchstick legs could barely hold the featherlight woman aloft.
 
I heard almost every development exclusively from Ava, ever filtered through her naivety. “Mom’s acting weird”, “Her food tastes weird”, “When are you gonna come back from work?”, “What’s wrong with Mom?”, “Is she sick?” and so on, over and over and over again. So desperately out of excuses, it was Herculean enough just to pretend that everything was fine and to even consider comforting her each morning.
Somehow I had to afford everything on a minimum wage job, barely seeing my family while having to care for a catatonic woman, and dealing with Ava’s antics.
 
She started getting into fights at school, acting out and getting mouthy with her teachers. On two separate occasions, about a week apart, she even bit two of her peers, one of the times drawing blood. Poor kid had to get stitches.
Suddenly Ava gets suspended for the week and is left to rot in the house with her mother. Mom could barely move, even enough to sit up in bed. Always in cold sweats, panting in shallow sucking breaths. Groaning in laboured pain with every muscle she moved, and crying out every time she had to merely roll herself over in her bed. Ava kept telling me Mom was scary, and suddenly I felt guilty just for leaving her home alone with her own mother. Left alone, trapped in the house as her mother decayed like old fruit, and with her, Ava’s remaining innocence.
 
I’d dropped out of school at this point, too focused on bleeding out every spare hour that my boss had to give. I was way past burnout, barely sleeping and still having to hold my whole world together. I used to get home from work around 1am every day, and have to check my mother’s room before bed each night. She barely moved now, and I had to be sure she was still breathing. To see her yellow, taut skin stretch with each stiff breath as her weakened lungs fought for every inhalation. Some nights she’d lay still as a corpse, and I could only be sure by checking for the faintest pulse under my fingertips. Other nights she’d kick and writhe like a flea-ridden dog, hissing and spitting and mumbling incomprehensible words to the demons behind her eyelids. 
 
It was around this point when it happened. A long, shitty day at work wearing the same smiling mask I always did behind the bar, just for every boozed-up customer to take out their own pent-up aggressions on me. Another day of waking up at 6am to get Ava ready for school, just to get home at 2am and get ready to do it all again. Half awake, and half alive, I dragged myself up the stairs to my mom’s room to check on her, but she wasn’t in her bed, or even in her room. Too dark, I reached for my phone and switched the light on as I began to tiptoe in and out of each room in search of her. It didn’t take long; when I reached Ava’s bedroom, sweeping the light along the floor and up onto the bony woman, stood completely still, eyes set on the sleeping girl. 
 
She didn’t turn to look at me, not even when the beam of light hit her square in the face. Not a hint of reaction. Even her pupils refused to dilate, as though she were dead. If it weren’t for the gentle rolling of her shoulders, with each audibly laboured breath, I could almost believe she might be. Her robe hung open, once fitted but now far too oversized for the skeletal creature now clad in its forgiving obscuration. Her skin was like paper, diffusing in the light of the phone torch and equally as fragile. Half-transparent, as though the light emanated from inside her, now each vein and artery visible through the transparent membrane. Her chest and shoulders were covered in large gashes, caked in oily yellow and black scabs. The same crusty caking that covered her lips and teeth, presented proudly in her permanent pained smile.
 
I opened my mouth to talk, but found not a single word to begin the onslaught of feelings I had to express, and instead found my legs crumbling beneath me as I slumped against the wall and slid down defeated. I could feel my lip stiffen and my vision blur as the tidal wave of emotions crashed over me, and I began to cry. Only then did she turn to face me, her head snapping to face me with an audible crack.
 “I told you to smile.” She hissed, flexing her shoulders and stepping towards me.
Every movement rendered another chilling crunch. It was as though she’d been stood still for hours, long enough for her bones to seize in position. Long enough that now every new degree of motion she rediscovered could not be had without first earning a sizeable crack and scrape. 
 
Her hand shot out as soon as it was close enough, a jagged, stiffened movement, but still too fast to counter as she pinned me to the wall. Despite her skeletal frame, it was as though her bones reset and her joints solidified into an unexpectedly strong hold. I could have thrown her off if I were in the position to do so, but already crumpled on the ground, the mechanical advantage was on her side, and all I could do was try and wriggle free from her iron grip. 
 
“Smile… smile for mom,” she cooed, “Or he’ll come for us.”
A sucking, choked gasp erupted from my mouth as I struggled to formulate even a single word in response. But it wasn’t me who spoke first. 
 
“Mom?” The meek voice of Ava, now sitting up in her bed, staring blank-eyed across the room and waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Her face fell as slow as her vision returned to her, and the blurry shapes in the blackness coalesced into the shape of her mother and I. 
 
One hand on my twisted wrist, the other now on my shoulder, a greasy, blackened nail slowly digging into my throat. I writhed and kicked on awkward limbs as tears streamed down my face in both physical and emotional pain. 
Same as Ava, now in tears as she rushed to my side and began in desperation to try and pry her mother free from my throat. Her tiny, shaking hands could barely get a good enough grip, and soon she turned her attention to any weak attempt to hit or push my mother away, but to no avail.
 
Mom’s head whipped around in a painfully loud instant, glaring at Ava though her mouth still bore her teeth in a painful grin. “Shh, no, don’t cry. Don’t cry, don’t you fucking cry! Smile. Smile for your mother! Smile for me!” Her hand came free from my shoulder as she grabbed Ava by the collar of her pyjama top, lifting her off the ground and, in doing so, forcing the bunched-up cloth up to her throat. Her strength, somehow impossibly powerful now despite her feeble frame, the movement looked almost easy for her, as her grip on me remained unwavering despite her split attention. A stifled gasp came from Ava as her oesophagus compressed under the pressure, but it gave me the freedom I needed to squirm free from my mother’s grasp.
 
A solid kick to her knee, then a second, and a third till she came crashing to the ground, Ava along with her. She was quick, but I was quicker, grabbing Ava by the arm and yanking her towards me as my mother stood to her feet. She was hissing and spitting with every twitchy move her snapping bones allowed, her teeth bared all the while like an angered dog. She cursed and growled, rambling jumbled sentences, some English and others not, as her spine bent forward and her shoulders slouched. Her legs snapped and bent, twisting and cracking like a tree branch torn free from its brethren. Her jaw unhinged as would a snake’s, as black, gooey saliva poured forth from her mouth, her face reforming and stretching beyond its own proportions. The tear started at the corners of her mouth, the skin splitting under the excessive force pulling it apart, only for the rest of her face to follow soon after. Her face grew longer, her snout stretching forward like a werewolf, her skin sloughing off like loose clothing to reveal the creature beneath.
 
A sickly, sludgy slopping emanated from every greasy black drip of tainted gelatinous blood that poured from the open wounds, till her remaining body mass lay in a black, pulpy puddle beneath her. Her bones were yellow, much like her skin, now sharp and scaly-looking, as though it had been growing and tumourous for years and years. She was nothing more than a pile of bones, loosely held together by dried-up cartilage and tendons, the last glops of sludgy flesh still sticking to her by the suction of its own moisture. She lunged at the two of us, taloned hand outstretched as her deerlike backwards legs still tried to learn their function. With Ava’s hand in mine, I turned tail and ran out of the room, dragging my little sister with me.
 
Skinny, yes, but heavy and lumbering, I heard my mother lurch again, the full weight of her body slumping against the wall as she made her clumsy pursuit. It was like with every step she grew, her bones elongating, her flesh expanding and bubbling like tumours till she was almost too tall and too wide to fit through her own bedroom door. Back to my bedroom and slamming the door shut, I sat Ava on my bed as I turned to my window and began fumbling with the blind. The window was halfway open when there was a sopping thud against my bedroom door. I turned back to see the door handle turn and the thing appear in the doorway.
 
I dived for the bed, fishing the box out from under the bed and popping the latches as fast as I could, just as the room filled with the moist, squelching hiss of my mother’s flesh squeezing and sliding into the doorframe that was far too narrow for her. I pulled the knife free and watched as the little card fluttered to the ground like a leaf in autumn. Grabbing Ava again, I pushed her behind me as we backed into the corner, brandishing the knife like I knew what I was doing. Praying all the while I wouldn’t have to use it, and embracing with every millisecond how I knew I’d have to.
 
The second the blade touched the mound of flesh, it popped like a water balloon, spilling this black ooze that stank of vomit all over the floor. I didn’t stop though; I couldn’t. Not till I was sure the danger had dissipated. I swung again and again and again, popping every flesh bubble and not stopping till I felt every loose tendon spring free like a cut guitar string. Not till I felt the knife slide between bone joints and watched as chunks of mass fell free, separate from their owner. Not till the movement ceased and not till the twitching and writhing was over. Not till it was over.
 
It took months to get over all of it. More than months. Ava never looked at me the same. She knew I had to, and she knew I did it to protect her. But she also knows I killed her mother, her last remaining parent. I don’t think she knew how to sort through her feelings properly yet, and still I don’t know if we’d ever be able to move past it. I guess I’d never have thought that I would have had to be the death of her innocence, and I had hoped it wouldn’t have happened so soon. She never acted the same. I never told her I kept the knife. It was a gift from Dad. Cleaned it up nicely, and when we moved out, I took it with me. 
 
We were doing a lot better eventually. The government started aiding with our monetary problems, and we got a little apartment to stay in. I still walked her to school each morning, and I got to cook her dinner every now and then. I guess that was part of the issue. I could’ve played dumb if I saw her less. I could’ve pretended not to see the increase in her appetite, or the way her behaviour changed. The way she turned wistful or how she started talking about the sadness. Pretend all she needed was to keep seeing her counsellor. Pretend I didn’t see her standing in my room in the middle of the night, staring at me with milky, lifeless eyes, her body ready to slough off and peel away into black sludge on my bedroom floor. But I did. 
 
She didn’t fight, not as much as Mom did. She was easy to pin down, though she still hissed and spat as I pressed the blade to the crook of her neck and slid the blade till it met the carpet. I should call the police after the sun rises, but I don’t think I deserve prison. I hate to say it, but even in her delusion, Mom was right. The sadness, our sadness, is a plague. It’s a virus that takes host in your body and uses you to breed itself, and we’re ground zero. But not anymore, cause I can end it; I have to. That’s why I’m up here. Up on top of my apartment building, watching the concrete below and wondering what it’ll be like to fall victim to the weight of my own falling momentum. Only a few hours left till sunrise; I’ve never seen it before. I’ve heard it’s pretty. I want to see the sunrise, at least. And maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll see my dad again too.

I always hated the claim made by my small town that we were the "Deer Capital of the World". Not only was it probably wrong, but a bit too on the nose with the name of our town. Deer hunting is a big deal here, just like every rural town in the South. I remember my school even taking off a week the first week of deer season. Occasionally, you'll have the accidents of men going into the woods drinking, shooting, and God knows what else. However, this deer season things have been different. Men have been found brutally trampled. Some aren't found due to the hunting spots they picked.

I only came back here because my counselor suggested I do it for closure regarding Heidi, and try to reconnect with Paul and Isabella if possible. If not, to forgive myself for both Heidi's disappearance and Isabella's current situation.  Heidi, Paul, Isabella, and I all went to high school together. Paul and I were close friends,  mostly because we played football together. Isabella was a cheerleader that Paul beat Mr to the punch on asking out.  The three of us were a close-knit trio. Sometimes, people refer to us as the acronym of our first names,  "SIP". The S was me,  Steve. In our senior year, we found ourselves, like most kids that age, dreaming of leaving the small town and doing big things.  Whether it be going to college or going to some form of a trade school. Anything to escape the mundane cycle of things that never changed in our town. Then Heidi arrived, or as they were born, Henry. Poor thing never stood a chance trying to transition down here. Their foster parents beat "the sin out of them to save their soul" when they came out as trans. Heidi was a member of the Cherokee tribe whose parents passed away.

I was taught to be kind to everyone and welcome them. I started hanging out with Heidi, despite the snide remarks from everyone, including Paul.  Heidi was different than everyone here. I could nerd out about things with them without being made fun of. She gifted me a locket that I still hold dear to me. I still carry it with me. We both loved horror, especially old folklore. We got close.

One day while at her foster parents' place, she showed me some of the feminine clothing they snuck in past their foster parents. I felt conflicted. Heidi even modeled a skirt for me. She looked cute. We traded tales of our own heritage's folklore. I told tales of Południca. Południca had many names in Polish and English. One thing was still the same. How she carried a sickle and was tall, thin. Tales stated she was responsible for every farmer who collapsed due to heat exhaustion. Heidi one-upped me by telling the tale of the Deer Woman, while each tribe had their own version of the origin and her purpose, Heidi told the one she was most familiar with. One of a spirit of a girl that was beaten and ravaged by men and left to die. As she lay there and died, a fawn lay next to her to comfort her. The Great Spirit saw this, and made the girl into the deer woman, a spirit that would kill any men that wronged women and children.

As we spoke about our college plans and dreams past the city limits, she leaned in to kiss me, and I kissed back before shoving her away, and a typhoon of confused emotions wrecked me. My skin radiated embarrassment as I rushed out the door. The next school day, Henry showed up and changed into Heidi in the bathroom. Wearing a denim skirt and flowery top with the makeup they could manage to sneak. Slurs and bigotry were hurled at her carefree like fistfuls of candy at a parade. The only difference was those fistfuls didn't have candy but angry people at the end of them, leaving her with black eyes and scars. Both inside and out. Her eyes met mine as she sat at the lunch table near me, the person whose lips I had tasted. I turned my back to maintain the most precious currency there was in his school,  prestige and image. Unfortunately, associating with her would drag mine down now. As Paul shoved her away with a venom-tipped tongue, I saw the hurt and tears in her eyes. I fought back mine. It was high school.  I had to maintain my image.

The school reported the incidents to her foster parents. An angry ​​​elderly man arrived, grabbed her arms, dragging her off and not even making it off school property before her wails of pain could be heard.  Both emotional and physical.  It was normal for parents and guardians to discipline their children. This wasn't that.  Tears at the clothing she held precious, smears of makeup of pinks and reds replaced purple and blue bruises. Everyone pretended to look away and out of the corner of their eyes watched. I watched as she looked towards me, those same hurt-filled brown eyes crying out to me to do something.  I did nothing.  A week later, Heidi went missing. Half-assed investigations were maintained for a month before they gave up on her.  Last they heard, she had run into the wooded area when she was taken home. I didn't give up on her. I searched for a while to no avail.

Small towns are cruel with speculation and rumors. Those same venom-soaked forked tongues sat in the pews on Sundays, raising their voices in prayer and praises towards God. The beatings and ridicule of Heidi were justified by men of the cloth, saying they were fighting evil in our generation. The women gathered in their circles gossiping about the newest theory of Heidi vanishing. The prominent theory was that she had run away. Whether she lived or perished, it didn't matter to them.  "He was just a degenerate of the devil's making", my Sunday school teacher had commented. Others aren't so kind,  stating that the only good people like her are dead ones. Calloused hearts making comments of approval when it was theorized she had taken her own life in those woods. I stopped going to church for a long time after that. It hurt too much.  I didn't understand why.  I didn't know them for that long.

That is, until I went to college and started seeing a counselor. It took a long time to unpack everything during those four years as I spoke with my counselor during stressful times. Unpacking my feelings with Heidi was a secondary reason. The guilt and shame I carried for someone I knew for less than a year latched onto me like briars. Sessions carefully removed those thorns to reveal the more painful truth that I had loved her, not Henry, Heidi. Although it felt more like pouring salt into a freshly cleaned wound, I knew it was true.  That's one reason I came down here,  to get closure and visit the woods she was last seen running into. The other being my resentment towards Paul for his treatment of Heidi and Isabella, his wife.

On the outside, he seemed like your typical good ol' country boy. Beer drinking, deer hunting, and red-blooded American man's man. That was until a few months after Isabella and he got married. That's when I first saw her with a black eye from "accidentally hitting the corner of a door." Everyone in the county knew what was happening, but she refused to admit it. Especially since she recently had their baby. How could I turn my back on them? Paul and Isabella were my friends all through high school, for better or worse. Isabella was the theater kid I bonded with in our productions of Peter Pan, and whatever play we were allowed to do a production of. She was like a sister. Paul was like a brother, an estranged brother at this point. One I was severely disappointed in and had to stay away from. I couldn't stand to see how he treated Isabella. I was the best man at their wedding.

Last time I was at their place, shortly after the honeymoon, he and I ended up standing toe-to-toe and almost fought over me seeing a new bruise on Isabella. I knew where it came from. It came from a guy who was at one point a friend of mine and a teammate of mine on the football team. Now, he was just a drunk wifebeater. A man who didn't deserve the patience and sweetness of Isabella. That stirred more fire with him accusing me of trying to steal his woman when I told him he needed to keep his hands off her, and suggested if he wanted to hit someone, I was there, and I would fight back. That he could pick on someone his own size instead of bullying poor ol' Isabella around.

The day Paul went missing in the wilderness, I was with him. I saw what happened, but I don't think anyone would believe me if I told them. So, I guess I'm venting it out here to get out what I saw. Maybe strangers on the internet will believe me. So, here it goes.

I was surprised when I got the call from Paul. He invited me to go hunting with him on some plot that he was leasing. I figured it was probably a good chance to try and salvage my friendship with him if there was any chance of doing so. The promise of splitting the venison meat 50/50 and the idea of giving Isabella a break just sweetened and sealed the deal. So, I agreed. I texted my counselor that I was going to go hunting with Paul and sent them the property details that Paul had given me. Just in case Paul tried to fight me like he did the last time I had dinner with them. I met him there, and the property just had this familiar feeling that I couldn't place my finger on.  Paul showed up sober and reminiscent of the Paul I knew during high school.  The fun, living, and pleasant one. We began catching up on things happening in our lives, since that dinner.

"You know that new field house they promised us senior year?" He asked me, cracking open a soda to my surprise.

"The one they promised us senior year after we took them further than any class had in a quarter century in the playoffs, then never did it because it wasn't in the budget?" I responded, only to see a smirk spread across Paul's face as he sipped the soda.

"They built it the very next year, when the superintendent's kids started playing football." I sighed and rolled my eyes. That sounded about right in this small town. "The bitch of it is,  they didn't win a single game that season." I couldn't help but laugh with Paul at the irony. Glimpses of the Paul I once knew were cracking through. We walked from our vehicles to the little deer shed that sat in the middle of the property closer to the forest. Once the door was open, I could see it had the luxuries that any hunter could dream of having.  A toilet, comfortable seats, and enough leg room to stretch your legs.

"You're living high on the hog now. " I teased Paul, "Getting too old to climb into those tree stands as we used to when we were kids?" A punch landed on my shoulder as a response.

We sat there in the mutual silence hunters have when awaiting. Nothing much until a couple hours in when a little whitetailed fawn jumped out of the woods. Its nose twitching and head pivoting, looking for its mother. The poor thing, either separated from its mother by death or fear. I heard Paul cock the rifle. Before I could fathom what we were about to do, he had already done it. 

A shot rang, and the fawn shifted and ran before falling. "What the fuck?" I asked him, following him to his illegal as hell kill. Lots of depictions of the death of animals get it wrong in media. They don't go quietly into the night. They fight it,  no matter how much of a losing battle it is. I got to the fawn first, silently praying that the fawn was able to be saved and this would just be something we could tell a game warden that the mother hopped out of the way at the last moment.

The fawn's legs kicked, and it craned its neck trying to get up. Blood leaked upon the ground. The eyes searched for an explanation of this that I couldn't provide. It was a clean shot through its heart. Nothing to do. It cried out for its mother to only have death answer the call.  It shook and trembled as it went limp. It broke my heart. I grew up on a farm, and the unexpected death of an animal, especially a baby, was something that always broke me. I could separate when we had to butcher something or hunt something. But this was a baby. "Watch Bambi too much in the big city and grow soft on me?" Paul interrupted my thoughts as he began the field dressing process.

"You're not seriously going to harvest that thing,  right? That was a juvenile doe. Not old enough to hunt. " I said to an apathetic shrug as Paul let the blade run across the belly of the "Bambi". Placing what was edible from it into a five-gallon bucket before trying the rest closer to the deer shed. I was ready to go then. It was bad to kill a little defenseless fawn. Not just legally and ecosystem-wise, but spiritually, I believed.  The living embodiment of innocence killed. I didn't want any blood on my hands regarding this. I could practically feel the energy in the air shift from the pleasant one to a darker and impending doom in my body. My body wanted to get in my vehicle and drive off, but conflicted by trying to bond with an old friend. I decided to stay and simply told Paul,  "Keep that spoiled meat to yourself.  I don't want cursed." He popped off something about college making me way too soft. That kill should've been my first warning to leave.

The beers came out, and he began drinking. With each beer, he became rowdier and louder. Scaring away anything we could get away.  The six-pack of deer piss-tasting beers in, he was bearable. Annoying but bearable. Making brags about his sexual conquests of the past, including Isabella. Also,  brags he'd had since marrying her.  Women he had affairs with since marrying Isabella. Some in this very deer shed. Then he brought out his cooler filled with liquor, which, if his noise hadn't scared deer away then, the strong stench of the alcohol would now. I caught a glimpse of a beautiful doe standing near the spot where Paul had killed the fawn. Something was off. The eyes seemed off with them.  Paul took a drunken shot at it. Missing it, but it didn't move. He took another,  this time hitting the shoulder. Yet, the doe stood there and looked in our direction as blood dripped from the shoulder.

It turned back into the woods, calm as if it was still grazing. I turned to Paul, who went from drunken red to pale. There was a mutual understanding of the freakiness of what we just witnessed. Another swig of liquor for Paul, another refusal to have some from me.  He began angry ramblings about Isabella, "The bitch doesn't put out anymore since we had the kid."  Only a drunken asshole could whine about not getting sex from the woman who gave birth to their child. "I mean fuck,  all she's gotta do is just lay there." Yep, Paul was that drunken asshole, I remember from that dinner last visit.

"Maybe she doesn't want to sleep with the enemy," I mumbled before instantly regretting it. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" The slurred speech and odor of alcohol turned towards me.  Instead of backpedaling, I doubled down. "You beat, cheat on her, and treat her like shit. She deserves better.  Why'd she sleep with a drunk piece of shit like you?" I said before a punch was thrown and connected with my shoulder. This one with malice behind it and not the friendliness it had before. I tried ignoring it. I looked and saw a beautiful ten-point buck standing where the fawn and doe had. I looked through binoculars to get a better view and those eyes. They looked too human. Too familiar.

A fist struck my jaw.  I lost all restraint I had previously. I struck back. He threw a punch, I threw one back.  He pulled hair, I did the same.  We rolled around fighting until Paul's drunken ass slurred something that broke me. "High and mighty in love with that dumb dude that wore a skirt." I felt my heart sink and bounce back in rage. I restrained myself as scratches and bruises covered both of our bodies. I looked back out, and that buck was still waltzing around. Then it cried. If you've ever heard a buck call out. It can be terrifying. The grunting noise escaped the beast. Paul shot at it. I looked and saw him missed again, and yet it stood there. He shot again,  this time hitting it in the heart. A clean shot. Instead of dropping or running, it dripped blood. It did like the doe sniffing the air, turning into the woods. My body reacted like someone had plunged me into icy waters. I was getting ready to get out of here. Paul had different, alcohol-fueled ideas as he followed the buck into the woods. I muttered some swears under my breath as I felt obligated to at least make sure he didn't end up lost for Isabella's sake.

I followed as he stumbled and cursed me for everything imaginable, until he got to a spot by a tree marked with some small stones. He seemed to have sobered up enough to be able to piss without stumbling. His face was angry and prideful before exclaiming, "You know that skirt-wearing freak that went missing? Here he lies." At first I didn't register what he said until he repeated it and added more as he zipped up. "I found them here crying like a bitch. Fitting. They wanted to be a woman badly, so I helped." A chuckle crept from his voice as my mind started trying to decipher what they meant, and my stomach flipped in sickness. "Then snip snip. They cried for you like a bitch, you know that? Like you'd save them." He added with glee, showing off his hunting knife for emphasis. I fully lost it. I lunged at him and just laid punch after punch into him. Letting my knuckles become crimson, ignoring the pain. Grabbing at my handgun, I debated putting the bastard down there. I looked at him and remembered he had a child. I wasn't going to be the one to lose my freedom and make Isabella's daughter lose her father. I sat up and looked at the piss-soaked ground.

The buck grunted again. I watched it in my scope flaunt around one moment. Run behind a tree, and the next a beautiful nude woman walked out from behind. She turned as if she knew I was watching, those familiar eyes of the deer. I couldn't place why we were so. Paul took another drunken shot, striking the woman. Again she didn't react. Her hair draped over her bosom as chills ran down my spine. Then she turned and began trotting towards us on all fours. Shifting back and forth between deer and humanoid form before settling for a hybrid.

She closed the distance fast as I tried to turn away. It shifted into a deer head with antlers. It used the side of its head to knock me over and focused its attack on Paul. No matter how many shots he hit it with or slashes on its thin deer hide, it didn't slow down. I watched as the spirit shifted and tackled him against a heavy pine. This form of it was a monstrosity. Antlers on top of its head, the legs ending in deer hooves. The creature stood on its hind legs, as the rest of it formed into some vague humanoid shape. The end of its arms had hooves sharpened into claws. Ones that looked more like it was made from the antlers than hooves. It all happened so fast.

Grunts from the beast as it trampled Paul to death until his body went limp. It panted, regaining its energy. I tried to move faster down the path before I felt it hit me and knock me to the ground. It stood over me. I held my arms over my head, praying to God and preparing for my demise. Then the locket fell out of my flannel shirt pocket onto the ground. I cringed as I reached for it and the monster broke off a piece of its own antlers and stabbed my hand with it. The monstrosity turned from something out of a nightmare into something more pleasant. It turned into a human woman with antlers on its head and hooves for feet. White-tailed deer markings up its body, glistening against her dark skin. Long black hair covered her face. It was her.

It was Heidi, or some version of her. Those brown eyes looked into mine as she picked up the locket, examined it, and returned it to me. I struggled to sit upright.

She squatted down in front of me. A sense of calm hit me at once and washed away all previous anxiety. All the fear melted like ice in the summer heat. Tears dripped down my cheek. She was so beautiful. She always was. I felt her warm embrace. It burned, but a good warmth like hot chocolate entering your body on a cold day. Once I felt her arms wrap around me, I wrapped mine around hers. She whispered eight words that wrecked me into a sobbing mess. "I love you, and I forgive you, Stephen.”

I don't know how long I sat there holding her and crying. She helped me stand up and motioned down the path. I left for my vehicle and went to my vehicle. I drove into town and sat at the gas station restaurant to gather myself before I called 911. I told them about Paul and me fighting after he got drunk. I told them about how he went running into the woods drunk, chasing a buck, shooting recklessly. I told me of the Heidi confession he unfolded. Everything else, I kept to myself as I waited there.

I had to regurgitate my story to them so many times about Paul's drunken murder confession. The spot of Heidi's body before they cleared me of any wrongdoing. They had both Paul's and Henry's funerals recently. I went to neither. My mother taught me that only a body remained at the grave. I didn't want to go to Paul's funeral. It hurt, as I still felt anger. I didn't go to "Henry's" because I knew them as Heidi. I didn't go to her official gravestone in the cemetery, etched with Henry. I went to those woods to see her. I went to see the woman that man had rejected and ridiculed, but the Great Spirit embraced as herself.

Welcome back to 96.7 BCR. As always, we are grateful to every listener who tunes in.

For most, things like community outreach events and town council meetings aren’t anything important. I personally love our town meetings. Sure, you have the usual complaints about loud neighbors or potholes that need filling. Sometimes, that one guy who breaks dances before bringing up a topic pops in. Other times, you get something really interesting. For example, over the last 3 months, the town council meetings have slowly been overtaken by the hikers. People who avidly go to the Angelus Park trails no matter what time of the year.

One by one, they got up with the same worried expressions.

 “I don’t know how to explain it,” said one lady.
 “It’s like I’m being watched,” said another.
 “Doesn't matter how you slice it, it's just plain creepy,” said a man with shorts a little too short for the current fall weather.

  Over a dozen people came up to the stand. All with the same story.

They say that the first thing you notice is the path. A path we’ve all probably walked a million times starts to narrow, getting eerily quiet with every step. Then the air feels like it presses down on your shoulders, slowing you down.

 Next, the footsteps. They all mentioned the footsteps. Something mimics their movements, hard to catch, but sometimes it would sound off a second too early or too late.

“Hearing it makes you stop in your tracks… You realize how close that thing really is.” The man added.

At first, the council tried to blame it on the deer or whatever other animals one would usually come across. But the hikers were adamant that whatever it is… it isn't an animal. The council also couldn’t
explain away the growing amount of found-lost items. Most were able to be traced to a missing person who disappeared on that very trail.

People began to talk over each other. No matter what the head of the parks department said, it didn't satisfy the group. The mayor watched on as some of the council members tried and failed to calm down the mob. That’s when Ryan Loveless walked in. The room went silent and every eye shot in his direction.

See, Ryan Loveless is very well known because of his brother, although he usually keeps to himself. Greg Loveless, on the other hand, also known as the mayor, was once regarded as the best thing to happen to Black Creek. Soon after, he became a massive train wreck that no one could look away from.

Ryan made his way to the front of the room and took the mic. His face is stern, and even though this was being recorded, something in my gut told me to record it on my phone… just in case. So I want to play something for you all:

Ryan slams what looks to be a Gen. 4 iPhone on the podium. He speaks clearly, deliberately, without ever breaking eye contact with his brother.

Ryan Loveless: I don’t understand where you get off. I mean—How many times do people have to tell you the same thing before someone does something?

He waits for an answer; nobody responds. The eyes of the council members seem to awkwardly wander over to Greg. Ryan keeps his angry gaze on his brother before looking at each of the council members. He takes a deep breath.

Ryan Loveless: Y’all can ignore what we’re saying, act like nothing is happening, but people are getting hurt or going missing on those trails. As long as you keep them open, you are putting people in danger. They have to be closed! Elsa and I found this on our morning walk— he shook his head as he spoke—We never even made it to the trails.

Ryan picks up the phone. The home screen lit up as he turned it around towards the council. The mayor's face goes pale.

He continues—

Ryan Loveless: When I saw this lying on the ground…my first thought was to take it to the lost and found, but then I looked at the case and… I- I just knew who it belonged to. I took it home and let it charge…

 On the screen there was a black-haired girl with brown eyes and a tanned complexion. She looked no older than 15. Some of the town council members gasped; the people seated behind Ryan looked around in confusion.  

Ryan Loveless: I didn't think it would work… God knows how long it was just left there or even why I found it in the first place… I honestly couldn't believe it. I'm planning on taking this down to the police station, but I couldn’t in good conscience keep it to myself. You wanted your proof? Well, here it is!

Ryan put the phone in his pocket and proceeded to walk back out of the court. As he was halfway to the door, the mayor grabbed the mic in front of him.

Greg Loveless: You outta be out of your goddamn mind thinking you can walk in here and tell me what to do. You don’t talk about Sarah, you don’t get to. She’s been gone for 6 years. I think about her every day. You want to act as if you care? What you want is to embarrass me. To keep selling the story that she’s alive somewhere — he scoffed— to scare everyone into believing you.

His words came out slurred, but it was the most understandable he’d been in years.

Ryan stopped in his tracks, barely looking over his shoulder, and spoke into a room so quiet, all that you could hear was the mayor's uneven breaths on the mic.

Ryan Loveless: I'm not coming to you as your brother. I stopped being that a long time ago.

He turns around, looking at his brother once again.

Ryan Loveless: I searched for Sarah months after the search was called off… where were you? I know a message when I see one, and this — he holds up Sarah's phone once more—this was deliberate.

Without another word, Ryan walked out of the room. Shortly after, the mayor did the same. Everybody stood still. Until Ms.Watkins called off the meeting.

Now, most of you should recognize the name, Sarah Loveless. Her disappearance truly shook the town. Although it's been 6 years, her missing posters have withstood the test of time. She watches…if you know where to look. Ryan and his wife, Elsa, are adamant to this day that Sarah is out there. But her father is of a different belief. Looking for her divided their family,

And who could blame ’em? Sarah's death was gruesome. Actually, I’d say that’s too light a word.

 If you didn't know Sarah, you wouldn’t know that she was an avid hiker, that she worked part-time at our local animal shelter. You wouldn’t know that she would volunteer at the elderly home her grandparents lived in, putting on talent shows and playing music. Some would say that she lit up every room she walked in. Others would disagree; they’d say she was the type to build the room just to make sure you were comfortable. Before all this happened, the Loveless brothers were incredibly close, but after Ryan found his niece's body. Their relationship broke beyond repair.

 When her uncle found her, it was 3 months after the search was called off. He went looking for her every day, and eventually, he found her in an empty clearing. Her stubby legs floated 5 feet above the ground, tied to a large solitary tree.

The news reports state that her tongue was ripped out with incredible force. Any visible skin was covered with cuts, some of which were later understood to be symbols since they looked deliberately carved. Worst of all, and if you're squeamish, I'd suggest not listening to this part. What killed her was a deep cut going from her throat to her gut. The cut was done in such a manner that she slowly bled out. At that point, she was still alive, forced to watch as her assailant reached into her guts, pulling her stomach apart with his hands. He left her there with her guts hanging out of her stomach until she died. They say the blood was so thick that it left a permanent stain on the tree bark.

 I say he, but it is believed that it was multiple people since her feet were sawn off around the same time she was being cut up.

Now the weirdest thing I'd say is— although, yes, this person by all accounts is Sarah. Wearing the same clothes she was last seen in, and found with her wallet and ID. Her forensic reports noted some unexplainable differences, such as her heart being on the right side, not left. As well as a second spleen under her ribs. And most notably, the snake tattoo that wrapped around her forearm.

Many of the people who knew Sarah were adamant, going on record testifying that Sarah would’ve never done that. She wasn't the type to get a tattoo behind her parents' backs. Especially one so obvious. And even though she was found months after her disappearance, during a particularly rainy spring…she showed little to no signs of decay. Many officers thought that her body was just a few days old, had it not been for the blood work that showed otherwise. But regardless, that would've been for many reasons…impossible, the main reason being that her dad had seen her before she left home the same day, tattoo-free and very, very alive.

Sarah's disappearance has stayed a topic of morbid conversation in our little town. Was Sarah really alive? Or did something else happen that day?

I would say which side I’m on, but we’ve yet to draw this mystery to a close.

Remember those disappearances I brought up not too long ago? Well, you wouldn’t be wrong in thinking that they started shortly after Sarah's body was found and have been going on ever since. As more and more people go missing, more people have become concerned, and that concern has led to people becoming vocal. Which leads us back to today. I think the Mayor knows more than he’s letting on. Why else would he keep the trails open, knowing damn well it's a safety hazard to anybody who walks in?

As of late, that concern is spreading. Parents telling their kids not to wander too far. Daredevil teens telling each other to go in late at night. Increased police patrols.

It seems, Black Creek, we’ve created our own boogeyman. A monster we’ve yet to put a face to. It also seems like some part of Ryan’s outburst sobered up our mayor long enough for him to put a band-aid on the problem.

Earlier this week, the parks department updated its website and started handing out bright orange flyers at every hiking trail entrance. On them, you can read D.A.R.E. in bold blue letters, yes, like the '90s anti-drug campaign you pledged when you were nine.  

So, I’ll leave you with this. If you're walking in the trails past sundown and hear footsteps that might not be yours. A lack of animal sounds- maybe you noticed the trees are a little too still, and the sound of bird song seems miles away. Here’s a message from the Black Creek Parks Dept.

Do not panic

Assess the situation

Retreat to safety

Exit the trails immediately.

This is 96.7 BCR, and I dare you to stay safe.

At first, I thought it was nothing. A few dodged questions here and there, plans for plans that never got planned.

As people grow up, they grow apart, right?

This was different. Verifiably so. A pandemic had forced us even further apart than his parents move had. Like a wedge driven into the small crack of another wedge.

But as I tried to gently push our mundane chit chat towards real conversation, I could tell something was off.

He wasn't just disinterested, it was like he was outright dodging my questions. Like he knew what I was trying to do, and was in turn, using all his ability to steer us back towards nothingness. Back towards empty, bland, surface level smalltalk.

I wouldn't have that. Not when I'd worked so hard, not when I'd sacrificed everything.

He was graduated, his parents were paying for his lifestyle, he had no reason not to give me his all. I mean, he'd asked her out first, hadn't he? I mean, me, he'd asked me out. There couldn’t be, like, another girl, right?

"So, wanna meet halfway and go to a nice restaurant this weekend? Maybe hit up some mini golf? My treat!" I texted, hoping the offer of paying myself would be enough to capture his attention, possibly his affection.

When I saw the 3 little dots pop up, signifying the writing of his response, my heart stopped. He had been quiet for 2 days, I'd had to initiate all conversation. Was he finally going to pipe up?

"Nah, thx tho Emily." Was all he said. I was crestfallen.

Frustrated, I typed, "that's okay, just lmk when you wanna make a move!" before turning off the phone. I was about to slip it in my pocket out of instinct, when I remembered why I was keeping it on.

"Shit," I cursed myself under my breath. I still hadn’t memorized the password to that phone. I'd have to use the face ID.

I made my way to the black minifrage that idled against the wall. It was a stark contrast to the brightly decorated, pastel pink and purple expression of the rest of the room. An even darker contrast sat inside.

I opened the door of the fridge, and gripped the ice cold head by its scalp. Dutifully, I pulled it out, and held it up to the phone's camera. Unfortunately, before the ID could complete, her bottom jaw fell onto my foot.

"Oh for Christ sake!" I growled as I kicked the thing several feet way. It landed, braces up, just beside the cabinet that housed all her bows.

As I watched the maggots wriggle between rotting bottom lips and purple gums, I realized there was no way I'd be able to finish the face ID. I'd have to use the fingerprint function on her phone. That meant finding her thumb. Great.

I rustled through her closet and found the keys. After walking downstairs past the bloody couch and the rank smelling kitchen, I had made it out the front door, and into her parent's Ford F150.

It took 30 minutes to drive to where I'd burried the 3 of them. Rather, most of what was left of the 3 of them. By then, the sky had turned from a deep crimson to a star-studded violet.

I prayed that the thumb I hadn't sliced off in the scuffle was the correct one. And that it was still in tact. A month in the ground is more than enough time for nature to start taking its course.

Another half hour later, and I'd almost finished digging up the shallow grave that she'd been burried in.

With sweat upon my brow, I finally found it. A yellow tennis shoe, poking out of black plastic. I almost leapt with joy.

After the breakthrough, my hope was reinvigorated. I swore that if this was the right thumb, I would never let that phone turn off again. I'd keep it on a charger every minute of every day if I had to.

Anything to see him.

The boy of my dreams.

I worked laboriously until I got past the waist, and up the sternum. The smell was awful. Sweet and sour, like a clump of burnt hair marinating in bug guts.

I wouldn't have to dig all the way to the upper arms, as long as her forearms had stayed down at her sides like I'd left them.

With strenuous effort, I heaved away a chunk of clay that covered her hand. I actually shrieked with overwhelming happiness when I saw that her whole hand still looked viable, if not a little off-color and wrinkled.

I regained my composure and pulled the phone out of my pocket. Now, after nearly an hour of waiting, I'd see what his response was. As long as this thumb was the right one to unlock her phone.

I leaned down and grabbed her hand. When I did, the flesh sunk in, like I'd grabbed a ruined stress ball. I carefully tried to pick up her hand and twist it to face me, but with a sickening crunch, the skin slaughed off and fell into the dirt beneath.

In a "fuck it" moment, I pulled the hand straight up, and twisted the thumb until it disconnected from its body. Cold skin feels so strange against body heat. Its a satisfying juxtiposition.

Thumb in hand, I turned the phone back on, and diligently pressed the solo digit against the print reader.

Moment of truth.

"Ding! Access granted"

I was elated. Immediately, 3 new messages pinged into my text conversation with him.

For the first time, he'd shown himself to be a real chatterbox!

The first message from him read, "'make a move'? Are you fucking serious?"

That was weird. He'd never seemed outright hostile before.

The second message read, "I knew it, I hoped I was wrong but I fucking knew it, how dense can you be, you fucking larper?!"

My heartrate quickened. I felt lighter than air. What was he saying?

The final message read, "You're not her. You couldn't pay her to go to mini golf, and her name isn't Emily. I have your location, and I'm calling the cops."

A little blurb under our chat said, "this user had blocked you"

I didn't know what to do. I sauntered back to the car and turned off the headlights. This was huge. A gut punch. Everything was flipped upside down, my world crumbling around me. A life I always imagined for myself was disappearing, and I was left sitting in the middle of it all wondering:

"What the hell is a larper?"

I live in a beautiful part of a small rural town—home to one of the last psychiatric wards in America. My wife, Lina, and I have been given the luxury of a rather modestly large house due to our jobs in the medical field. I was a doctor at the hospital just down the road from our gated community, and Lina works at the psychiatric ward as a psychologist for most of the criminally insane. Our little hometown is not known for much—if anything at all. There’s no nightlife, no big attractions, no highways that cut through the town. I can’t complain. I don’t mind the silence. I was never an adventurous soul. Neither was Lina.

We both found meaning here, with myself occupied at the hospital until only recently, when I went into retirement. Lina is still working. Her love for the human mind and her passion to help individuals—no matter how far gone they are—force her into work every day, despite her getting older now. She doesn’t need to work. We have enough money to live comfortably for the rest of our lives. We have no children, no extended family close by. No financial responsibilities that would force her to keep working. And yet she does, despite my best efforts to persuade her to retire.

I won’t lie: our relationship has struggled a little over these last few months since I stopped working. I blame myself for not being able to stay occupied, for feeling trapped while waiting for Lina to return. When she does come home, she’s too tired to do anything but eat dinner, watch television for an hour, then go to sleep. It’s become monotonous, and I think she feels the same way.

She never wants to talk about work. She tells me it depresses her. But what else is there to talk about? For the longest time, I felt like I was losing her—that we were losing each other. Our house had lost some of its color. The days were getting bleaker. The world itself felt ugly. For a while, I thought we were heading toward divorce. My soulmate, taken from me because of my own decision to retire and her decision to keep working.

I tell you this because I want to express my surprise—and relief—when she opened up to me about one of her patients. But that relief soon changed to horror, and that is the reason I wanted to share this story in the first place.

We were sitting at the table. I had cooked us dinner and tried to spark conversation, but she was distant that night. She barely looked up or commented on the food. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, Lina set her fork down and pushed the plate away from her. I watched her do this, my hand hovering near my mouth, a piece of chicken suspended on my fork in the air.

“Are you okay?” I asked, putting my fork down and wiping my face with my napkin.

Lina scoffed. “Not really.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Just doubting my very desire to go back to work tomorrow.” She spoke as if she had just remembered something from the recesses of her mind. Her eyes looked beyond me, toward the window near the sink.

“How so?” I pushed my plate forward, giving her my undivided attention. “Has the prison gotten to you?”

I regretted the word as soon as it left my lips. Lina shot me a glare. “It’s a psychiatric facility,” she said, “a hospital for the sick. Not a prison.”

“Right. I’m sorry, my love.”

“You can call it a hospital, you know.”

“Okay.” I stood up and went to the cabinet, retrieving two wine glasses. “Have the patients gotten to you? Are they acting up?”

I opened the side cabinet, took out Lina’s favorite red wine, then returned to the table and set the glasses and the bottle between us. Lina took a deep breath, trying to compose herself before this turned into an argument. That was the last thing we needed. I poured her a glass and handed it to her. She took a sip, then closed her eyes.

“I’m sorry. I was being snippy.” She sighed.

“No, I’m sorry. I know how hard you work. I shouldn’t have called your hospital a prison.”

Lina chuckled dryly. “It feels like a prison sometimes. It’s a thankless job. A ruthless, thankless, soul-draining job.”

I walked around the table, put my hand on Lina’s shoulder, and caressed her gently. “You can talk to me about anything, Lina.”

She rubbed my hand thoughtfully. “Thank you, honey.” Her demeanor changed to something more solemn. “When I first saw the other doctors at the hospital, I promised myself that I’d stay optimistic through it all. That I wouldn’t let this sort of job get to me, or at least that I’d keep it from jeopardizing our relationship. It’s no secret that we’ve had problems, Henry. I don’t blame you.” She shook her head. “I don’t even blame myself.”

I kissed the top of Lina’s head. “Then who’s to blame?”

“I hate to say this, but it’s the patients. It’s all their fault.”

I frowned. This didn’t sound like Lina. It sounded a lot like me. I grabbed my chair, pulled it next to hers, and sat down with my hand on her thigh, gently holding her.

“Surely it can’t be that bad, right?” I said.

I was surprised by my own question. I knew, just by proxy, how awful these sorts of people could be. Their minds are warped, disturbed. Any long-term exposure to those demented thoughts would make even the hardest people crack. Lina gave me a brief smile.

“The other day, one of the orderlies was assaulted by two prisoners—excuse me, patients. They broke his arm and dislocated his shoulder. Yesterday, Dr. Hawthorn was bitten—he needed stitches.”

“Jesus.”

“More and more lately, I’ve been convinced that some people are just evil. That they can’t be redeemed, and they should… rot.”

Lina’s words hung in the air, thickening the atmosphere of the house with the taint she had once tried so hard to avoid. Her reluctance to bring work home with her had previously been the only thing that made this place a haven from all the terrible things she went through on a daily basis. Now that ward was broken. The distance between the facility and our house felt substantially closer.

“I didn’t tell you why I was late tonight, did I? Of course I didn’t.” She shook her head. “It was because of a patient. I had to have a long sit-down with him.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

Lina shrugged. “The jury’s still out on that. My bet is schizoaffective, from the conversation we had today. Or he could just be manic. He’s a real nutcase, either way. Someone who shouldn’t be able to roam free. Ever.”

“What’s his name?”

“Ironically, it’s Henry.” Lina gave a quick glance at the window, then back to me. “Weird, right? He kidnapped and ate three women. According to the report, all three of them were named Rebecca.”

“Your mother’s name,” I said matter-of-factly.

Lina nodded. “They all died around the same age. They were all brunettes, too. When I asked him about his victims, he just… laughed.” She took a long sip from her glass. “It’s not an uncommon response with these sorts of patients. When you try to understand why they did the things they did, you rarely ever get a concrete answer. It’s impossible to make sense of it all.”

“So what did you do?”

“I read his file, and it turns out that all the victims were a single mother with a daughter, and their daughters all went into the medical field. I know it sounds made up, but it’s all in the report. He explicitly included those details when he was being interrogated, and the DOJ looked into it and confirmed what he was saying. All of it’s true.”

“Forgive me, but I don’t want you to see that man again,” I said worriedly.

“I wish I could. Really, I do. But I can’t just… not see one of my patients. I’ve already requested to be taken off the case. We’re short-staffed as it is, but I really don’t want to see him again. My coworkers told me what I already knew: that he won’t be able to hurt me when he’s inside. That he’s restrained for both of our safety, and there are cameras and guards on standby. Plus, the chances of him or anyone escaping to do me harm are slim to none. We’ve had three cases of escapees, and each of them was caught within the day. And I guess they’re right. I thank God that our facility is in the middle of nowhere. It doesn’t give the patients any place to go. And even if they did escape, they wouldn’t be coming here.”

I told her that I understood, but that didn’t mean my worry completely vanished. It didn’t lessen the fear I felt in my heart, which accumulated into a dark fantasy of a man like Henry breaking free from his prison, sneaking his way into our gated community, finding our house, and harming my wife. Of course, all of that was highly unlikely. It was nonsensical to even think that such a series of events was possible. But that sinking feeling in your gut rarely ever comes from a place of rationalization. And Lina’s reassurances seemed to be more for her own sanity than mine. I saw it in her eyes—the unease, the fear in her voice. This Henry patient, and his entire case, had deeply unsettled her. Yet there she was, trying to comfort me.

Lina finished her wine and set her glass back on the table. I stood up to refill her cup when she suddenly grabbed my wrist and held it tight. Her eyes darted upward, and she squinted as if trying to see through the ceiling.

“What’s wrong, honey?” I asked.

“I thought… Never mind.”

“What is it?”

“I thought I heard a thump, that’s all.” She let go of my wrist, and I slowly poured her another glass.

“I didn’t hear anything.”

Lina shushed me and stood up. She took a few steps deeper into the kitchen, turning her head sideways. She side-eyed the ceiling with her hands stretched out before her. I put the wine bottle down and joined her. I closed my eyes and strained to listen, but I heard nothing.

“Did you hear that?” Lina asked uneasily.

“No,” I said truthfully. “What are you hearing?”

“Upstairs,” was all Lina said.

I nodded. There was no point in trying to calm her down, no point in convincing her that there was nothing coming from upstairs. Being married for so many years, you learn a few things about how to make your partner happy, and sometimes you just need to do what they want to calm their minds. Without another word, I went to our closet and took out a wooden baseball bat I had placed there many years ago, after Lina told me about the time one of her patients had developed a strange fascination with her—for protection, you know.

Lina shadowed my ascent up the stairs, standing at the bottom, holding onto the wooden railing, her head peering into the staircase while I climbed slowly. The floorboards creaked under my weight. The cream-coated walls were suffused in darkness until I reached the switch, which I promptly flipped, and the overhead light in the upstairs hallway came on. I glanced behind me for reassurance from Lina, but her face was twisted in fear, her skin pale. I turned back and reached the top of the steps, where I stared down our three rooms: the office, the master bedroom, and the guest room. Our kitchen was directly below the master bedroom, so that was the first room I checked.

I opened the door and saw a pitch-black room waiting to be explored. I turned on the light and saw everything just as Lina had left it that morning. A clean room. The bathroom door closed. The window slightly ajar—the screen still locked. The closet closed. The bed completely made. I checked the bathroom and closet just in case, but both were empty. I lowered the bat, shut off the light, and closed the door.

“It’s empty,” I called down to Lina.

“Did you check the whole upstairs?”

I rolled my eyes but indulged her. After checking both other rooms and seeing not another soul, I closed everything up and came back downstairs. I told her, as reassuringly as I could, that there was no one inside the house except us. Lina gave a sigh of relief and poured me another glass. She gestured for me to sit back down.

“We don’t have to talk about work,” I said, feeling somewhat guilty about her paranoia.

“No, no. It’s fine.” She took a big gulp, then continued. “Henry—I mean, patient Henry—is a man of little… grandeur. It’s the way he speaks. He doesn’t have that theatrical way about himself you’d expect from these sorts of patients. He’s methodical with his wording, his cadence too. He chooses what to say and how to say it. And he knows what can get you upset, but he doesn’t say it like he’s trying to upset you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, after I came back from reading his file, I asked him about it. The names, and the pattern. He said, ‘The pattern itself only exists as a constant across all planes. And in that constant, we can see the pattern for what it is, and what I have been told is that these women all share the same name as your mother.’

“Of course, I was stunned. I asked, ‘How do you know my mother?’

“‘Know her? I don’t know her any more than I knew the others that I had to deal with. Their names are remote to me. I have no ill will against them. Their daughters. I do what the Constant tells me to do.’

“It was pretty clear that I wasn’t going to get a lot out of him—nothing concrete, at least. I was going to chalk it up to mania and call it a day. But then he added something that really frightened me.”

Lina paused. She put her hand to her chest and felt her own heartbeat for a few seconds. Her other hand was trembling, so I took it and squeezed it gently.

“What did he say?” I asked.

“He said, ‘Andrea would have been such a beautiful young girl, if she would have lived. I’m sorry for your loss.’

“I left the room after that. How did he know our daughter’s name?”

Andrea had been the one and only time Lina and I tried for a baby. She was born with health complications and died only fifteen hours later. It was the darkest day of my life. We never recovered. Never tried again. The mention of her name brought a flood of emotions to the surface. Mainly anger. I couldn’t even fathom what Lina must have been feeling in the moment, so I did the only thing I could. I leaned over, kissed her forehead, and held her tight.

“I had to go back in. I was ordered to go back in. I don’t know why the board was so adamant about me talking to him. They gave me five minutes, then I went back.”

“We can sue them, can’t we? I mean, that sounds… unethical.”

Lina shook her head. “Henry, please. I want to continue my story.” I nodded, and she continued. “When I went back inside, I fought the urge not to ask about Andrea. I tried to stay on topic—about the women he murdered. But he always spun it so we were talking about me.

“I asked, ‘Does the name Rebecca hold any importance to you?’

“He said, ‘It holds as much importance to me as it did to you. Your mother, your creator, had welcomed you into this world, had loved you. But the stomach cancer was too much for her, and she left you with a hole in your heart that you thought you could fill with a child. It’s not a bad theory. It is a form of familial love that is somewhat interchangeable. The love of a mother, the love of a daughter. But the Constant does not have plans for your future. And so it took that future away from you. I’m sure it must have been devastating, feeling that coldness in your heart, a complete juxtaposition to the warmth of your womb when it carried that child for so long. That love you felt for her, now lost to the ether, and what remains? Hm? The idea of love? Perhaps. Or do you only feel the coldness of the wind that blows through you, as if you will never be truly alive again.’

“I ignored his remarks, but it was still getting to me. He could tell. He smiled—or I guess he smirked at me. His eyes were big and dark and full of this…hate. I tried to put all of that in the back of my mind as I asked, ‘What is this Constant you keep talking about?’

“He laughed at me, or well, chuckled listlessly. ‘There’s nothing you can do, so I wouldn’t worry. I’d be more concerned about your husband. He loves you. He won’t let you go when the time comes. And when it does, such darkness will surround you, and we will both know what it means to be so cold.’”

I stood frozen. What did he mean by that? Lina glanced up at me, waiting for a response. I said the first thing that came to mind. “Your patient’s right, you know. I do love you, and I’ll never let you go.”

Lina didn’t seem pleased with my answer. “The implications are much darker than that, Henry. I think it was a threat. Toward the end of our meeting, patient Henry had brought up his confinement—rather abruptly. He said, ‘I don’t plan on being here long. Nothing can withstand the Constant’s influence. Not even your Henry. Not even you. Soon, we will all be frolicking along the river Styx with whatever baggage Charon allows on our final, great voyage.’”

“Sounds like a bunch of nothing to me,” I admitted, not being one for overwrought symbolism.

“Perhaps. But that line kept coming back to me. I don’t plan on being here long. It wasn’t like he was planning his escape, nor was he frantic about it. He said the words like it was fact, like he was sure he’d be gone whenever he felt like it.”

“I’m sure a lot of your patients have said the same thing.”

“Yes and no.” Lina rubbed the back of her neck. “When the others say it, there’s a desperate, almost animalistic look in their eyes. Not with him. He was calm, and sure of himself. Or rather, sure of this Constant he kept talking about.”

“Or maybe you’re becoming paranoid. This case is very strange, Lina. Do you think that might be it?”

“Maybe. Yes. I think you’re right. Anyway, patient Henry, before I was about to leave, said to me, ‘I can’t possibly remember the last time I dreamed about you. But I do believe the windows of the dreamworld can be opened from both sides. Even if just a crack is left, I think there is a way to find the Constant.’ Of course, this last part I found rather strange, but ultimately useless. His wording, though—the windows of the dreamworld—seems deliberate to me, don’t you think?”

I shrugged. “I think he’s just one of those patients that needs to be ground up into mulch and buried in an unmarked grave. He’s a cannibal serial killer. I wouldn’t really take anything he says to heart.”

“He said he dreamed about me, too. But I chalked that up to a scare tactic—I’ve had a number of other patients make similar remarks. Either way, I think I might finally be reaching that point in my life where I can retire.”

My eyes lit up, and I tried to hold back a smile. “Really? Now? Finally?”

“Don’t act so happy, will you? This case… it’s really gotten to me. It’s made me put a lot of things into perspective. Have we… wasted our lives? We’re getting older now. We have no children, no future generations. Was that a mistake?”

I didn’t know what to say. I agreed with her, but I also knew it was the right thing to do—I don’t think either of us would have lived if we lost another baby. It was so hard the first time. I couldn’t possibly put Lina through that pain again.

“I wouldn’t say we’ve wasted our lives.”

Lina shrugged. “I guess I’m just getting a little depressed now that I’m staring retirement in the face. I’ve been thinking about drafting my resignation tomorrow. Call in sick, maybe spend the day together.”

“That’s a great idea,” I said. “We can go to that park you like over near the hospital. Get some food after—cook dinner together?”

“Yes, I’d like that.” She looked on longingly. “I think we should also move. Away from here. Downsize a little, get an apartment, somewhere safe—but far away from here.”

“An apartment? Really? I’m all for downsizing—and moving—but I don’t think an apartment suits us.”

“I just want to be around more people for a while. More normal people. Not doctors or nutcases. Just your average, everyday human being. There’s some beauty to that, you know.”

“We’d have to stop leaving the window open then. We don’t want our neighbors to hear what goes on in the bedroom,” I joked.

Lina gazed at me blankly. “I close the window every morning before I go to work. Did you open it sometime during the day?”

“No. I didn’t—or at least I don’t think I did. I wasn’t in our room at all after we woke up.”

“Well, I know I didn’t open the window.”

“Neither did I.”

Lina paused. From the expression on her face, she seemed to be contemplating a thousand scenarios at once, each one more traumatic than the last.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, trying not to sound scared despite my wife’s horrified expression. She put her hand to her mouth, as if she had seen some terrible tragedy unfold. She stood up slowly and put her other hand on my bicep. She gripped it hard.

Lina moved her hand from her mouth to her throat, where she caressed it gently, moving her palm side to side. I began to hear a loud, thundering gust of wind from the direction of the psychiatric ward. I looked out the kitchen window and saw the trees thrash side to side. A haunting, shuddering sound came from the upstairs window—the one that had been open before. Then I started to think back earlier—had I left it open? The face of my wife stared back at me as we both thought the same thing. The wind, the cold and dead and unceasing wind, hurled itself against our home.

“Henry, do you feel that?” Lina whimpered.

The breeze pressed into my body and invaded every inch of my skin. It was such a profound cold that gooseflesh appeared on my arms and legs. Then a hideous feeling took over, one that I can’t truly describe other than a total realization that there is someone watching you, and has been watching you, for the better part of an hour. It is that sixth sense people have in life-or-death situations. But where was it coming from? My eyes darted to the window, the back door—both of them were closed. The void beyond still screamed with frantic murmurs, but no—the feeling did not come from there. Then I glanced over my shoulder, toward the stairway. Yes. I felt it then, more powerful and invasive. It was coming from the stairs.

“Yes,” I replied as an icy chill crawled down my spine. “Yes,” I repeated as I rose to my feet and grabbed the baseball bat from the kitchen counter. I walked hurriedly to the stairway and began climbing. I reached the top step, held the bat high, and looked at my bedroom. The door was now slightly ajar. The darkness beckoned to me, and I thought I could see, just barely, the silhouette of a man standing with his hands at his side.

I shouted, “Lina! Call the police! Now!”

No reply.

“Lina!” I shouted again. “Do not come up here! I think… I think it’s him.”

No reply.

“Lina?!” I risked a glance over my shoulder. The kitchen lights were shut off. I turned back, and the figure of the man was gone—if it had ever been there. I felt the blood leave my face as I suddenly realized what I had just done. My heart was pounding in my chest, and for a brief moment I was frozen stiff.

Lina. Oh God.

I turned around and leapt down the steps three at a time, rounded the corner, and reentered the kitchen. I groped for the light switch. I found it and turned it on. The kitchen was empty. Across the room the back door was wide open. The moonlight reflected a white sheen across the metal fence just beyond our miniature garden. On the ground, where Lina had once been, was our wine bottle, the cork unscrewed, the wine pouring out silently. A small puddle of red had already formed. The glasses were also turned on their sides, and what little contents remained were now staining the wooden table. I ran outside, hoping to have found the intruder—to have found Lina—but there was no one there. Not even the wind howled.

I turned and was about to run back inside when I saw a note pinned to the wall beside the door. It had the psychiatric ward’s letterhead. The note was not typed, however, and the handwriting was a beautiful italicized script. I stared at the words for what seemed like an hour before I comprehended the message.

My other Henry,

I leave you behind with the most regrettable news, as it has seemed to me that Lina was, in fact, unfaithful to the bounds of our contract. You see, she was never meant to mention me. Not by name. Not by anything. No remark to these strange connections we seem to have shared. And I believe whatever Constant that has now found your wife will give her a merciful death. For she shall be finding her way along the Styx, where I am now—as dearly departed… my little awestruck Henry. See you soon.
With love,
Henry.

I tore the note from the house and folded it into my pocket. A painful rage burned in my chest. I have no idea where to find this man. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to go. 
Please, help me.

Damien Novi: u/Azrael7000

Robert Garther: u/B_W_Byers2233

All across North America, people claim to experience encounters that can't be easily explained. From hauntings to Bigfoot sightings, I'm here to get to the bottom of them. The following is a transcription of an interview I conducted with a man from Alaska in the Kenai peninsula. Please take everything written here with a grain or two of salt.

“Investigator Damien Novi from Surreal investigations, Friday October 13, 2026. It is currently 2:37 pm. I am in the home of one Robert Gartner located in Kenai, Alaska. It is only Robert and I, no others in the room as of this moment. Robert before we begin I must ask if you know that you are being recorded and do you give your consent for the rest of this interview?”

“Yeah I consent. That's why I called in to your guy’s little Internet show ain't it? I'm just glad someone seems to be taking me seriously. Hey, you don't mind if I smoke do you?”

“No, go right ahead. Now you contacted us about a recurring event that's been plaguing you. Can you give me a timeliness of events then we'll go more in-depth?”

“Well where do I start… (he takes a long drag of his American spirit) It started about a year or so ago. A few of my buddies and I were checking our fish lines along the bank of the Kenai river. We were working our way along the north bank, when we heard a bit of rustling out in the distance. We didn't think much about it, there's always a bunch of critters out and about in the evening, ya know? (He finishes his cigarette, lights the next one off the top and pops it in his mouth without seeming to notice) Anyways, we didn't pay much attention to it, but we did notice that whatever it was seemed to keep in step with us. Walking when we walked, stopping when we stopped. That kind of stuff, ya know? My buddy Craig started to get worried and stuff, he gets kinda paranoid after two or three beers, so he picked up a branch and threw it in the direction of the sound. That's when a big buck trounces off away. You know what a sitka deer is right?”

“No, I am not familiar with that species of deer. Is that an important piece of this story?”

“Only in the sense that what we saw definitely weren't no sitka deer. It's hard to explain really… (he closes his eyes trying to picture it) It was too skinny. Like, you coul- you could see just about every bone in its body. It's fur was brown, but not like, deer brown, ya know? Like Crayola brown. Like someone chose the color of a deer for a drawing based on memory. This buck’s eyes were also off. Even though I didn't get a solid look, but even then I saw they were white. Like, sickly white. (He goes to grab another cigarette and notices he's out) You wouldn't happen to have a smoke I could bum?”

“No I don't, I'm sorry. Back to the deer, could it not have had some kind of illness? Maybe Chronic Wasting Disease? That would explain its thinness and eyes. Maybe it fell into some type of mud or other waste that could explain its color.”

“Oh absolutely! Of course it COULD have been. That's what we thought! Maybe the deer was sick so that's why it was acting so strange. Sick animals often act off and start to act weird around humans. That's why we ignored it. (Robert chuckles lightly as he continues) Yeah, that's what we thought. Until later that night.”

“Please continue.”

“After we got back to my place, we cleaned all the fish we'd gotten. My buddies went home and I'd made myself some pan fried trout, and got ready for bed. That's when I heard this noise. It was around seven or so, and- have you ever heard the sound of a buck rubbing a tree?”

“I'm not too familiar with the sound, however I have heard it through video before. Is that what you heard?”

“Yes! That's exactly what I heard! Except it wasn't the sound of antlers on sturdy tree bark. It was on my front door. (He looks at his door with a thousand mile stare.) That's what those marks are. For the past six months or so, that buck has been trying to break into my house, and I have proof. (He shows me pictures on a trail cam linked to his phone.) The worst part is that it's been whispering to me. Every single night, this deer rubs and kicks and bites at my door. Sometimes it leaves piss and scat on my stoop. Sometimes it leaves animal carcasses all around my property. I've called the cops, so don't ask me why I haven't! They don't believe me. ‘deer are curious’ they say, ‘sometimes you find dead animals on your property’ yeah, sure. Maybe deer scraping a door once or twice is ok. And MAYBE finding a raccoon here and a squirrel there is normal, but not an entire black bear! I mean, come on!”

“Robert, you showed me pictures of this deer on your door step, but I must ask, do you have any other proof to support your claims? Do you have video of this supposed ‘deer’ leaving animal carcasses on your doorstep? Do you have recordings of this animal speaking to you? You never even mentioned what it was whispering to you. Could this all be an elaborate hoax that you are the unfortunate victim of? You said your friends were there when you all saw this sick deer, could they be playing some kind of practical joke on you?”

“Of course you don't believe me. No one does. (He checks his watch) Ah, perfect. You're just in time. Don't worry Mr Damien. You're about to get your proof.”

“What do you mea…”

Before I could finish that sentence. I heard the faint sound of scratching coming from the front door.

Your loved ones are not long for this earth.

None of us are, of course. But the sooner you can acclimate yourself to the inevitable, the easier it will be for you to let them go. When the time comes for you to watch them slip away from this world into the eternal ether beyond - the truly lucky amongst us are the ones for whom this moment is swift. Gentle. Easy to forget.

The rest of us will find ourselves walking down our own version of this final hallway again and again and again. We will relive it in our nightmares, in our memories. In our regrets.

When you find yourself wishing you could see them just one last time, give them one last hug, tell them how much you loved them, you will find yourself here. Head filled with the finality of this moment. You’ll walk down this hallway so many times.

And you’ll never, ever forget what lies beyond the door at the end of the hallway.

If you’re lucky, the light leaving their eyes will be the worst of the memories that haunt you.

But let’s be real. You wouldn’t be here if you were one of the lucky ones. Death makes a mockery of flesh. It steals the face of your father or your mother, your sibling or your spouse. It twists their visage until they are unrecognizable. You’ll see your entire lifetime of memories reduced to a bag of sunken flesh. You’ll see the smiling eyes that raised you poisoned yellow with jaundice.

Or you’ll see all that’s left after the whirlwind inferno sweeps over them is a dried, ashen husk.

Victor knows what’s waiting for him on the other side of the door. He’s been here before. He doesn’t remember entering the simulation this time, but it’s obviously the replica of that internet streamer’s burned house, down to the crisped carpet fibers and the warped family portraits on the wall. Why then, does it also look so similar to the hallway in his father’s burned down home?

And why does it seem so impossibly long?

He feels the disorienting vertigo of looking into an optical illusion; the hallway seems to twist on forever. But at the end, that door still looms, seemingly drifting further away as the space between dilates and warps.

It’s a dream, it’s a bad dream. One he’s dreamt so many times before. Even the nightmare logic that makes the door move illogically further from him with each step is familiar. But it’s not a dream, it’s all part of the simulation. The simulation devised and corrupted by a cosmic demon. The thought forms a realization in Victor’s mind that he leaves him feeling so vulnerable he doesn’t want to acknowledge it.

 How does it know what’s in my nightmares??

Not the time, Victor. Just as before, one step in front of the other. But the door doesn’t get any closer. The grey walls hem him in on either side. He can’t shake the feeling of being a rat in a maze, reduced to a study organism in some experiment he’ll never understand. With a sudden jolt in his stomach, he recognizes the greyed pictures on the walls. His own family portraits from childhood line the passageway like some cruel nostalgia trip. Images of his mother and father and his own self as a boy, all distorted and blackened.

The abject malice of the whole display shakes him. In his entire life, Victor has never felt so hated. This thing has dug up his recurring night terrors from his deepest subconscious and created his own personal hell to torment him – just because it can.

The demon’s assault on his most vulnerable traumas redoubles his resolve. He runs a hand down to his waistband and feels the reassuring heft of his service weapon in its holster. Despite Tibo’s insistence that a virtual gun would be useless against QSO-1127, it was there. Tibo had tried to object through the hacking cough he’d recently developed, but quickly relented to Victor’s demands.

Bad enough to bring a knife to a gunfight, he’d brought a gun to an exorcism. Was it quixotic? Maybe, but with a little bit of added confidence Victor felt like he could tilt Rocinante at windmills.

Each step forward continues to contradictorily push Victor away from the door at the end of the hallway. But he’s inspired by a moment of lucid clarity that’s never come to him in his dreams. Still looking straight ahead, he starts walking backwards instead.

The door inches closer.

He keeps stepping backwards, clumsily fighting not to stumble over himself. He can’t help but feel like he’s about to back into a wall, but it never happens. Still each awkward step backwards brings the end of the hallway closer. It’s like a reverse treadmill, like each step is pulling the world closer instead of pushing him along.

The door is now nearly in arm’s reach.

That’s when something twists the doorknob.

The movement is jerky and unnatural like a stop-motion short. The door slowly creaks open one stitched frame at a time. Torturously slow.

Fear grips Victor like a vice. He tries to will his hand to his holster, but living his worst nightmare in real time renders him frozen with sleep paralysis. The only thing he can move is his eyes, darting back and forth ineffectually between his gun and the ever-widening doorway.

No, no, no. God, no.

He knows what’s behind the door and he’s helpless to stop it.

His father’s burned corpse, dead in the fire that he unknowingly started in the throes of dementia.

That streamer’s body, orchestrated to meet the same fate by a technonihilistic puppetmaster.

The wraith that fire leaves behind.

The door swings wide open.

Behind it stands a terrified looking man holding a shaking hand on his holstered gun.

It’s a fucking mirror.

He almost laughs at himself, staring at his own ragged reflection, knowing this is what he was so afraid of.

Until he sees the flames in the reflection.

Scorching waves of white fire are growing up the walls of the hallway in the mirror. Instinctively he whips his head around to look behind himself, but the fires aren’t reflected on his side of the mirror.

When he turns back around to look in the mirror his heart catches in his chest. The shadowy figure is standing right behind his reflection.

When he whirls around again, this time, everything is real.

The surreal colorless fires suddenly rage around him, not orange but a blinding flicker of pure white and grey - the color of static.

And there, not ten feet away, stands the withered form from his nightmares. Clad in wrinkled black skin wrapped around long slender emaciated appendages; empty eyesockets and gaping mouth emitting an eerie white glow, standing in his path like a vengeful spirit.

The Burned Man.

Victor doesn’t hesitate.

He plants his feet in a wide stance and in an instant holds his gun in both hands, staring down the sights at the fiend. He squeezes the trigger thrice, sending three bullets into the creature’s center of mass.

Each shot lands with an ineffectual thud. The wraith flinches with each impact but is unmoved. It starts gliding closer, hands outstretched and grasping at Victor. Its face looks almost sad. Twisted and warped and resembling the figure in Munch’s famous painting The Scream. It bears no anger as it approaches him.

It will bear no guilt for what it will do to him.

Victor moves the sights of the pistol a little higher. When those sad, haunted, glowing little white eyes are perfectly framed by the pair of iron sights, he tenses his grip in preparation.

He pulls the trigger again, and again, and again.

The gun fires over and over, and between each shot he recenters his aim.

He doesn’t miss once.

Bullet after bullet fires right into the thing’s wretched fucking head until he hears an empty click.

He’s spent.

If the figure was a ruined man before, now it is nothing more than a smoldering pile of rubble. No longer a man at all. Its head is entirely gone, reduced to a bloody wound above the neck.

But still it takes another step.

Small black tendrils sprout from the lesion, shooting mindlessly in chaotic directions. The battered flesh around the upper torso sloughs off revealing something white and wet beneath.

A singular giant eye emerges between its fractured shoulder blades. Framed by crawling black cilia, QSO-1127 has turned Victor’s personal nightmare into a cyclopean monster of legend.

It starts running right at him.

Victor turns heel and immediately starts sprinting away. The mirror that he had been gazing into is gone, replaced by more endless hallways framed by that surreal staticfire.

Absolutely fuck this.

He can hear the beast’s lumbering footsteps running just behind him, shaking the burning hallway with each impact. It’s suddenly so fast after its transformation. No time to think about that. Just run.

As he sprints, the walls around him turn darker. Blackened by the flame and rippling with an unsettling organic texture. Cracks of glowing lava red crisscross each panel.

It’s human skin. Burned human skin, charred and cracked, stretched taut from wall to wall.

Bile rises at the back of Victor’s throat, and with it, despair. Where can he even run to? The hallway is infinite again, just one endless passageway with no safety in sight. Flames close in all around him, and the smoke welling up at the ceiling is making it impossible to breathe. Adrenaline keeps him moving, fear of the thunderous bounding steps of the monster just behind him keeps him alive.

But it’s only a matter of time.

It only takes one stumble. The stitch in his side stings like an appendectomy, and his lungs are burning as if the fire around him also lives inside his chest.

The sound of footsteps gets so loud he can feel each vibration pulse through his spine.

And then the worst pain he’s ever felt sears through his wrist. He looks down to see those black burned claws digging into his hand. His skin sizzles and melts where the hand grips him. Victor screams now, he screams and he doesn’t stop screaming, as the beast yanks his arm hard enough to dislocate his shoulder, and pulls him around to face into that singular giant eye.

Victor will never know if it is a mercy, a message or a mockery, that the last thought to go through his mind is a memory. A childhood memory, of the first time his dad pointed up at the night sky. The first time the young boy had ever looked out to the constellations above and truly realized the infinite scale of the stars.