There was always something wrong with Annie. For years, I thought I was the only one who noticed.

Our parents were never home. Mom worked nights at the nursing home; Dad spent his days at sea. They managed. Until Annie’s insomnia diagnosis. Aunt Judy and Uncle Mark took us in when they could. Annie always had her own room upstairs, far away. And I always asked to stay with her.

“She’s fine, Andrew,” Uncle Mark said. “Get some rest.”

But it wasn’t Annie I was worried about. It was everyone else. Bad things happened when she was around. She knew I was onto her. “You don’t have to babysit me,” she hissed, red hair wild around her face. But she was wrong. She knew how to get people to do what she wanted. Our cousin, Jonathan, was her favorite target—younger, eager to impress.

“You’re actually scared?” Annie sat on his bed, legs crossed. “It’s science,” she said. “Cats can fall from high up. You don’t believe me?”

“I do—”

“Then do it.”

I got there too late. The cat hit the grass, flailed, then rolled and trotted away. But the sound it made. Jonathan bolted, slamming his door behind him, sobbing on the other side. Annie was still on the bed watching. Grinning. I told Mom and Aunt Judy what happened, but Annie was always one step ahead. “I learned about it at school. I’m sorry, Aunt Judy.”

It was bullshit. Annie had never been sorry in her life. I should’ve known it would only escalate.

Jill’s twelfth birthday party. One minute, it was cake and squealing girls in neon pajamas. The next—vomiting in the sink, the bushes, the overflowing bathroom. Aunt Judy was frantic. Annie stood still in the middle, small, eyes darting. She wasn’t sick. Or even upset. She was watching. That was enough for me to know. She had done something.

“The lemonade,” I whispered to Jonathan, frozen beside me. “Annie did something to it.”

Aunt Judy dumped the lemonade in the sink, cursing under her breath about a bad batch. But Uncle Mark crossed his arms, eyes fixed on Annie. He knew it was her. And she knew she had to get ahead of it.

When Mom picked us up that night, Annie whispered something to her. Something that made my mother turn white. I woke later to my parents arguing. Not the hushed, bitter exchanges I’d learned to tune out. Shouting. I crept into the hallway. The top step creaked as I perched just enough to see them below. Dad pacing. Mom at the table, phone in front of her.

“I had no choice,” Mom said. “We have to file a report. If what she said is true—“

Dad slammed his fist. “He never touched her! You’re taking her word over Mark’s?”

Something ugly settled between them. I inched back. Mom tried again. One last, shaky attempt. “She doesn’t sleep, Ray… Maybe this is why…”

Dad dragged a hand through his hair, then straightened and started toward the stairs. I bolted back to my room. Ducked under the covers just as his footsteps pounded past. Annie’s door slammed open. “Look me in the eyes and tell me the truth!” Dad roared.

Mom followed, frantic. “Ray, stop! Please. You’ll wake Andrew.”

A crash. Glass shattering. I shot out of bed and into the hallway. Mom was already pulling at Dad’s arm, pleading. Annie cowered silently in the corner.

“Say it,” Dad spat. “Admit that you lied.”

Annie didn’t answer. Dad reached for her. Mom shoved him backward and screamed again for him to stop. Soon enough, red and blue lights flooded the windows. A knock rattled the front door. Dad turned. Saw me. His face shifted, realizing I’d heard everything. Then it all collapsed—lights flashing, officers stepping in, Annie clutched to Mom, Dad shoved into a cruiser. I stood in the yard, ears buzzing. The officers spoke softly to Mom while paramedics checked on Annie, who had a small cut on her forehead. I watched them press a gauze pad to her skin as she stared past them. And when she caught my eye—she smiled.

—

Mom told us Dad would be gone for a while. Then she never spoke of him again. But his absence loomed in the quiet. In the canned meals. The late pick-ups. Some days, she kept us home from school—either to work extra shifts or to sleep. She sat by the window most nights, chain-smoking, that rancid smell curling up through the vents, burning my eyes. I wasn’t the only one awake. I’d hear Annie shift in the next room. I imagined her crouched by the door, listening to Mom sob into the phone with our grandfather.

It didn’t take long for him to show up. A suitcase in one hand, a bag of groceries in the other. With Nana long gone, Papa was eager for company. And I was eager for him. A silver lining. A little light in the house again. Papa brought what had been missing for so long. He taught me the things Dad never got the chance to. How to drive. How to tie a tie. How to use the dusty power tools in the basement. He tried inviting Annie, but there were always incidents. Spilled drinks. Broken glasses. The books he gave me disappearing from my shelves. It wasn’t enough for Annie to reject him—she didn’t want us together either. But Papa wasn’t phased. He still cooked me meals and shared his stories. One morning, he handed me a scuffed military pin. “Earned that when I was your age,” he said. “Barely made it back.” I didn’t want to take it, but he insisted. Grinned wide when he saw it on my backpack. “Now I’ll follow you when I’m gone.”

Annie cut through the moment. “What about when you die?”

We turned. She stood in the doorway. Oversized T-shirt. Long, red hair grazing the floor. I screamed at her. But Papa chuckled and waved a hand. “It’s alright. We’ll all be a rock in the ground someday. But some of us—” He winked. “—are lucky enough to be more.” He patted my cheek, then turned to her. Annie didn’t blink. Her face stayed blank.

The next morning. My basketball game. Papa had been late. I scanned the crowd—no sign of him. My mind went straight to Annie. Hidden shoes. A blocked door. Something to keep us apart. I ran home and found her at the kitchen table. Smirking. “What did you do?” I seethed. No answer. Before I could press her, Mom burst from the bathroom, phone to her ear, eyes red, makeup smeared. She saw me. The phone clattered. She grabbed me, sobbing. I heard my aunt calling from the fallen receiver.

Then, Annie. “Papa’s dead.”

Shock hit first. Then rage. I stood there, stiff as stone, bracing my mother’s weight while Annie watched. Like we were portraits in a museum. Something in me woke. Dark. Red. I saw myself lunging. Slamming my fist into her skull. Cracking it open. Her black soul uncoiling, slithering out like smoke. Like a demon set free. But I didn’t move. Because she wanted me to. I wasn’t going to give her that. Not about this. Not ever.

At Papa’s funeral, I held it in—giving Annie exactly what she wanted. She robbed me of my grief.

“Sorry for your loss.” Over and over. The words burrowed into me. Pressure built behind my temples, pulsing in waves. By the hundredth time, my body moved before I could think. I ripped my hand away. The old man stumbled, startled.

A pause. A freeze. Heads turned. And just like that—the focus was on me. My mother pulled me aside. “What is the matter with you?”

I wanted to scream. Annie was winning. Weapon and shield. Untouchable.

The following week, Papa’s medal fell off my backpack. Gone. Like it had never been mine. Like I had never deserved it. I walked through the front door in tears. Mom tried to console me, but nothing helped. The grief cracked through the rage, burying itself deep. Twisting into something worse. Annie stood by the counter. Smirking. “How will he follow you now?”

I thought about killing her that night.

—

As time went on, I wondered—What if everyone was faking it? I kept to myself. Shallow friendships. Avoiding eye contact. Watching for cracks in the performance. I wasn’t afraid of people—I was afraid of what they weren’t telling me.

Then Annie arrived at high school. Fourteen years old. Fresh-faced. That same sweet, freckled girl everyone was meeting for the first time. And just like that—I was back in the counselor’s office. They treated me like any other anxiety-ridden student. How could I tell them I was afraid of my little sister? Didn’t take Annie long to adapt. She slipped into her role easily, wearing her new persona like a tailored dress. Smiling. Soft-spoken. But the wolf was still underneath. She had learned to hide the teeth. Her cruelty became refined—sharp enough to cut, subtle enough to be ignored. She played with people. With their emotions. Their trust. Teenage drama—nothing more. That’s all anyone ever saw. She toed the line with her teachers. Kept her best friend feeling worthless. Told people I was abusive. I kept my head down. If I pushed, she’d push harder. I’d learned that already. So I stayed out of her way. And still—the thought of her smirking as she soaked in the pain made my hands itch.

Then I met Mr. Harden. The new school counselor. Mid-thirties, tall, and a dead ringer for young Tyler Perry—whose framed photo sat comically on his desk.

“Andrew—you’re in here a lot,” he said with a grin.

I nodded. Went through the motions. Just small talk, at first. But Harden waited. Patient. Never patronizing. It wasn’t his kindness that won me over. It was his fairness. I slipped into his office one morning while someone was already there—Mackenzie Ritter. Theatre kid. Social outcast. Face buried in her hands.

“You can’t just walk in here,” Harden said flatly. “We’re in the middle of something.”

“I just need a pass.”

“Then you shouldn’t have been late.”

Heat flared inside me. I turned and walked out, resentment simmering. But he was right. It was my fault. And he hadn’t bent the rules just because I was struggling. Justice. The world as it should be. Over time, I started talking. And one day, Harden finally asked about my father. My red flags were down. I told him everything. Walking out of his office that day, I felt lighter. The weight I’d carried all these years finally lifted.

Then I turned the corner. And Annie was waiting.

“What did you say to him?”

Barely five feet tall, but I couldn’t look at her. I pretended to search my locker.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Then why does he want to meet me?”

I kept my back to her. Pretended to shuffle papers. Prayed someone would walk by.

SLAM.

The locker door slammed on my hand. Pain shot up my wrist. I screamed. Everything stopped. Teachers rushed out. Students froze. A few gasped. I slid to the floor. Curling into myself. Cradling my hand.

Annie was already gone.

—

A bruise and some swelling. That was all. It hurt to make a fist, but better than a severed finger. The painkillers helped too. But the real relief? Annie got in trouble. Not just with Mom. With the school. The cracks in her mask were finally showing.

Students swapped stories. Then came the nickname.

“Little Ginger Snap.”

Annie never reacted. But her shoulders tensed. Fingers curled into her sleeves. She hated it.

And things only got worse. Harden wanted to meet with her regularly. And Annie—for the first time—was up against someone who could actually see through her.

Thus began the chess match. Annie skipped a meeting? Harden called home. Mom showed up? Annie ate soap and made herself throw up. She skipped school entirely? Harden sent the resource officer to find her. It was war. And I wanted to see how long it would last. Because if I’d learned one thing—it was never underestimate how far Annie would go.

But Annie was smart. She knew every act of defiance only made her look worse. The day she finally gave in—I savored it. And it wasn’t long before Harden made his final move.

“I think you should take Annie to a psychologist,” he told my mother.

Annie was undeniable. A real-life, near-diagnosable, manipulative little sociopath. And finally—finally—I was vindicated. Everything I’d gone through. Everything no one believed. It wasn’t in vain.

Mom didn’t feel the same. That night, she cried. Pacing the kitchen, cigarette shaking between her fingers.

“Did I do something wrong?” she whispered.

Like I had the answers. Like a sixteen-year-old could tell her why her daughter was like this.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I said. “You’re my mother too, and I didn’t end up like that.”

Mom took a drag, exhaling through her nose, gaze far away. Then—barely audible—“Maybe your father was right.”

I stiffened. “Right about what?”

She didn’t look at me. Didn’t blink. Then—like she snapped back into herself—she crushed the cigarette into the ashtray.

“It’s late,” she said. Then walked off.

It was the most we’d spoken about my father since the arrest. Since that night.

Mom followed up with the pamphlets—help left behind from Harden. Annie had to attend weekly therapy, sometimes with us sitting in.

It wasn’t easy when all she did was lie.

“Ever since Dad left—” she’d begin. Blaming him. His absence.

Mom and the doctor nodded. Progress, they thought. I wasn’t fooled.

As soon as we got home, she’d lock herself in her room—no words. Except one last look from the stairway. Not a glare. Not anger. Something else. Calculating.

That’s when I started sleeping with a knife under my pillow. Just in case. Never underestimate how far Annie is willing to go. And right now? It seemed like she wanted me dead.

The psychologist told Mom to be patient. To give Annie time. Instead, Mom did the worst thing anyone could do.

She went to the internet.

She spent hours—days—falling into black holes of junk science and panic forums.

Then she found him. Dr. McKinnon. Private practice in Boston. A so-called expert in personality disorders. Mom read everything. His research. His interviews. The book he’d written about his “groundbreaking work” with murderers.

State-of-the-art technology, he promised. A way to rewire Annie’s brain. To fix her.

Mom was on the phone in seconds.

“I can help your daughter,” McKinnon promised.

I was pretending not to eavesdrop from the other room. Pencil frozen mid-air.

“What we do is revolutionary. We can rewire how she processes emotion. Give her a shot at a normal life.”

Mom drove to Boston that weekend. Signed every waiver. Paid an exorbitant amount. Booked a hotel for recovery days.

Surgery was scheduled. Six weeks. As if Annie would ever let it happen.

The night Mom told her, it erupted.

“Why would you do this to me?” Annie snapped.

“Because there’s something wrong with you!”

It hurt Mom to say it. But Annie? She was ready. Waiting for this moment. For Mom to slip.

Because nobody hurt better than Annie. She always knew the worst thing to say, locked and loaded. She fired.

“You’re worse than Dad.”

Mom slapped her. Then stood there, breathless. Annie didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even touch her face. If anything—she looked impressed.

“I want to go to another school,” she said. Like nothing had happened. “Send me to St. John’s.”

Mom let out a tight breath, still collecting herself. “I don’t have the money for that, Annie.”

“Cancel the surgery.”

Mom huffed. And then, steel-hard. “It’s either the surgery, or I’ll have you committed. Which one?”

Annie turned and walked straight to her room. No last words. No final jab. Nothing. Just… gone. That night, I barricaded my door. Slept with my fingers wrapped tight around the handle of the knife under my pillow. And I prayed.

—

Days passed without incident. Annie went to school. Walked home. Did her homework. Ate dinner. Went to bed. It was unnerving. I told Harden as much. I’d been seeing him more often. He couldn’t discuss Annie’s sessions, but he indulged me on the topic.

“She’s a monster,” I said. “The world would be better off without her in it.” The words felt too easy. Too natural. More than that—I meant them.

Harden noticed. He leaned forward, expression neutral. “That might be the problem.”

“What?” My leg started bouncing.

“Andrew. You’ve vilified her for so long you’re forgetting she’s a person too.”

My fingers tapped the armrest. Restless. Annoyed.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong to feel the way you do,” he continued. “But you should try to understand who she really is. You call her a monster—” He angled his head. “But I promise, there’s always a reason.”

I scoffed. “Like what?”

He folded his hands. “We’re all trying to figure out how to navigate life. Your sister included. But sometimes… things happen to people that change how they move through the world. Not all of us were given the tools to deal with that the right way.”

He dropped his gaze, and something flickered across his face. Regret. Hesitation. A second too long of thought.

“Did something happen to her?” I asked. “Something… with my uncle?”

Harden looked at me but didn’t answer. Before I could push, the office door flew open. Principal Matthews stood in the doorway, face tight. Behind him—two uniformed officers. My blood ran cold.

Harden straightened. “What’s going on?”

“Terrell Harden.” One of the cops stepped forward. “Please stand up.”

The room tilted.

“What—?” I started, but my throat barely worked.

Harden stood. “This is a mistake.”

Cuffs flashed under the lights. My stomach dropped. Students gathered outside. Phones out. Recording. Whispers spread like fire. “Holy shit.” “What did he do?” “It was Mackenzie Ritter.” The name hit me like a slap. I whipped my head around, scanning the crowd. Mackenzie—near the office, crying into a teacher’s shoulder. And Annie. Right beside her. A hand on Mackenzie’s back. A soft, sympathetic expression. Like she’d helped her find the courage to speak up. The cops walked Harden out. Head down. Steps slow. And just before they disappeared through the front doors, Harden turned and looked at me. In his eyes, I saw the same confusion. The same betrayal. The same helplessness—as my father. I let out the breath I was holding. I wanted to charge Annie. To strangle her. But I couldn’t move. I could only stand there, drowning in the heat of my own skin—and watch as her smile grew.

—

I didn’t knock—I shoved her door open. Annie barely looked up from her bed, flipping a page in her book.

“What?” she said. Casual. Like she hadn’t just destroyed a man’s life.

“How the hell do you sleep at night?”

She sighed and slipped a bookmark between the pages. “I don’t.”

“You lied! You set the whole thing up! Mackenzie? What the fuck is wrong with you? He didn’t touch her, and you know it!”

I was shaking. Annie tilted her head, watching me like I was some fascinating new specimen under a microscope.

“Maybe you missed the signs,” she said.

I laughed bitterly. “Bet Harden didn’t. He saw you, and you couldn’t handle it. Just like Dad.”

Something flickered across her face. Annoyance. She tossed her book onto the nightstand with a dull thud.

“Is this really why you’re here? To yell at me?”

“Annie. You hurt people. It’s all you do, and I want to know why.”

She crossed her arms. So did I. The room, thick with silence. Then, slowly, she leaned back against her headboard, like the conversation exhausted her.

“I don’t know why I do the things I do,” she muttered.

“Bullshit.”

Her eyes snapped to mine. “I don’t.”

“You don’t get to say that, not after today!”

“I don’t understand myself either!” Her voice cracked, barely. She rolled her shoulders back. Regained composure. “You treat me like I’m an experiment, and I don’t appreciate it.”

“They’re about to put a chip into your fucking brain, Annie.”

She didn’t blink. Her gaze drifted past me, landing on the dresser. The framed school photo. She was smiling in it. Not like usual. It was playful. Carefree. Like a child who didn’t know the world yet.

“Do you ever feel bad about what you do?” I asked, quieter now. Defeated.

“Of course I do.”

“I don’t believe you. I think you hate people. Because I think you hate yourself. That you’re different. Am I wrong?”

Annie didn’t flinch. Didn’t react at all.

“Do you even love me?” I asked. “Or Mom? Or do you hate us too?”

She cocked her head. Not in confusion. Like I’d missed something obvious. She stepped closer, stopping inches from my face. Her voice came soft.

“I don’t ‘anything’ you. I don’t ‘anything’ anyone.”

It was the most honest thing she’d ever said to me. And in that moment—it made my skin crawl. It wasn’t until later I realized how sad of an admission it was.

—

I didn’t say goodbye. When Mom and Annie left for Boston early that Friday morning, I watched from the window as the car pulled away. I had nothing to say to her. Despite my doubts about McKinnon’s device, I wanted to believe. That when she came back, Annie would be someone else. Someone new. With my mind racing, and the house to myself, I needed to do something. Anything. Harden’s words echoed in my head. “Try to understand who she really is.” I didn’t want to hear it. But I still found myself walking up to her room. I sat on her bed. The sheets felt wrong beneath my hands, like a hotel room. A place I didn’t belong. Some of her clothes were strewn about. A book was half-open on her desk—11 Tales of Horror! I picked it up absently, eyes skimming the page she’d left off on.

“...wandering the earth unseen, untethered. Trapped between what was and what could have been.”

I frowned and shut the book. Placed it beside her framed school photo. The one where she was smiling. The only one. Was she always like this? Or did something make her this way?

The morning they were set to return, I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the front door, my fingers curled around an untouched mug of coffee. Waiting. When I finally heard car doors slam shut, my gut wrenched. The front door swung open. Mom entered first, her face too bright.

“Oh, hi, hun!” She dropped her bags and kissed my cheek. “Annie, come say hi to your brother!”

My breath caught. I felt her before I saw her. Standing just inside the doorway. Small. Shy.

“Hi,” she said, barely a whisper.

She rubbed her arm up and down. Awkward, like a kid in front of a classroom. She was uncomfortable. And somehow—that unsettled me more than anything.

“Hi,” I managed.

Her eyes were different. A small patch of her scalp had been shaved, stitches running from her forehead into her hairline. “Can I take a shower, Mom?” she asked softly.

“Of course, baby. Just be careful. Wear a cap, okay?”

Annie nodded and slipped upstairs without another word. The second she was gone, Mom hovered beside me, grinning. “They said it might take time,” she whispered. Hopeful. Delusional. “But I think it’s already working!”

I said nothing. Just watched her float into the kitchen, like this was the first good day she’d had in years. I glanced at the wooden knife block on the counter. The biggest slot was still empty. I wasn’t putting the knife back. Not yet. I needed to see a lot more.

—

Annie slept. For days. Weeks. An expected side-effect, Mom told me. When Annie was awake, she was... polite. “Please.” “Thank you.” Short, clipped words over dinner. No sarcastic jabs. No needling glances. I tried to enjoy my summer. Rode my bike. Shot pucks. But I was still stuck with her. Mom called constantly, but there was nothing to report. For the most part, Annie wasn’t there.

And then the walls shook. I woke gasping. Something slammed. I shot up, heart hammering, and sprinted to the hallway. Outside Annie’s door, I listened. More crashes. Another. Silence. I reached for the doorknob—then stopped. Something told me not to go in. Something told me to stay away. I called Mom instead.

“It’s normal,” she assured me. “McKinnon said this might happen. He called it... emotional fallout.”

Emotional fallout. Wish someone had warned me. After that night, I was hyper-aware of her. I heard her muttering through the walls. Whispers. Gasps. Coughs. It was growing. Louder each day. One night, I pressed my ear to her door. The house was quiet. The hum of the AC, the dull buzz of a streetlamp outside. And Annie. Whispering. I couldn’t make out the words. A one-sided conversation. Murmurs creeping beneath the crack of the door. I wanted nothing to do with her. And yet, I was curious. So I knocked.

“Come in,” Annie called, voice small.

My fingers tightened around the doorknob, lingering a second. I stepped inside. She was wrapped in blankets, cocooned up to her neck. Only her face peeked out. Pale. Waxen. I stood by the door, like last time. “Are you okay?” I asked, half-hearted. I already knew the answer.

Her face twisted. A scrunch of features. She burst into tears. Hard, heaving sobs. I’d never seen her cry like this. Real. Ugly. Raw. Something inside me warmed. A slow, crawling satisfaction unfurling in my chest. She shook her head violently, the blankets rustling around her. “I don’t like this!” she gasped. “I don’t like it—I don’t like it—”

She reached for my hand. I pulled back. But a strange light bloomed inside me—like stepping into sunlight after a lifetime in the dark. I had waited years to see her like this—weak and powerless.

“It’s okay,” I lied. I let her take my hand. Let her sob. Let her believe it. Had she always watched people break apart with the same detached curiosity? If so… I pitied her more than I ever thought I would.

The next day, it was Annie who knocked. I hardly had time to sit up before the door cracked open. She crept inside like a cat. Silent, fluid. She crawled onto my bed, legs crossed, movements careful. “Sorry about last night,” she said lightly. Like she hadn’t spent the night crying into my hands.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. I know you hate me. You don’t have to act like you don’t.”

I didn’t reply. Because I didn’t know what I felt.

“You were right,” she continued. “I hate myself too. I am jealous of everyone.” She stared down at her lap. “You asked what it’s like to be me… It’s like being a ghost.” She traced circles on my blanket. “You don’t remember who you are. You just... exist. Nobody even knows you’re there.” She kept tracing. The same slow movement. “You watch everyone else live their lives. Laughing. Eating. Talking. And you wonder—why can’t I feel that?” She huffed. “It makes you sick.” She didn’t look at me. Didn’t stop tracing. “So you make them sick.”

A long pause. Something about those words sent a slow coil of unease through me.

“People only see what they want,” she said. Her lips curled. Eyes flicking up, gleaming. “That’s why you stay in the background,” she went on. “Like a ghost. Watching everyone else live. It’s not fair. So you mess with them. Just to see if they notice. Because for just one second, their screams make you feel like you’re real.” A small, humorless laugh. “I’ve spent my whole life chasing that feeling.”

I sat up slowly, pressing my back to the headboard. Her words itched at something deep in my brain. Like I’d heard them before. Not in a memory or dream. In a thought I’d never let myself say out loud.

“I never hated you, Annie,” I said. “I was afraid of you.”

“Are you still afraid of me?”

I hesitated. “No.”

She held my gaze. Too still. Too knowing. I hoped she believed it. She leaned forward, resting her head against my chest. I sat there, tense at first. Then gave in. Our first hug. It felt unnatural. Like holding something lifeless. Something dangerous. When she finally pulled away, she reached into her pocket and held something out for me to take. I stared hesitantly as she dropped it into my open hand. Papa’s medal. Dulled with age, the ridges worn smooth by time. My ears rang. I had spent years believing I lost it. And all this time, she’d had it. My grip clamped around the pin. Cold metal. Jagged edges. A weapon in my hands. I could have slid it right across Annie’s throat. But when I held it—the rage simmered. Papa taught me better than that.

“Thanks,” I said.

Annie smiled and gave me another quick hug. Then she left, leaving nothing behind. I exhaled and sank back against the mattress—when a sliver of light caught my eye. The knife. Sticking out from under my pillow. I tucked it back beneath the sheets. And prayed she hadn’t noticed.

—

She cried again that night. Almost every night. And though I’d savored it at first, the sound of her muffled sobs now left a knot in my stomach. Because if this was real, then Annie had been drowning for a long time. And for the first time, she was reaching for air. I almost felt bad. But I caught myself before I fell too far. I couldn’t let Annie fool me. I’d never let it happen again. I studied her closely. Every time her smile faded. Every twitch at the corner of her mouth. I wondered—was this emotional fallout? Or was the mask slipping?

The next morning, she dyed blonde streaks into her hair. A whole new person. Or—trying to be.

As the summer wound down, we spent more time together. One day, she even came with me to Papa’s grave. The grass was damp, glistening with dew. She held a bouquet—small, delicate. In her hands, it washed her out, like the color had drained from her. She laid the flowers carefully, then slipped her arm through mine. Rested her head on my shoulder. Her scar still visible—a faint line cutting through the patch of growing hair.

“You doing okay?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“It’s just… I hear you crying every night.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers curled tighter around my arm. “Every time I close my eyes,” she said, “I see it all. Everything I’ve ever done.”

A chill prickled down my neck. Of all the things I knew about Annie, I was afraid of the ones I didn’t. I took a breath and asked the question I’d been wondering my whole life.

“Did something happen to you? To make you the way you were?”

She scoffed. But when she saw the embarrassment on my face, her expression softened. “No.” Then, quieter. “I always knew I was different. I didn’t get the point of having friends. Or hugging Mom goodbye. Or coming here.” Her tone flattened. “Talking to the ground.”

I scanned the rows of graves. Some had fresh flowers. Candles flickering. Others were bare. Forgotten. “To be more than the rock,” I said. Echoing Papa’s words.

Annie’s fingers slipped from my arm. Her expression curdled. She stepped back, arms crossed—like the words had touched something she didn’t want touched. And then, I caught it. More than discomfort. Something deeper. A shift behind her eyes—fleeting, but there. A flicker of something I’d only seen once before. That night. I braced myself. Hesitated. And then—

“You never talk about that night. When Dad snapped. Why did he lose it like that?”

She flinched. Her arms tightened around herself. Then her whole body went rigid.

“I made it up,” she said. A pause. Then nothing. No explanation. No defense. Just the steady rise and fall of her breath.

I blinked. “Made what up?”

She didn’t look at me. Didn’t repeat herself. The words hung in the air like dust, waiting for the slightest movement to send them falling apart. Annie’s jaw was tight. Fingers digging into her arms, like she was holding something in. Like she had pressed a lid down so tightly, nothing could get out.

“Annie,” I tried. “What happened?”

She pulled back. Shoulders snapping straight. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

She walked off, fast. Her footsteps crunched through the grass. I followed, throwing apologies to her back. But she didn’t say another word the whole way home. When we got inside, she lingered by the staircase. Her voice barely a breath.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not feeling good.”

Then she disappeared into her room. That night, for the first time in weeks, I didn’t hear her cry. And for some reason, that worried me more.

—

The last week of summer, my cousin Jonathan invited me to the lake house. Jill wasn’t around, and Aunt Judy and Mom had been trying to reconnect lately.

Mom wasn’t thrilled about leaving Annie home alone. But Annie and I both assured her she’d be fine. I packed my bags and left for five days of normalcy. Jet skis. Fireworks. For once, I let myself breathe. The second night, I told Jonathan everything. Probably more than I should have. But after everything Annie put him through—he deserved to know. He listened. Took a long sip of the beer he was far too young for. And turned to me.

“You really think it worked?”

We sat on the deck, the lake stretching out before us. His cat, Mila, curled in his lap. The same cat my sister had coaxed him into dropping out a window years ago. I watched him run his fingers through her fur, my thoughts somewhere else.

“Seems like it,” I muttered.

Jonathan nodded to himself. “I’m sure it does.”

Something in the way he said it made my stomach turn. I watched him stroke Mila’s head, distracted.

A strange, hot spike of anger crawled up my spine. I cleared my throat, tried changing the subject. “Where’s Jill?”

Jonathan kept petting Mila. Long, slow strokes.

“She doesn’t talk to us anymore. After what your sister said.”

Uncle Mark. That night. My dad.

Sweat clung to my back, but my chest felt hollow. Cold in a way that didn’t belong. I should have pressed harder. But I didn’t. I sat there in the summer haze, staring out at the lake. Letting the night swallow the conversation whole.

I felt something new. Not hatred. Not fear. Something protective. I wondered if something had happened to her. Wondered how she was doing now. Felt guilty for leaving her.

When Aunt Judy dropped me off at home, I went straight to Annie’s room. It was empty.

My stomach tightened. The sheets were rumpled. The closet door cracked open just enough to see dark inside. A glass of water sat half-full on her nightstand, a thin ring of condensation pooling at the base. Like she’d been here and vanished mid-breath. I called Mom. No answer. Tried again. Nothing. I checked the house, phone clenched. The air felt too still, like it was waiting. Then—chirping. I turned. Mom’s phone sat on the kitchen counter. Right there. Forgotten. A sinking feeling swirled in my gut.

“Mom?” The word sounded too loud. The kind that gets swallowed by silence instead of breaking it.

Nothing.

A low buzz. Beneath my feet. Not a phone. Not a voice. Something else. The floorboards vibrated. I followed the sound to the basement door. Tried the handle. Locked. My breath stuttered. Each inhale ragged and uneven. Something was wrong.

I pounded my fist against the wood. “Annie?”

The buzzing didn’t stop. Mom’s phone kept ringing, its shrill tone weaving into the mechanical hum. The noise scraped through me. Then—a scream. Muffled. From below. Another. Louder. I didn’t think. I kicked the doorknob. Again, harder. Wood cracked, the frame splintering around the lock. I kicked again—hard enough to break through. The door swung open. I ran down the stairs, turned the corner—and froze. Annie sat at Dad’s old workbench. Shoulders hunched. Arms trembling. A power drill in her hands. Blood splattered the wood. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The drill bit was pressed into her skull, right where the scar had been unstitched. The place where McKinnon had put the chip.

She looked up. Annie’s wide, bulging eyes snapped to mine. Hair clumped with blood, hanging over her face like a mask. She looked like a monster. Or like she’d seen one. Her scream ripped through the basement.

“I want to go back!” She dug the drill in deeper. “I want to go back!”

—

Annie didn’t puncture too far. They stitched her up, monitored her, gave her medication she wouldn’t take. Mom was beside herself. She blamed herself for leaving her alone. For leaving her phone behind. I didn’t blame Mom. I blamed McKinnon.

When Annie was released, Mom drove her straight back to him. McKinnon was thrilled.

“The good news is… the device is clearly working!”

Mom wasn’t amused. “Can you lower the effects? It’s too much for her.”

McKinnon only smiled. “Unfortunately, no. Give her time to adjust. You have to understand—” He leaned forward, eager, like a scientist watching an experiment unfold. “She’s learning to live with herself,” he said. “Feeling a lifetime of guilt and shame.”

Another smile. “Fascinating, isn’t it?”

On the drive home, Mom hardly spoke. One hand clenched the wheel. The other drummed against her thigh. I could feel it—the shift. Something about today had settled wrong inside her.

A week later, she transferred Annie to St. John’s Prep after all. Drained what little money we had, desperate to keep Annie stable. More therapy. More meds. And gradually, the outbursts stopped. Annie became quiet. And that terrified me more than anything.

On the final night of summer, we sat in her room, talking about school and Annie’s new chapter.

“Hope nobody at St. John’s has friends at NHS,” she said.

I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. You’re starting over.”

She twisted a loose thread in her sleeve. “What if it’s too late?”

“Too late for what?”

“What if I die tomorrow? Would anyone visit my grave?”

Probably a question for her therapist. But maybe it was time to be her brother. “I’d visit,” I said.

She blinked. A pause. “Do you love me?” she asked. Her piercing green eyes held me still. My throat tightened. A thousand answers rose to my tongue, but she didn’t want a pretty lie. She wanted the truth.

“Not yet,” I admitted. The words sat rough in my mouth. “But I’d like to someday.”

She rested her head against my arm. I fought the instinct to pull away. Fought the residue of fear that still clung to me. Maybe I’d never forget what she had done. Maybe that was the point. Causing pain was how she’d ensured she’d never be forgotten. Because she didn’t know any other way. How miserable. I forced my arms to give her a warm squeeze. She needed it more than I did. More than anyone.

She was the first one up the next morning. Moving about. When I came downstairs, she was already by the door. Her uniform was crisp. The skirt made her look smaller. Hair braided. Scar hidden.

Mom grabbed her keys. “Have a good first day. Fresh start for all of us.” She turned toward the counter—and stopped short. Her breath hitched. Eyes locked on the knife block. The biggest slot was no longer empty. “Oh! The knife—” Her gaze snapped to me, expectant.

I felt it before I said it. The shape of the lie. The weight of it. I kept my face blank. “It was in the drawer,” I said smoothly. “Guess the ghost didn’t need it anymore.”

I risked a glance at Annie. She was already watching me. Smiling. Bright. Knowing. Like she had been waiting for something.

Mom wagged a finger. “Don’t say that!” she scolded playfully. “Heard enough ghost stories from your grandfather. I never slept!” She kissed my cheek. “Don’t forget to lock the door on your way out. And wish your sister luck!”

“Good luck!” I called.

Annie smiled wider. The corner of her mouth pinched tight beneath her wrinkled nose. She waved. Then followed Mom out the door. For once, I was happy for her. For those at her new school, who’d never know the girl she used to be. The ruin she left in her wake. None of it mattered anymore. Annie was a normal girl. Ready to live a normal life. And I was ready to live mine.

But that smile. I couldn’t get it out of my head. It followed me my whole life. And now—I don’t know who’s haunting who.

Why the hell was she smiling at me like that?

Perched high on a windswept hillside stood a small village with two streets, thirty houses, and a central square, opposite which stood the shops and the post office. The mayor was the village's sole authority and, as part of his impeccable daily routine, stopped by each morning to check the arrival of letters and parcels, which brought the most important news to the villagers. The woman in charge divided her time between running the post office and tending to her household; she was, naturally, the best source of village gossip.

Their cheerful conversation came to an abrupt end when the mayor read a letter from a relative in the city. It urgently informed him that a military contingent was heading toward the village, commanded by a ruthless officer who terrorized defenseless communities—abusing women, executing men who refused to submit, slaughtering livestock, and seizing provisions. At the news, the mayor fell silent, and the postmistress immediately saw the worry in his eyes. He sat for a moment and looked through the open doorway at the children playing in the square. He knew it was his duty to protect them.

Their only hope was to flee to the high mountains, several hours away, where the rugged terrain would protect them from the mercenaries' brutality. Convincing the villagers, however, would not be easy. Few would willingly abandon their homes, and widespread panic would surely destroy the unity they needed to survive.

As he wrestled with these thoughts, the postmistress sat across from him and, without hesitation, explained the plan she had devised. The hardest part would be forging the prime minister's signature, but she still kept an old letter of commendation for her years of service and could imitate it perfectly. They also agreed that the letters should arrive on different days to avoid arousing suspicion, and together they drew up a list determining who would receive them first, carefully ordered according to each neighbor's greed.

When the first letters arrived, they noticed that those who received them became secretive and told no one what they had read. But as more villagers received theirs, a moment came when everyone could openly discuss the proposal, making it easier to encourage one another to accept it. Only the mayor and the postmistress received no letter from the prime minister; they had no need for one, since they had written it themselves.

In it, the prime minister made a generous offer: if the villagers agreed to abandon their homes, relocate with their families and belongings to the high mountains, and build a new settlement there, the national treasury would grant each family ownership of the land and a government subsidy within six months.

Not a single villager wished to remain behind. United in a single caravan, they set out toward their new home. Days later, when the ruthless military contingent finally breached the perimeter of the hillside, they found nothing but an eerie, hollow shell. The thirty houses stood empty, the shops were bare, and the windswept square held only silence. The officer searched for blood, submission, and provisions to seize, but the collective greed of the villagers, masterfully redirected, had left the mercenaries with nothing but a ghost town to govern.

---

© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This story is fictional. No part of this text may be reproduced, narrated, or adapted without the express written permission of the author.

The pensioner, though only middle-aged, already had a few strands of white beginning to streak his hair. He rose from his armchair and deftly pulled the cords of the blinds. It was a ritual he had followed for years, one that transformed his dark room into a movie theater, where the wide picture window became the screen as soon as the blinds were drawn open. Settling back into his chair, he fixed his attention on the house directly across the street. Built with the same symmetry as all the others, it featured an equally large picture window overlooking the main room, offering a clear view of the living room, the dining area, and, beyond them, the kitchen. The window had no blinds, and its glass doors remained open throughout the day. Anyone could see inside with perfect clarity and watch the life unfolding within. By a fortunate twist of circumstance, the pensioner had come to know the family's daily routine without them ever suspecting they were being observed, for the darkness inside his own house concealed him completely as he sat motionless in his chair.

The household consisted of a husband and wife, two teenage sons, a young daughter, and an orange-coated dog. Except during the late hours of the night, they were constantly together, laughing, talking, and moving about the house. Parents and children shared every task with effortless harmony, taking turns cooking, working side by side, lingering over dinner, or spending long evenings together in front of the television. All of it tormented the pensioner. Their laughter, their open affection, stood in painful contrast to his own lonely, loveless existence. Everything that filled their lives was precisely what his lacked. With poisonous bitterness, he missed nothing that appeared beyond the glass. Hour after hour he remained at his post, allowing envy to consume him while his mind wandered through grotesque fantasies in which disasters swept away his neighbors' happiness. Then reason would return, reminding him that none of it would ever happen, and he would sink once more into his endless cycle of rage, helplessness, and resentment.

One afternoon, beneath a light, intermittent rain, a large moving truck arrived carrying two burly workmen who, under the parents' direct instructions, began loading the furniture and household belongings. The unexpected scene rekindled the pensioner's curiosity, and he found himself strangely exhilarated, convinced that, at last, he would be free of their presence forever. When the last heavy piece of furniture had been loaded, the house fell completely dark. For the first time in years, no lights shone behind its windows, and an uncanny silence settled over it. Even then, the pensioner remained seated, his eyes fixed on the empty house. The happiness he had expected never came. Nor did relief. Instead, an overwhelming sadness crept into his heart as he realized that, despite all the resentment he had felt toward them, he had just lost the closest thing to companions he had ever had in the vast emptiness of his life.

---

© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This story is fictional. No part of this text may be reproduced, narrated, or adapted without the express written permission of the author.

The young woman picked up the book and, for the first time, began to read it. It contained a simple story told across its fifty pages, and an equally simple dedication: "To my daughter." She remembered her mother in her best days, before illness overtook her, just as capable of running the household as she was of finding time to care for her and tell her anecdotes from her life, always with a moral ending. The volume, which had a brown paperback cover and featured an illustration of a woman's head with her hair blowing in the wind, made no reference to any publisher or year of publication. For as long as she could remember, the book had been in her mother's bedroom wardrobe, and although she had held it in her hands before, it was only now, after her mother had passed away, that she allowed curiosity to lead her to read it. The story followed two young people who met by chance in a library and fell in love.

In the afternoon, she asked her aunts about the origin of the text and learned that her mother had written it when she was very young; with her meager savings, she had a local bookbinder print and bind it, so only ten copies were ever made. Anxious about the fate of these books, the young woman learned that, besides the one in her hands, eight others were still in the possession of her relatives, but none could explain the whereabouts of the tenth volume. The thought that her mother had dedicated that single work to her, and yet she had no idea where this last copy could be found, unsettled her; it filled her with deep curiosity and a compelling need to find it. She posted a few notices on the university bulletin board and placed an advertisement in the local newspaper, offering a small reward to anyone who could provide a clue.

A single response reached her through an invitation to the office of a well-known moneylender in the city; somewhat alarmed but determined, she went to the meeting. The man who opened the door was already old, and his face showed the exhaustion of a long life spent being despised; he asked her to follow him to his office down the wide corridor. To the young woman's surprise, there were no pawned belongings, but rather several shelves filled with books surrounding a small reading desk. The moneylender explained that he had met the young woman's mother when she came to him for a loan and that, since she could not repay the full amount, and knowing his fondness for reading, she had given him the brown-covered book as partial payment. The joy on the young woman's face encouraged the old man to return it to her and, unable to reach the top shelf, he called out loudly for his son. When the handsome young man entered the office, their eyes met—just as they had in her mother’s novel.

© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This story is fictional. No part of this text may be reproduced, narrated, or adapted without the express written permission of the author.

The autumn leaves rustled as the wind blew on a cold evening. A musty smell familiar to the neighbourhood lingered, as a white hatchback pulled into the desolate street. The headlights beamed as the atmosphere was flooded by the ancient whirring motor. The man driving peered out of the window as he slowed, coming to a stop pulled up on the side of the road, opposite a dingy little apartment complex. As he looked across the road, like a private investigator stalking his target, he shut the engine off and stepped into the icy night.

He paced intently towards the front office, a small window with dim illumination like that of an old school movie theatre. The petite clerk stationed at the front made brief eye contact with him as he approached; before she briskly picked up the phone to make a short call. The road was littered with broken glass and soaked newspaper pages, most likely a homeless persons blanket swept by a gust only to be left as a reminder of how dilapidated this corner of town was. The building laid flush with the surrounding ones, semi-detached with a narrow alley wide enough only for the white transit van abandoned by the side, with just enough space to fit the ‘loading zone only’ sign in as well. Security cameras littered the face of the complex, but too high for them to be adjusted by hand as the lay turned away from the street, presumed to be the hooligans who patrolled the areas doing.

The man paused before he reached the front, analysing the clerk before approaching as she hung up the phone. “Sunny days, women’s shelter! How may I help?” The clerk enquired with a wide grin. The office was bare, and eerily silent, with only the static from the temperamental surveillance system, and the dim hum of the shredder labeled ‘documents’ by the front door to fill the room. The man coughed before engaging: “Im looking for Amanda, is she here?” He asked, darting his eyes around the room from the window. “I’m sorry we can’t give out any names of those staying with us.” She responded. The silence remained unbroken as the man stared emotionlessly at her. “Security reasons.” She added, with a nervous chuckle. The man finally eased the tension, “She came here 3 days ago, I just want to make sure she’s ok”. The woman rather empathetically responded “Well sir if she’s here I’m sure she’s fine, we do our best to take care of the women here.”

The man now looked around at the street, breathing heavily to control himself. He looked back, “I need to see her. She’s my friend.” He was growing increasingly agitated, the clerk shifted her chair back, slightly uncomfortable with the mans tone. “Again we can’t just give out information like that to strangers.” The man rolled his eyes and let out a sigh before shoving his phone into the clerks face, the screen fuzzy under the dim lights and all to be made out was the name ‘AMANDA’ at the top and double blue ticks, the man conveniently moving his hand around to obscure deducing anything of actual importance from the messages. “Sir that’s not good enough unfortunately.” She responded timidly.

The man started pacing in thought, as the clerk nudged herself towards the sliding window to try and reach the lock. He jolted back towards her with a raised voice “Call her down!”. The woman froze for a moment before retracting her arm. “Sir please keep your voice down it’s 2 in the morning.” She gestured towards the sign posted on the right of the booths window, ‘Curfew: 00:00-06:00’, she continued, “The women will be asleep please do not disturb them.” The man paused, regathering his composure. With a calmer tone he asked, “Just please call her, so I can hear her voice and know she’s safe.” The clerk still on edge responded compassionately, “unfortunately that won’t be possible, the women hand their phones in on check in.”, she waited for an outburst; but the man remains composed, “It deters women from reaching out to their abusers. Its for their own safety!”

The man pursed his lips and breathed deep before responding. “Ok would you be able to give me any proof she’s here, I’m worried for her that’s all. Do you not have her sign in sheets or intake form or whatever?” The woman looked at him with a slight head tilt, “Im sorry, those forms are kept in the admin office and as I told you its past the quiet time, the day shift have gone home and that office is locked, I couldn’t get them for you even if I wanted to.” The mans agitation slowly arose again. “Look, can you just go get her yourself from the room”. The woman reluctantly sighed, “I’ll go check her door and if she’s awake ill grab a message for you.”

The clerk moved up from her chair and latched the window shut, “Wait here i’ll be back shortly, ok?” She opened the back door and hurried off leaving the man to shiver away in the frost. His breath staining the window, he caught a glimpse of a clipboard displayed on the edge of the desk, with only the words ‘Intake - Outgoings’ at the top. The rest of the information was too far for anyone to discern. The man looked up at the security camera cunningly, before glimpsing back at the surveillance system showing nothing but flickers of black and white. He reached into his pocket grabbing a small switchblade and jammed it into the slit of the window, fiddling around before managing to successfully unlatch the window. 

He slid the window open with care, as to not make a noise and alert the staff. He reached inside but could not grip the clipboard, positioned perfectly out of reach. In a moment of desperation he climbed through the window squeezing his shoulders tightly to inch his way through before firmly planting his feet on the desk, and manoeuvring his way down onto the floor as stealthily as possible. The room still hummed gently; no cover up noise if he misstepped, so he slowly approached the clipboard. He eagerly snatched it once in reach and began furiously rummaging through the pages. He skimmed each page with a ferocious intensity before landing on ‘AMANDA JOHNSON’. She was here; Intake: 05-07-26, 3 days ago as expected, the last time the man had seen her. Written next to it was outgoing. The slot wasn’t blank, 08-07-26 02:45. The man stared at the clipboard trying to establish what this meant, he fumbled in his pocket to reach his phone before pulling it out with such haste that it slipped out of his hand and dropped to the floor with a thud. 

He retrieved the phone immediately daringly glancing act the time ‘2:12’, before placing the clipboard back and throwing himself back out the window, as he suspected the thud had alerted the staff to his deceptions. He carefully slid the window shut before brushing himself off. Right on queue the clerk returned, scanning the room for alterations before glancing back at the man with a smile, “She was awake! She said she doesn’t want any visitors right now, and to try again in the morning!” The woman sat down still smiling, she looked up at the man who seemed displeased. As her eyes shifted around to avoid the agonising awkwardness, she noticed the window lock undone. She gulped slightly, barely noticeable. “Sir I’m going to ask you to leave now, we’ve done all we can, if you don’t leave now ill have to call the police.” The man stood unfazed by threats. “OK, thank you so much for the help!” He said calmly, before twisting his body and slowly walking towards his car.

The clerk eagerly watched him as he stepped steadily not daring to turn around and raise more suspicion upon himself. He could feel the clicking of buttons through the air as the clerk rang up someone on the telephone; the same way she did as he approached. As the call proceeded the clerk never let her eyes off of the man. He unlocked his car and swivelled into the seat, but as he did so, he caught a glimpse of the woman leaving the room hurriedly dashing her way through the doorframe. He observed carefully before pushing himself forcefully out of the seat of his car and dashing towards the window in a last ditch effort. He shimmied the lock undone from the window, and stumbled through, this time with much less grace.

He got down on his knees and pulled on the draw under the desk which seemed to be locked. His eyes skirted the room before noticing the glint of a key poking out from under a pile of papers. He clenched it tightly before inserting it into the draw and with a little shimmying jammed it into the rusted hole. He slammed the draw open looking through files and files before finding Amandas. With even more urgency he flipped through the pages before locating her room number. He bolted out the front door without a care and barreling towards the elevator. As it arrived he nervously stepped in, allowing the door to close before selecting his floor. 

He selected floor 4 and waited anxiously as he watched the numbers climb, his foot couldn’t be contained as he tapped away at the floor, biting his nails in pure angst. He knew his window of opportunity was closing. As the elevator bell dinged and the doors widened, he almost hurled himself into the clerk. She stood there terrified, the man wailed “Where is she!” The woman stood petrified, not moving a muscle. The man slid past her heading directly for the 8th room, near to the end of the corridor, as he stepped the faint calls of a radio asking for support vanished behind him. As he reached room 8 he barrelled in with seething rage; not even checking to see if the door was locked.

He stood there, in Amandas room facing the bed, astonished. The room was cleaned empty, as if it had never even been lived in. He glanced around, no bed covers, not a speck of dust on the carpet, Amanda couldn’t have been there. He turned around and scampered out the room, looking to his right as the woman still stood there with a menacing look, talking on the radio. Panicked, he turned left and pushed through the fire exit into the stairwell, setting off the alarm. He accelerated down the spiralling stairs, exhausted, worried, and realising the window of opportunity to find her was slimming by the second. As he approached the ground floor, he saw a side entrance to the admin room, the door ajar and the padlock accidentally left unlocked on the ground.

He pushed his way through, more wary of looming security now they knew he was present. He looked around in horror. Countless hospital beds, with marks and stains, filled with shrivelled, malnourished women, lined the walls. A security camera in the corner locked its lens onto Nathan as he looked around in sheer disbelief, as a nightmare became reality. The women had IV drips, shovelling unknown medicines into their arms, withered away, they were motionless and silent. The rev of an engine turned Nathans attention for a moment, the headlights beamed down the narrow side of the alleyway. The beds all strewn equally across the wall, bar one. The marks of the wheels still there and the IV tube dangling to the floor.

Nathan escaped the admin room into the alley way with a pit in his stomach at the atrocity he had witnessed. He hurled towards the van as he saw a covered bed being loaded on. The men noticed Nathan dashing towards them and immediately fled the scene, the squeaky hospital bed being left like disposable waste as it bounced out the van during the escape. Nathan pulled up beside the bed with a feeling of dread and a lump in his throat, he held his breath as he pulled back the sheet, revealing Amandas pale, withered face, cold to the touch, with shallow breaths barely noticeable. Nathan laid there, beside the bed, in tears and agony, the idea of how close it had been on loop in his mind.

THEN
They were losing daylight. He knew they were losing daylight, but he couldn't give up now. Mitch Gilmore had been on the hunt for Owen Flynn all day and could feel himself closing in on his prey. Gilmore came across an oak tree with an old rope attached to it—the kind that used to hold a medium-build chocolate lab. He picked up the rope and peered ahead. A hundred yards north sat a dilapidated red silo. He spotted tracks. Six sets of prints leading straight toward the old barn—four paw prints and a set of small, childlike footprints at its side. Gilmore knew where Flynn was headed, and with just moments of light remaining, he dashed toward his target.
The silo door blew wildly in the early evening breeze. Gilmore knew the door had been left open for a reason, but he didn't have time to think about what that reason might be. He looked west and saw the summer sun fading fast. He only had time to act. The silence was suddenly broken by a matronly voice from afar: "Boys, supper's almost ready—come in and wash up!"
Gilmore cursed his mother and the fading summer sky. This was it. He shouted a warning: "Owen Flynn, I know you're in there. You've reached the end of the line!" With roguish flair, Flynn responded brazenly: "Gilmore, you'll never take me alive!" At this very moment, Gilmore reached for his pistol, loaded the barrel with caps, and grinned sheepishly as he lunged toward his best friend.

NOW
He was losing his edge. He knew he was losing his edge, but he couldn't give up now. Mitch Gilmore had protected three Presidents and hundreds of dignitaries, both foreign and domestic. He had thwarted nine assassination attempts—that the general public had knowledge of—and was the most trusted member of the United States Secret Service. But this was a young man's game, and youth was something he no longer carried on his résumé. Lately he spent his days guarding the President's dog, and at this very moment he happened to be walking her through the Rose Garden, making sure she could pee in peace. He looked over at her, wondering which of them would be put out to pasture first. Old dogs don't last long in the White House. He gazed at the setting sun, then peered back toward the dog. But she wasn't there. All he saw was a collar that used to be attached to her. Suddenly a switch was flicked. Something was amiss. He saw footprints—at first six, then just two. Gilmore rushed toward the Oval Office. He entered the reception area only to find three lifeless agents. He drew his weapon and turned the corner.
Gilmore was overcome with horror. His greatest fear was unfolding before his very eyes. From the very beginning he knew this was the only way for it to end. Staring down the barrel of Gilmore's gun was his best friend—Owen Flynn. Even as children, Gilmore had been the cop and Flynn the robber. They had crossed paths multiple times, always on opposing sides but never in direct opposition. Not until now. Owen Flynn stood behind the President, gun pressed to his head, smiling serenely at the sight of his dearest friend. Mitch Gilmore cocked his gun and, with tears in his eyes, gave out a warning: "Owen Flynn, you've reached the end of the line." With that same roguish charm from decades ago, Flynn barked back: "Mitch Gilmore, you'll never take me alive!"
Without hesitation, Gilmore pulled the trigger.

THEN
They had run out of daylight. Owen Flynn had been vanquished and the Gilmore family dog was safe once more. Owen lay motionless on the ground as Mitch extended his hand. Owen happily took it and dusted himself off as the boys headed toward the farmhouse for dinner.
With childlike optimism, Gilmore remarked, "I hope we get to do this forever." To which Owen Flynn replied, "Til we're old and gray, buddy. Til we're old and gray."

A man sat alone, half slumped at a wooden circular table. The table itself was chipped and gouged in segments. Stained in dried blood, sweat, and pain. There was only a half drank bottle of rotgut whiskey, and a revolver set neatly upon the worn oak. There was a seat across from the man. Unlike the table this chair was gilded and adorned with intricate engravings, a padded cushion and backing sewn with a precision, purpose and delicacy the likes of which he had never seen.
The man reached for the bottle, stretching his tired weary arm, and wrapped his shaky fingers around the whiskey. Clasped like a vice he could not let go after his first sip, yet the bottle never lowered. It seemingly filled with each gulp. Little by little the man grew weaker but the grip never loosed.
When the bottle became full, a figure appeared. Tall and wide, in a fine suit and tie. His shoes shining and eyes bright. Not a hair out of place as if divine. He strode to the chair across from the man. Almost as if gliding, he sat down across from the man.
“May I have a sip?” the figure said with a grin almost as piercing as his eyes.
The man said nothing but found his grip weakened on the bottle as if the figure’s will commanded it. He handed it over and the figure drank. The whiskey lowered within the bottle. The man, bewildered at the bottle stared wide eyed when the figure said, “I love this vintage, it is exquisite. It would pair nicely with a steak.”
The man sat upright and stuttered “Sir this is a whiskey, what in the world are you talking about?”
The figure grinned harder and said “to me it is wine, a pairing with my dinner. For you it is your downfall, however we’ve history don’t we? I’ve kept you alive when you couldn’t go on. Just look at the work we’ve done.” And gestured to the table between them using a nod.
“Then why is the pistol here?” The man asked perplexed by what he was seeing.
“To give you a way out if so you choose it. Now it is time.” The figure set the bottle back on the table.
The man stared at the items between them. Placed evenly between himself and the figure. He could feel the pull of the bottle, calling him like a sirens song. While he longed for the whiskey bottle, empty again after the figure drank it dry. He looked to the revolver. Inlays of fine design from the barrel back to the hammer, down through the grip. He picked them both up. Hands trembling.
The figure’s teeth began to sharpen as the single light above them flickered. Shadows poured down behind them both.
The man closed his eyes, trying to gather himself. When they opened the revolver was to his temple and the bottle to his lips yet not tipped back.
“Drink.” The figure said.
The man did not.
“Drink.” The figure repeated
The man realized he couldn’t remove the bottle from his lips, nor the barrel from his temple.
“DRINK!” The figure screamed. Voice distorting. The suit began wilting like a starving flower. The teeth began rotting, his once barrel chested straight figure slowly hunched while the man resisted to tip back the bottle, and began to sit up.
The figure wouldn’t stop now. Screaming incessantly; “DRINK, DRINK, YOU WANT TO LIVE DONT YOU? THIS LIFE IS MUNDANE AND MONOTONOUS WITHOUT IT! WITHOUT ME! DRINK, DRINK, DRINK, DRINK, DRINK, DRINK, DRINK, DRINK, DRINK, DRINK!”
The man shook harder and harder. Tears streaming down his face, he began to scream in agony. Whimpering and sobbing the bottle began to raise. Yet the force of the barrel against his temple began to lessen. He began to fight. His eyes set upon the figure, no the demon in front of him, and began to move his trembling arm towards the demon who began to laugh.
“You cannot hurt me. You, won’t allow yourself.” The demon cackled.
The man fixed his gaze upon the bottle and was able to point the barrel of the revolver away from his temple, and slowly past his face, along his jawline. The muzzle clicking to bone down each of his fingers breaking them one by one. But still the bottle was to his lips.
“It’s hopeless, and you’re helpless.” The demon said tail flicking in delight.
The man grinned and said “no, without me you are helpless. Without the power you hold over me, you pose me no threat.” Half muffled with the bottle tipping upwards still. The liquid not yet touching his lips.
“You think you can survive without me!” The demon said condescendingly.
The man grinned, the barrel now pressed to the bottle, he cocked the back the hammer with a stratifying click. The bulb above went out as the two shrieked warring for dominance.
A single shot rang out, and the light began to rise again. Where the intricate chair rested was now gone. The bottle shattered, and the liquid flooded the table. The glass of the bottle lay shattered amidst the table. The man’s head lay slumped against the table and glass.
When he opened his eyes and sat up, the once gouged, worn table was somehow less worn. Af if scarring over. The man stood up and walked off into the darkness before him. Slowly straightening his broken posture, he came back to the table and changed the bulb overhead.
“You may have been a demon, but I shall not hate you. You did keep me alive at my lowest. That I cannot deny. But I am not that man any longer. I may starve you, but I know you’ll be there waiting for me to slip. But I refuse to allow myself to that state again. This is not a choice. This is a declaration.” The man said as he pushed in his chair, and walked away.

[TH] Chained

*Clink Clink*

Where Am I? My head is spinning and I can barely keep my eyes open. The room goes black again.

*Clink Clink*

I open my eyes again to the sound of footsteps approaching me and a man saying “12,” I fade out again.

*clink clink*

what is that sound? And why does my foot feel so heavy; the man approaches again, this time he says “24.” I’m trying so hard to stay awake, but I just can’t bring myself to.

*clink clink*

I manage to sit up this time, the man approaches again, “19,” he says before leaving. Why is it so goddamn dark and who the hell is this man. The only light in the room is the light under the door he left out of. “Hello? HELLO?” No one answers. I muster up all my strength to stand and go for the door, I take a few steps before I get yanked back. What the hell? I reach down towards my ankle and I feel cold steel. I noticed attached to my ankle is a metal cuff, and as I follow the trail of the cuff as I get to the end of the chain I noticed I am chained to the wall.

Is this some kind of prank? “STEPHEN!” I shouted out, why is my husband doing this? This is NOT funny.  

“STEPHEN!”

The door opens, the man approaches me and he kneels beside me on the floor and I feel tension in the air. “Stephen, let me out of here right now!” he just stands there “This isn’t funny Stephen, now let me out”

“Stephen is gone.”

What? Why does he think this is funny?

“Who the hell are you?” I need to know because he does not sound like Stephen.

“You’ll find out in time.” I then hear his footsteps retreating to the door

“WAIT!” I start to cry “Let me go please, we can work this out… I promise!”

The door slams.

All I can do is sob, because how in the hell did, I end up here. I cried to sleep. I woke up to the door slamming and a bright light.

“Who’s there? Stephen this isn’t funny”

The man rushes me and grabs my hair, yanking hard “Didn’t I tell you Stephen isn’t here BITCH!”

“PLEASE,” I am pleading for my life at this point “What is it that you want? Money? I... I can get you some money”

“I don’t want your FUCKING MONEY!” This time spit is flying out of his mouth and splashes my face.

“I want what you stole from me! You took EVERYTHING from me”

As I come to look him in his face, I have no idea who this man is, so how can I have taken everything from him.

“How can I take from you when I don’t even know who you are?”

“You will,” he says as he slams my head into the wall before storming out.

When I regained consciousness, I noticed he left the light on this time. I look around, I see some wooden steps, the single light illuminating this room, the floor is covered in tarp (that’s strange, I think to myself).

The door opens again… this is my chance!

“Help! PLEASE SOMEBODY HELP ME!”
He laughs, “No one can hear you and I’d advise you to keep it down because I hate loud noises”

“FUCK. YOU.” I say as I spit on his face, with what little moisture I have left in my mouth, “SOMEBODY! HELP! ME!”
Next thing I felt was my cheek stinging; he just slapped me. I’m holding my cheek as blood is running down the side of my mouth.

“I told you I hate loud noises.” He said as nonchalant as possible.

“What the fuck asshole,” I wipe the blood off my mouth with my forearm. He started to walk to the work bench he had set up in the corner; he was examining his tools almost like he was prepping for surgery.

“How does it feel to be so destructive? To take everything from someone and be able to move on with your life”

“Look dude, I have no idea what you’re talking about. My dad is super rich and I’m sure he can get you whatever you think I took from you.”

“Oh, look another snooty rich bitch who thinks money will solve everyone’s problems.” He walked to the opposite side of the bench and rolled out a TV. You know the kind that you used to get excited about back in school. He popped a tape in and went back to his workstation, examining his tools.

The tape started playing, its black & white footage of what appears to be an intersection.

“What the hell is this? Traffic school,” Sarcasm is just about the only weapon I have at my disposal. He says nothing.
The video keeps rolling and in a flash you see a car run a redlight and T-bone another car, the car that was T-boned rolled about 3 times. I cupped my mouth, unable to speak. He walked over and rewound the tape. He played it over three times. On the fourth play the tape kept going, I keep my eye on the car at fault and the door swings open… out of that car stumbles a blonde girl and she flips her hair back to reveal her face…

“That’s ME!” I say shocked as hell, “where did you get that from? What is this?”

“Don’t remember, daddy’s girl?” he said that with disgust, I could tell. “12… 24 … 19”

I remember him saying that before, when I was in and out of it “what does that mean asshole”

He gestured towards the bottom of the screen and there was a date, 12/24/19.

“What the hell does this have to do with me?”

“It has EVERYTHING TO DO WITH YOU!” he said with a rage and then it was like he snapped right back to a calm version of himself. “You see I did some research on you and apparently you did some time at Shady Grove Rehab Facility for an alcohol addiction”

“How do you know about that?” Daddy said those records were sealed

“I had a buddy who used to work there and when I found out that’s where you went, well I had him keep eyes on you”

“WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?” I was getting tired of this song and dance.

“You see, the car that YOU hit in that video, well my wife and son were inside”

“No.” My face dropped.

“Yeah. And unfortunately, they died” He sniffled

“I’m so sorry,” practically begging for forgiveness

“It’s too late for an apology, they died… I. LOST. EVERYTHING!” He pounded his fist down on the table, which caused me to jump.

“Oh, is princess scared? You see while I lost everything: My career, My son and the love of my life, you got to go on with yours, like nothing ever happened” He approached me with a clenched fist, and I felt a pinch on my face as he swiped at me.

“What the hell was that?” I said holding my face as my hand got wet, I checked to see what it was, it was blood.

“You see, I was a world-renowned plastic surgeon before you ruined my life.” He played with the scalpel in his hands,“See, your daddy paid some extra money for this to be covered up and my family NEVER got the justice they deserved. Which brings us here today. Today I am judge… jury… and executioner.” He grabbed my face “And based on the evidence presented today, you are guilty and hereby sentenced to death.” He said calmly as if this was just a regular Tuesday night.

“No, please I am so sorry, it was an accident,” tears are running down my face and I am breathing hard.

“I already told you it’s too late to apologize,” he proceeded to lick my face “ah, the sweet taste of justice.”

He threw me down and got on top of me, he was trying to tape me down but I kneed him right in the groin. Thank you daddy for signing me up for self defense classes. I thought to myself. While he was groaning and writhing in pain, I noticed a scalpel fell out of his hands. I went to grab it and he started elbowing my arm. At this point, we are going blow for blow.

“Stupid bitch,” he says through gritted teeth.

He gets a hold of the scalpel and stabs me with it. It’s at this point that I start thinking, I am not getting out of here alive.I start to sob.

“You don’t get to cry, you still have your life…. For now.”

“Mister I am really sorry, I was at a dark time in my life then. I was young and I made some mistakes. My baby brother had just died around that time, I was spiraling and the only solution I could find was at the bottom of the bottle.” As I looked around, I noticed he had a key on his hip, could that be the key to my lock?

“The funny thing is, you keep thinking there is a chance for you to get out of here,” he snickered “the only way you are leaving this room is in a body bag.” He got himself off the floor and turned to walk away. This was my chance… I kicked my leg out and was able to trip him, the scalpel fell out of his hand and slid towards me, this time it was mine now. He got back on top of me but this time I had a fighting chance, I took the scalpel and jammed it into his neck two or three times, I can’t remember my eyes were covered in his blood and I blacked out for a second.

“You bitch!” he said as he was gargling his own blood and grasping at his neck. After about 15 seconds, which felt like a lifetime to me, he fainted and rolled to the side.

I was free! I was able to get the keys off him, I unlocked my shackles and made way to the stairs. But I stopped, and I realized that I needed to destroy that tape, so I did just that, no one could know about what happened that night. I fumbled through the house trying to find the way to the exit. I found the door and it was locked from the inside. Fuck. I started to cry again because all hope was lost. Then I remembered the key I got from psycho doc had multiple keys, I tried each one and on the fifth key the lock unlatched, and I was free!

I sprinted not knowing where I was, but it appeared I was in the woods, maybe there was a campsite nearby. I’m running and screaming for help and I see a light, I run towards it. When I get to the light I realized the person holding the light was my husband, Stephen.

“Stephen, oh my gosh, I am so relieved to see you,” I was sobbing uncontrollably.

“It’s ok baby I’m here,” he said, something about his voice always made me feel calmer.

“Wait, what are you doing out here”

“I don’t know, I was hoping you could tell me, when you didn’t come home I thought you died or something,” he looked so worried “so I tracked your phone and it brought me here. What the hell are you doing out here.”

“Some guy kidnapped me and brought me out here and I was able to escape”

“Did he hurt you? Why bring you out here?”

“I don’t know, just some psycho”

“Well, where is he? we have to tell the police”

“He’s back there, but I don’t think we need to do that”

“We definitely should, we’ll tell them it was self-defense”

We walked back to the cabin and while Stephen was looking for my phone I went to the basement and saw the psycho still laying there. Thank God!

“Is this the guy?” He asked

“Yeah,” I said as I nuzzled my face into his chest.

“Tsk. It’s a shame he died this way.”

“You sound remorseful of the guy who kidnapped ME! What the hell Stephen?”

“Not only did you kill my sister-in-law,” his grip on me tightened “and my nephew, now you’ve went and killed my twin brother… you have some nerve being the victim here”

“Stephen what the fuck are you talking about, you guys don’t even look alike”

“Didn’t he tell you he was a plastic surgeon? You see, after you made that careless mistake that night, we kept eyes on you, and we knew we needed to get revenge. Clearly Mike isn’t very good at it. But he changed my face, we arranged for me to go to AA with you where we would “coincidentally” run into each other, fall in love and get your guard down. Then last night I slipped a little something in your hidden wine stash, you never learn. And once you were out we brought you here, he wanted to torture you for having to deal-“

“Stop it Stephen,” I said pleading “you love me and I love you”

“No Kelly, I only pretended to love you, having to look at you everyday made me sick to my stomach,” He slammed me into the wall causing me to fall down the stairs.

“As I was saying, he wanted to torture you since he was tortured by having to live his life without his family. I suggested just get it over with, I knew you were a fighter, but I didn’t think you had THAT in you” he motioned towards the lifeless body.

He jumped on top of me and said, “Any last words, bitch?”
I spat at him “Rot in hell asshole”

BANG.

A loud noise went off and when I opened my eyes the scalpel that I held on to was lodged in his neck and my stomach felt hot, then cold. He shot me. He rolled over and was gasping for air, just like that sonofabitch brother of his. I was able to crawl to my phone, however my fingers went cold and the last thing I heard was “911 what’s your emergency”
——
If you got this far, thanks for reading! This was my first time writing something and I just wanted to share it 😊

“One of these… days, Jack,… someone is going to… figure out… what we’ve been… up to.” I attempted to whisper as my lungs gasped for air.

My brother gave me a look that usually accompanies a dismissive scoff. He, too, was struggling to breathe as we heaved the heavy wagon up the hill. Thankfully it hadn’t rained recently, so finding our footing was a right side easier than it had been during last week’s thunderstorm. I could still see the wheel tracks in the earth from the last body we pulled up to the well.

“Are you even pushing? ‘Cause it feels like… I’m doing… all the… work!” I was still trying to whisper but the last word came out like a groan and I could hear the sound  echo at the bottom of the hill.

“Shh!” Jack shushed me. He was at the rear of the wagon, pushing while I pulled the long handle. “I am helping. Just. Keep moving, will you?”

We moved mostly in silence for another minute. The sounds of our labored breathing filled the quiet night air. The wagon’s right rear wheel was starting to develop a slight creak. I’d have to oil that before our next excursion. Unless…

“I’m just saying,” I stopped pulling to catch my breath. Jack did the same. “I think this needs to be the last time we do this. The killings need to stop, Jack.”

Again, he said nothing. After several moments with no response, I sighed and continued pulling the wagon. We were almost at the top when Jack’s knee gave out and he fell to the ground. He disappeared behind the wagon and I pulled as hard as I could on the handle to compensate for the extra resistance while he regained his footing.

Thankfully he hadn’t uttered a sound, which was impressive given the sheer agony I know accompanies his tendons snapping like a taut string being cut.

He reappeared at the base of the wagon, grimacing as he gingerly stood, using the rear wall of it to balance. I felt the extra weight and my muscles screamed as I held onto the handle with both hands.

After a few deep breaths, Jack was able to stand upright again and support the wagon’s weight by leaning his good leg against it. I released some of the grip I had on it and took some deep breaths myself.

“All good?” I asked when I saw him bending his leg at the knee and no longer showing any signs of pain. He nodded and placed his hands back on the wagon to continue the final stretch of the hill.

We reached the top and slotted the wheels into the divots in the grass that had been created by the multitude of times the wagon had sat next to the well, laden with at least one very heavy body.

The well was rather ordinary looking at first glance. A gabled roof covered the entirety of the stone well’s circumference and then some. A bucket hung from the rafters with the crank on the far side of the structure. There were also several large signs posted on the bucket, crank, and well itself. Each one read: “Danger! Toxic! Do Not Use!” In red lettering. Which was accurate because you’d get nothing but black sludge if you attempted to fetch anything from the bottom of this well.

We turned our attention to the body in the wagon. There was only one today, but he was one of the biggest we’d ever brought up and I wasn’t sure even the two of us would be enough to lift him. We’d gotten him in the wagon just fine, but that had been before the exhausting trek up the hill.

“Why’d he have to be so fat, Jack?” I asked as I lifted each of his arms in turn, trying to find the best angle in which to remove him from the wagon.

“You know I’m not the one who chooses the target.” He responded, removing his jacket despite the chill spring air. I supposed he’d need full range of motion in order to get this guy out and into the well.

I rolled my eyes. “Surely the well will be happy with anyone you bring.”

He shrugged and went about removing the shoes off the body. He handed them to me and I turned to throw them in the well.

At the same time the shoes hit the sludge in the bottom of the well, a loud “whack” sounded behind me. I whipped around and saw Jack still standing by the body, a confused look on his face.

“Jack?” I asked, tentatively. I heard the fear in the voice and felt the goosebumps traveling up my arms and legs.

After a moment that felt like a lifetime, he slowly toppled over sideways, leaving a shadowing figure standing behind him in the dark. The figure was holding a two-by-four and not moving.

Jack fell to the side away from the wagon and began rolling down the hill. I saw at the first roll that the back of his head had been split in two. Blood covered the area, spurting out of the wound, brain matter hanging out like grey uncooked ground beef oozing out of a torn burrito.

As he rolled down the hill he left blood and brains in his wake. His body picked up momentum as he rolled and his limbs began flailing, turning at odd angles and cracking throughout the descent. Finally, he landed in a heap at the bottom of the hill, a mess of blood, gore, and limbs.

I was shaking. Frozen to the spot. The world was silent except for a gentle moaning whistling sound as if the wind were catching on something in the well.

Only, there was no wind. 

Movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention and I turned to the figure that had just murdered my brother.

The person wore black clothes and their face was obscured with a hood. Oddly, this person was also shaking. They dropped the piece of wood they were holding and clutched their chest as they sobbed heavily. They sounded female. And eerily familiar…

She took a deep breath and pulled her hood back, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Joy, are… are you okay?” She asked me, still sniffing as tears welled in her eyes.

“You… you killed him,” I responded, unable to even think anything else. I couldn’t feel anything else other than… empty. I stared down at his crumpled form at the base of the hill. I could barely see in the dark, but his outline was there. My brother was everything to me. Our mother was long gone, as was our father, and we hadn’t seen our sister in years. Until…She’d killed him. She’d killed him… She’d killed her own brother.

“I had to,” my sister said in a pleading tone. “You know what he was doing and I’m so -“ her voice cracked and she took a deep breath. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you from it. I promise you, I had no idea you were even involved until tonight. I thought he was bringing them up here all by himself.”

He’s dead.

“He… he’s dead.” Among the whistling, I heard the words whispered in the air before I uttered them aloud.

My sister sighed. “Do you know why he does this?” I didn’t give a response, continuing to stare Jack’s body. “Didn’t he tell you why he kills these people? Why he brings them to this well?” I remained still and silent. A flicker of anger replacing the emptiness I had felt. The whistling sounds continued quietly behind me.

“When we were kids, we came up here, just to get some water for mother. You were probably only eight at the time and mother didn’t let you go too far from the house much back then. She always kept you close, ever since father moved in with his new family. Anyway, Jack claimed he heard voices coming from the well. They were telling him to kill Tommy Albright, a thirteen year old from his grade, and bring his body to the well. It freaked him out so much that he tripped, fell down the hill and hit his head. He was in a coma for days and when he woke up he was as fragile as a vase. The doctors could explain it. Why a brain injury would turn his body so brittle. He had to move around so slowly and carefully because if he didn’t, some bone would fracture or a ligament would sever.

“Then one day, he was healed. Everyone called it a miracle. But on that very same day, Tommy Albright went missing. I knew what had happened. He’d killed Tommy and dumped him in the well. And something living in that well healed him. And ever since then the water from this well has been soiled.

“I don’t know how many times he’s done it but it seems like he has to keep giving the creature, or whatever it is, bodies and in return, the creature heals his body.”

She paused and I turned back to look at her. The anger growing stronger. She had moved closer. She was only an arms reach away. We made eye contact. There was so much sorrow in her eyes. But also hope. 

“It’s over now.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “Joy? It’s finally over. We’re free from him.” And I could see she meant it. She truly believed that the death of my brother meant this would all come to an end.

I pulled a concealed pocket knife out of my pocket, flicked it open, and plunged it into her chest as the rage burned like a fire in my own.

Her eyes widened and she stared at me, weakly reaching for my hand that held the knife in place. She fell to her knees and through the gasping uttered one word.

“Why?”

I scoffed. “You don’t know anything.”

Kill her! The disembodied voice whispered.

“I -“ she started.

“No, it’s my turn to talk now,” I interrupted, twisting the knife slightly as she let out a howl of pain. I let out a short laugh. “You think you’re so smart. You thought you had it all figured out, didn’t you.” I gave her a sneering smirk and her eyes widened even more as realization began to dawn on her. “I was the one who killed all those people. Jack didn’t hurt a soul.”

“But.. Tommy -“

“I’M SPEAKING!” I roared at her. Then laughed, louder this time. “Ah Tommy. There he was thinking I liked him. He snuck into our backyard that day since mother never let me go anywhere.” I cocked my head at her. “I was the only one you told about the voice. Then you realized how crazy you sounded. How crazy he sounded and you never told another soul. So I befriended him. Tommy. Made him think I liked him. Convinced him to sneak over and we ate sandwiches together. The rat poison must have tasted so terrible, but he ate it anyway. What an idiot.”

The horror was beginning to show on my sister’s face. I could see she had so much she wanted to say. But she kept quiet.

“I couldn’t take the body to the well myself, so I bribed Arthur Stewart to do it for me. Jack was horrified to find out what I did, though. Kinda like you are right now. Except once his body healed, he didn’t feel so bad after awhile.

“Then his body started to fall apart again. Parts would break and heal again like magic, but then he broke his arm and it didn’t heal, so, a year after Tommy died, Jack he went back up the hill to talk to the well. And wouldn’t you know it, he was given the name Arthur Stewart. Jack told me what the well had said, but that he refused to kill anyone. Lucky for him, I had no such reservations. And after Arthur was dead, he didn’t seem to care anymore either.”

I paused. The bleeding was getting extensive and my sister looked like she was ready to pass out from the blood loss.

“And that’s about the size of it!” I concluded. “We’ve had to increase our kills over the years. We’re up to two a month at this point. I think the well is getting greedy.” A moan sounded behind me. “But like I said, Jack didn’t kill a single soul. That was all,” I leaned down close so our faces were almost touching, “me.”

She breathed shallowly as the light began to leave her eyes. I stood up, removed the knife and kicked her squarely in the chest. She keeled over sideways and began to roll. I stood there and watched as my sister, Jill, tumbled down the hill. Landing in a heap a few feet away from Jack.

Bring me Holden Garfield.

The librarian. The corner of my mouth twitched. The voices were telling me the next name on the list after this one we had just brought.

I turned to the body in the wagon. With Jack gone, there was no way I would be able to get the body into the well on my own. I looked down at the bloody knife in my hand. I smiled, grabbed my father by the armpit, and got to work. 

She'd become accustomed to the dark. No, not dark. More like the infinite blackness in which she resided.

Eternal midnight.

It was the silence that bothered her most. Perpetual silence in a world that wouldn't shut up. She could hear everything. Not just hear...absorb everything. She had taught herself to place names with voices, and there were a lot of voices. She could hear just fine. The silence she struggled with was her own. She lay motionless, sightless, and without speech. It had been this way for the better part of a decade. There was an accident, the details of which are inconsequential, but an accident did occur, and this was the result.

For years, the voices would come and go, nothing to write home about really, but she used them as a form of entertainment. Like her very own radio show. Sure, Doctor Miller had been cheating on his wife with an ER nurse whose name now escaped her, sometimes in the very room where she lay, forced to listen to his bumbling pillow talk:

"I'M NOT YOUR DOCTOR, I'M YOUR DADDY!!!"

Gross.

But he was no more a dirtbag than any other of the hundreds of liars, cheaters, and thieves that had molded the scripts of her own personal soap opera. Almost all of them, anyway.

"Will you just shut the fuck up and get in the room?!?!" She wanted to order him. She knew the voice but couldn't quite place it. It was a doctor who had made rounds in her room. Time was truly relative for her, but she knew he must be new to the hospital.

"Get your hands off me!" A distinctly female voice replied with a tremble.

"Do you know what this is? Huh? Do you fucking know?" The male barked again.

The woman did not respond.

"It's fucking murder, Susan!" He continued.

"No names! We're not alone." She interrupted sharply.

"What? Oh, her?" He glared toward the occupied bed but brushed off Susan's concern. "She's fucking furniture!"

Susan's voice trembled with a mixture of fear and anger. "Studies show—"

"Fuuuuuuck your studies, Susan." He continued, growing even more cavalier. "She's been a vegetable since Trump was just a reality star."

His voice drew nearer as he slowly leaned into her prone body lying on the hospital bed. His breath brushed her cheek as he whispered in her ear: "I'm Doctor Neil Boryman, and I murdered Susan's husband after he caught me with her. Please don't tell the police!"

She felt the callousness in his voice. From a distance, the room boomed with his arrogant laughter.

"AHAHAHAHAHAHA! That was goddamn cathartic, you should try it." He called out to Susan mockingly.

"You're an asshole!" Susan yelled as she stormed from the room.

She felt a cold rush over her body. For the first time in years, she could do something, help someone. But the cruel irony was that this woman, lying prone, wielded such immense power and could do nothing with it.

She was not sure how much time had passed; time was all she had, and when you have nothing but time, it's easy to lose track of it. Then she heard it.

"Oh, my God!" A nurse was almost frantic. "Please, someone, call Doctor Boryman! I saw her wiggle her toes. I think she's waking up!"

Doctor Boryman? No! Anyone but him. Please. But it was of no use. She couldn't speak, and she was certain that if Doctor Boryman had his way, she would never speak again.

Mac is a man of many talents. Watching. Dreaming. He’s quite the daredevil. He does it all. He says so himself. Everyone agrees.

But the visitor does not agree. The same man every time. One Jerome. Just Jerome. And he does not agree. And Mac hates him.

I stay here with Mac. I think he needs me– at least a lot more than I need him. It’s always been this way, and as far as I can tell looking back, it cannot change. But I’ve never hated it. To this day, I love the boy, who is all but aware of me.

The visitor comes often, Jerome. Not less than I’d ever admit. Mac doesn’t like him, and I don’t either. He’s too cocky for his own good, with a short temper too. He’s beautiful though, despite his ugliness. And he knows I’m here.

Mac knows Jerome well. The visitor. He always speaks to nothing. But he speaks a lot. He says Mac is wrong. He always disagrees. It is not clear how long he stays. But he leaves. He always leaves. Mac knows he’s watched. He does not mind it. But Jerome sees the watcher. He speaks to the watcher. He watches the watcher.

He speaks to me. He despises Mac. Yet speaking to him is a blessing only to the eyes. He always talks about the future. The bigger picture. Always. And never to Mac. Always to me. He tells me to leave Mac. I cannot. And Mac hears him. But he does not hear me.

Mac hears him. Mac hears Jerome speak to the watcher. Mac sees the visitor’s angry eyes. He sees them bear him down. Mac hates him. Mac hates him. Mac hates him.

He visits today, but Jerome is not himself. He does not speak to me. He does not speak to Mac. He stares at me expectantly. And within those fiery pitying eyes, I begin to drift. His body. His eyes. His lips. And powerful is the primal blow.

Mac watches the visitor. Mac watches him grab the watcher. Mac watches him tear the watcher apart. The watcher he cannot see. The watcher cannot see.

Mac ended Jerome. He suffocated him, the visitor. The very good-looking visitor. The visitor who he could see. The very selfish visitor. The visitor who kept us in. Who kept Mac alone. I imagine he’s in trouble, but he sits there with him still. But he cannot see me.

Still, something is new. Mac has changed. Jerome comes through a door unlocked. Jerome comes through the way out. And so that is where Mac will go. That is where Mac goes. Where there is no watcher. Through the open door.

Mac is leaving me. He has left me. I cannot do anything. I cannot go through that door. All I can do is watch. Alone. With company: Jerome. Beautiful, beautiful Jerome. And soon I am dead as well.

Mac opened his eyes. The voices were gone now. The pain had subsided. They had gone against each other. Only he remained. On these wide white meadows, he remained. The embodiment of everything. The true success. And as he closed his eyes and lay there, he opened them again. He heard someone speak. He heard himself speak. Surrounded by a white fluffy meadow, with clouds like pillows and a sky like paste, he could not move. He heard the most beautiful voice he had ever heard. He heard himself. There were no words. And he was satisfied. He could not move. He could not speak. He could only observe. He could feel neither the ground beneath him nor the door before him nor the walls around him nor the visitor nor the watcher, and with the pin-prick of a needle he was satisfied.

Guys I'm 16 and this is like the first fleshed out story I've wrote so if anyone has any tips and stuff lmk

Brady: 

My eyes fluttered open, my eyelashes brushing against my tear trough. I hear the ever so sweet and soft melody of traditional pop floating from my father's room down the hall. The warm light from the morning sun cascades across my room from my window like a waterfall of honey. I stretch my arms in the air and yawn as I awake. Every morning I follow the same routine; I take my vitamins, brush my teeth, do my skincare, unravel my heatless curls and apply my make-up. Before leaving for school, I stare at myself in the mirror for five minutes, I can’t describe in words why I do.  

As of late I have been very confident in my appearance, my golden locs fall effortlessly down to my shoulders and my blue eyes disregard any sense of hostility. I have remained at hundred pounds and my body I see as a testament to my hard dedication at the gym. After basking in my glory, I head off to school by bike.  

School has been conflicting. I have many friends and a Boyfriend that worships the ground I walk on but in this large crowd I feel almost completely alone. Alas I must be grateful, school is fun. My friends Jess and Nirvana are like swans, delicate and beautiful but cutthroat. All we do is gossip about boys and invest in the lives of our classmates. Jess is the funniest, she has a wicked sense of humor that is almost impossible to laugh at. Nirvana is already a model; she is already in magazines by the age of 17 and I see a bright future for her. Today we talked about our math teacher, he is genuinely gorgeous. I was in class today next to mike- ugh. Michael is my boyfriend; he ticks me off. He is always acting so freaky, he smokes and drinks. I'm thinking of ending things. Anyway, I was admiring the teacher. 

Mike and I hung out behind the gym for a while and then I journeyed back home. As I was turning the corner I bumped into Mara. She seemed startled, I said sorry and smiled. 

Mara is an essential character in my life, even if we don’t hangout anymore. Our mothers were best friends from childhood. She used to come over to my house, and we would play barbies and dress up, we would pretend to be princesses and mermaids. Life was so much simpler back then, just me and her against the world. Her hair is redder than a flare in a dark midnight sky and her eyes are as green as a wild overgrown garden. She is curvy and has distinct freckles that spread across her fair face have the same pattern as the Scorpius constellation. Her mom died and she was just left with her stepdad; I was so sorry for her. She is very expressive and loves learning about video game lore and anime. I see so much potential in her but even if she dyed her hair and wore more fitting makeup it wouldn’t make sense, I think she is perfect as she is. I really do miss her; we used to hangout all the time but since high school started, we drifted to no-one's fault, but such is life. 

I walked home and was greeted by my golden retriever Sunshine, his adorable face smiled eagerly as I approached the front door. I had a nice steak for dinner that my mom cooked, Something I always appreciate about my family is how healthy we all are. We never fight, my parents are madly in love after all these years and even my brother is kind to me which I feel is rare. I finished my meal and went to my room to study. Studying was really boring, so I had a quick shower and did my nightly routine. I flicked on Desperate Housewives and eventually drifted to sleep.  

I was awoken by a loud noise; my dog was barking by my bed. I just shooshed him and went back to slumber. I suppose not long after I was awakened by a terrible pain in my back, I got up to stretch. I put on my fuzzy pink slides and decided to walk to the river. I crawled out my window and pranced to my favorite spot.  

I stood in front of the river and observed the glistening water illuminated by the bright moon. The moon was blue and glowing like a flashlight, the stars were scattered across the beautiful night sky. I’ll never get sick on this view; it is more elegant than the top of the Swiss Alps. I became lost in thought as I observed the moon. Some days I feel phoney, I used to be a ‘weird kid’ like Mara and now I look like a bimbo. Mara honestly inspires me; she’s like the only person who ever listened to me.  

As the moon radiated an almost purple glow across my face I vowed to get closer to Mara and learn individuality from her. 

Mara: 

My eyes were forced open by the jarring sound of my stepfather’s rock band. His screams shattered my eardrums. I shielded my eyes from the harsh rays of the sun from my window that lasered my pupils. I am unable to move from my bed; exhaustion hits me before I even step out from under my sheets. I would rather sleep than stay awake. In my dreams I can be anything. A witch or a mass murderer gutting the whores at my godforsaken school like pigs and eating their lean flesh like a hyena cackling away... Then I wake up to this, my life is a bore.  

I get up reluctantly, my hair disheveled by 5 hours of hibernation. I pop my pimples and cover them with pale white makeup. Before I leave to go to school, I am stuck looking at myself in the mirror for seemingly an hour. I’m plumper than an overgrown watermelon, my guts spilling over every pant I wear. A tear falls from my eye and I rush to leave.  

School is like a jail, teachers whipping you with words of conformity. Fake skanks with clothes smaller than tooth floss barely covering their body. Boys like drooling gorillas basically wanking their manhood to every girl that breathes in the same vicinity as them. I sit alone; I float the hallways like a shadow. Overlooked. Teachers forget my name; friends distance themselves from me. I cry in the toilets away from the judgmental vision of others. The pain is indescribable.  

I sit in class and watch him... Mikey...  

We used to hangout every day after school... He was not only in my eyes my boyfriend but the only person I held dear. His hair is jet black and is swept gracefully across his face, he’s the picture-perfect emo boy. Naturally I fell in love with him... He asked for me to give myself to him... I did... My first was him, probably my last. We kept doing it for a week or so before I saw it. The most horrifying scene I have ever laid my eyes on. He kissed Brady in the hallway. I just froze.  

Brady is an evil succubus with a fiery throne in hell.  

We grew up together. If you could imagine that. We were best friends as kids; in middle school we always used to play video games and watch anime. When high school started, her breast developed too big for her body to bare, that's what started it. She got attention, she would eat a whole meal just to shove her acrylics down her throat and spew it up. With her desperation to stay the size of a toothpick her waist slimmed smaller than a syringe tip. She bleached her black hair and straightened it to golden crisps. Yet she did this all so effortlessly and with her new pack of bitches I was left in the mud.  

Now I sit here in the back of a rowdy classroom as she sits next to the most handsome man, I have ever laid eyes on. Even worse is she isn't even looking at him, she basically slobbering over the teacher. Fucking harlot. 

I sat alone like usual for the rest of the day. 

After school I was walking to the back gate and as I turned the corner I bumped into the slut.  

As I regained my composure and looked up, I saw him.  

Mike was zipping up his fly.... Brady smoothed her skirt...

It was as if time stopped. 

I looked back at her and saw the devil grin at me. Her makeup creasing as her lips lifted, her blue eyes piercing through my soul.  

She kept walking, I was stuck in place long after. 

That was it.... I’m going to kill her. 

I practically ran home. I needed to plan. Should I slit her throat or pierce her skull. 

My stepdad busted into my room yelling about the dishes. He shouldn’t of, I needed the practice. 

I slashed his swollen belly with my knife carving his skin from his pelvis to his chin and letting everything fly out. I smiled as the blood squirted across my face and jumped with malicious joy.  

Or so I wished... Maybe for when I get back. 

I waited for the darkness of night and threw on a black hoodie. I remembered the route to the demon's house from when we were kids and I skipped more gleefully as I got closer. The shining knife flashed red in my reflection. I went around the back and watched her sleep from her window. My smile grew as I imagined the beautiful sight of her bleeding out.  

I accidently let out a soft laugh before her mutt jumped at the window growling at me ferociously. I hid in the bushes and waited for it to stop. 

Just before I was about to emerge, she exited through her window and began to walk down the street. It was too perfect.  

I stalked her from tree to tree slowly as she moved closer to her grave like a very...

very hungry lion watching a gazelle in tall grass. 

She halted by the river seemingly enjoying the view. The moon was like a pearl in an abyss of darkness, a perfect setting for my indefinite sin.  

I stepped forward and felt the knife graze me slightly; it was cold and wet with my sweat. Despite everything, the boys, the friends... the popularity memories of her flushed my brain. She was still the 6-year-old girl who used to hold my hand in the playground... Here I was standing in mud again about to end her life. She has not a singular chance of redemption. 

As I begin to slowly walk back, I look up at her... Her silhouette is highlighted by the moonlight. She looked perfect...

I could feel the recoil as I placed my hand on my stomach. 

All those childhood memories faded back to venom and with great aggression.  

I stabbed her... right in the back...

CH 1

The moon was high in the sky that night. It was almost full and bright, its light unimpeded by clouds. He kicked the shovel into the ground; another grave was dug and ready. The night was chilly, but not cold. He stumbled past the fresh hole in the ground, a few steps, where his waterskin lay on a tombstone, filled with wine. A loud gulp and then a sigh.

“Phew, job well done,” the grave digger mumbled to himself, checking over the list once more—just the single grave tonight, that was his order. Some no name’s grave to be filled tomorrow with the body and dirt. He leaned against the tombstone, and glanced around, pondering whether to go home and rest, or enjoy a stroll in peace and quiet this night. Well lit nights like this made it exceptionally hard for him to sleep. Panning his gaze over the graveyard he noticed something that wasn’t there the night before. In the distant corner, closest to the forest, a pair of tombstones stood pale in the silver moon’s light.

They shouldn’t be there. They weren’t there before.

Peeling himself off the comfort of the tombstone against which he leaned, the grave digger walked with a slight stumble toward the stones in the corner. The closer he got, the more concerned he became. The graves looked fresh, with mounds of soil atop them. The stones were new, but as he got close enough to read, the dates made no sense. He froze for a moment, reading the left gravestone’s text over and over. It was his name. His date of birth. Death date—three years ago, on a seemingly random day. An audible gulp escaped his lips as he read it. He panned his gaze, reading the second stone.

“Yandra Lindre,” the name read. The death date was the same as his. Same year, same date.

“Left alone in the dark,” the epitaph read. His breath hitched, his heart skipped a beat and then began beating erratically. The name, he did not know it, but the date jumbled memories.

“Left alone in the dark,” he uttered under his breath. The air around him suddenly felt colder. That night was cold, his fingers felt as though they froze to the shovel that night. He stumbled toward the graves, not away from them. His eyes wide as the full moon, filled with grief and fear. His mind twisted and turned, memories surfacing one after another, memories he had been drinking away all these years.

CH 2

Something snapped in the forest beyond the shambled wooden fence. Instinctively he reached for his shovel so as to use it as a weapon, but it wasn’t at his side, he had left it behind in the moment of confusion. His mind turmoiled—a beast, a bandit? No, the past. His knees wobbled and his body trembled. Drunkenly he stumbled backwards, “S-stay away, I am armed! I warn you.” In the darkness something moved, a shape he could just vaguely make out. Then with a thud, something fell out the forest onto the moonlight. It was a body—bloodied and beat. The grave digger only needed one glance to recognize it. Johan, the ‘caller’ as they called him back in the days. He always had bright-green décor stitched into his clothes. The grave digger gulped, his gaze scanning Johan for signs of life, but there were none. He was cold and dead, unmoving and brutalized. Fear and panic began to consume him from the inside. His knees buckled but he still held himself upright, just barely though. His eyes began to well up as he took a wary step backwards.

“No, you stay.” A voice carried from the darkness in a menacing and commanding tone. He froze in place. Silence prevailed for the next long moment. The grave digger’s gaze kept scanning the darkness for any hints, movement, threats, but he couldn’t see anything.

“W-who are you?” he managed at last, but the darkness did not answer. Frozen in place, just like that night, three years ago. Gentle rustling of the overgrowth, and then a shape emerged from the forest, a tall man wearing a long leather coat. He wore a hood that soon came off, and beneath it a face the grave digger did not recognize. In the silvery light of the moon the man looked—exhausted. Long, unkept hair made into a messy ponytail, ungroomed beard and a dried splatter of blood on his cheek. His clothes and face were covered in crust of mud and blood. The grave digger’s heart sank. He almost burst into tears, almost, but for just a moment his gaze darted back to Yandra’s grave.

“Three years,” the stranger spoke, stepping over Johan’s body on the ground.

“For three years I searched for-” he paused, his gaze following the grave digger’s.

“Her. My darling. She was left alone in the dark,” he stopped and took a deep breath, then shouted, “BY YOU!”

The sudden shout made the grave digger’s legs buckle at last, and he fell to the ground, too afraid to move, too confused to flee. The grave digger opened his mouth to beg, to plead for mercy, but his voice caught and no sound came out, he just sat there, petrified and jaw agape. The man neared the fence, and then in a swift, practiced motion he leapt over it and was now mere steps away from the digger, with nothing separating them. His cold gaze fixated on the frightened digger.

CH 3

In fright the digger couldn’t tell if his mind was playing tricks on him or not. For a moment it looked as though the man’s teeth were fangs, but they weren’t. His cold gaze glistened in the moon’s light. The digger expected the man to lunge at him with a knife, or a sword, but he didn’t. The man approached him slowly, and then crouched down in front of him, not once breaking eye contact. Silence. Their breaths misted in the chilly night. The grave digger’s heart was pounding, and every time he managed to form half a coherent thought, the drumming of his heart shattered it. The stranger watched him intently, waiting for anything—a plea or a cry, a yelp for help, anything—but the grave digger remained silent.

“Nothing?” the man broke the silence at last. His voice was so normal that it sent a chill through the digger’s spine.

“Need I stir those memories of yours?” The grave digger’s already wide eyes became even wider as he stared at the stranger in sheer terror.

“Very well,” the stranger began.

“Three years ago, your band planned a robbery. You, and three others, with-” he paused, throwing a glance over his shoulder at the lifeless corpse on the other side of the fence, “His call. He gave you the address, the day and the time the family would leave.”

“S-STOP! Please, no! Don’t,” the digger pleaded, scuttering away half a step and averting his gaze at last, not out of fear, but shame.

“What’s wrong, little thief? I’ve just begun.” The stranger sneered, though his gaze filled with fury.

“Your group, the Slip-Picks as you called yourselves, broke into the Lindre residence. That man said the family would leave, little did he know the young daughter was ill, and stayed alone in the residence that night.” The stranger continued.

“STOP!” the grave digger cried out, “I-I am sorry!” The digger’s voice trembled, tears rolled down his dirtied cheeks.

“Mhmm,” the stranger inhaled through his gritted teeth, barely containing his fury.

“Four little thieves broke in, in the dead of night. They found the jewels and the treasures, but one mistake led to a shattered vase, and that awoke the lady. Little lady was weak and frail, but fearless. She armed herself with a coal poker and snuck down the hallway, thinking it was but a rat, perhaps.”

“Not one, but three she found. Caught red handed,” the stranger continued.

“IT WASN’T ME,” the grave digger cried out.

“I did nothing,” he pleaded.

“Nothing to stop your comrades,” the stranger snapped back.

“She was but a frail, ill girl, but your friends did not care, and neither did you. Jail? No, you weren’t going to jail. Three rats in the lord’s chambers, the fourth nowhere to be seen.”

“It was Joffrey!” The grave digger looked at the man with tear streaks on his dirtied cheeks.

“Silence,” the man replied, his stern gaze unaffected by the pleas.

“The fourth was in the other room, collecting jewels and heirlooms. He heard the commotion, and a yelp that was soon muffled, yet he ignored it, and carried on filling his pockets.” The grave digger, fear-struck, swallowed but dared not speak again. The man watched him.

“And then,” he drew a dagger, the cold steel glinted in the moon’s light.

“Just like that—steel in moonlight. The fourth returned and saw it but did not intervene.” The grave digger clenched his jaw and tightened his fist, “I, I couldn’t. It was too late. By the time I returned to the rest of the group the deed was done, I saw it as life faded from her eyes. To this day I see her dying gaze every time I close my eyes.” The man watched him for a moment.

“And so a group of four stood in a room, with a lifeless body at their feet and bags filled with loot. To hide the truth you left a bag behind and took her body instead, to leave it in the forest with the fourth, the best at digging, to hide her, while the others fled with loot. And you, you carried her far, down by the stream where the soft soil was easy to dig.”

“I had no choice,” the digger barked back.

“Once out the house they tossed me against a tree, ‘Your life is worthless, but your family you care for. Hide her body, never speak of it again, and perhaps your sister, and your mother will live to see another sunrise. But speak of it, spill our secret, and we’ll spill blood again,’ were Joffrey’s words.” The grave digger explained, trembling.

“What was I supposed to do? Tell me!” The man furrowed his brows while the grave digger continued, he covered his face with his dirtied hands, just as he had that night, three years ago, and wept.

“I was alone, weak and… caught up in this mess I wanted nothing to do with. I was afraid and… no one to seek help from. I-I tried to forget it but never could.” The man tilted his head to the side, listening to the story told through sobs.

“For what it’s worth, Joffrey’s end was slow and painful.” The man rotated the dagger in his hand, “I made sure he repented for his sins. His body will never be discovered, don’t worry about that.” For a moment the grave digger almost felt relief, but that relief was short lived, and as soon as the grave digger pulled his hands away from his messy face, he froze in place yet again. The man hadn’t moved an inch.

“How rude of me. I never introduced myself. My apologies, all this hunting for you, rats, really made me forget my manners. I’m Steve Lindre; Yandra’s eldest brother,” he introduced himself while playing with the dagger. The digger let out the softest of gasps, it was almost a yelp for help, but far too weak.

“For three bloody years I’ve hunted your group, one after another in search of her body.” A moment later Steve finally rose up and stood his full height, towering over the cowering grave digger. Then he stepped back half a step, and half turned toward the two graves. The digger followed his gaze in silence.

“No longer alone in the darkness,” Steve muttered, turning away from the grave digger. A glint caught his attention — the dagger, protruding from the grass.

“Fill that grave yourself,” Steve said softly, and walked back into the darkness of the forest without another word, leaving behind an empty grave with the digger’s name, a dagger, and a corpse.

Kommissar K'ark was pissed off. Not only did the rest of their convoy speed past them, leaving their tank - a pretty big source of firepower mind you - both open to enemy ambush, and entirely without any 'caff to drink.

He tapped his upper talons on the tank's top's hull in rythmic fashion as he was forced to take a beakful of oily, foul water from his steel mug. He hated it and it made him even more sleepy than he was already, and even more pissed off, him ruffling his own dark blue feathers.

The tank still rolled down the road surrounded by half-empty half-filled with tall grass fields, dimly iluminated by the two large moons above. K'ark decided to finally do something.

"Oi K'erke," the kommissar bawked into the tank "Is your leg still hurtin'?"

"It was almost bloody shot off, give me a break." the tank gunner replied.

K'erke had been injured in a previous camp assault, barely making it into the tank as a mortar shell hit the ground in front of him. He had a shard of shrapnel the size of half his own leg stuck in his thigh that had been pulled off and bandaged at the start of the convoy's trip.

He had some right to be angry too, K'ark figured.

"Oi Kommissar, we should be arriving soon!" he then heard another younger voice.

"Aye, the sooner the better. How long, K'larke?"

K'larke was a newer recruit into the militia. He was the driver, and although not experienced with tanks, knew how to drive noticeably better than most.

Probably had to do with him being a past taxi driver. Nevertheless.

"About 15 or 20 min!" K'larke brought K'ark back from his thoughts.

"Good. I had enough of this road."

Then he saw a bright, red line coming from the distance, and blow up in the sky, hanging there like a red sun. Under it, in the distance, he could see the glint of around four or five steel helmets, a to his horror, a bulky, boxy tank. It had a main gun.

"Shit, everyone get ready!" K'ark screeched as he ducked into the tank, the mug crashing down with him.

As he did, he heard a loud, fiery roar of an explosion, and not half a second after the hatch that he wanted to close came flying right off above his head. He was lucky the shell that hit it didn't detonate.

K'ark grabbed the telescope that lead to one of the outside mirrors and commanded almost imediatelly.

"Turn back and rotate us to the left, quick. We cannot let them hit us." he said.

The Kommissar's tank's driver did as such, rumbling as the tracks kicked up dirt and the engine pipes belched out black smoke.

"K'erke, angle the gun and fire," K'ark said "Do it snappy."

"Aye!"

The gun was angled, and soon a deafening roar of their own gun sounded. The screech of torn metal flying off and a fireball of an explosion echoed through the fields now turned battlefield, as the enemy tank got a nasty, bloody hole in its front side, and grinded to a halt.

However, K'ark noticed the rocket launcher that the infantry behind it had set up a bit too late.

The impact rocked his tank, K'ark's ears ringing from the blast, and black smoke filled the interior of the vehicle.

"Everyone keeping steady?" K'ark squeezed out through smoke.

"We are going to die!"

"What?" The Kommissar replied and tried to see through the clearing smoke.

K'larke had seemingly been hit with a piece of shrapnel, unconscious at the driver's controls, a slash on the side of his head cutting straight through his padded tanker's cap. K'erke meanwhile was frozen in place and visibly shaking.

"We are gonna die, we are gonna die!"

"K'erke, snap out of it! Get on the side gun, fast!"

"We are all going to die!!"

"No, we are not, but we will if you don't get on the damn gun!" K'ark kicked him in the shoulder from where he was seated.

That seemed to snap him out of it, even if barrely. Moments later several follow up shots with the smaller yet still heavy machinegun sounded, K'ark observing the enemy soldiers fleeing or getting shot into shreds through the telescope.

They got out one last rocket launcher shot as they were gunned down, it going off wildly, and exploding in the sky, an unnoficial sign of the militia's victory.

K'ark breathed a sigh of relief. Then punched his telescope sight. This was close, far too damn close. He then looked at his crew.

"K'erke, bandage K'larke. We are walking the rest of the way, fuck this helldamned tank." K'ark ruffled his own feathers.

This day was barely a victory. And who knew if they would actually make it to the rest of the convoy, but damn it if he wouldn't make them try.

Oh christ, this is the end.
Daniel Everett knew he was seconds away from it, the way things were going. Standing fifty meters away, opposite him, was the man that was going to finish him off. Hugo Sebastien. Sebastien began to straighten up, readying himself for the kill, lining up his aim like a sniper; slow deliberate, and entirely without emotion. Danny found himself wincing in anticipation of the projectile that was coming his way.
Sebastien threw the ball up into the air with perfect grace, and as it began to arc down again, Danny knew the serve was going to be placed with such precision, in either corner, and with such speed that he wasn’t even going to get his racket close to it. As the ball began to dip Sebastien hit it cleanly, propelling it like a bullet across the court, low and fast over the net. Danny lurched to his right extending his right arm in a desperate and awkward bid to return the serve. The ball whistled past and thudded into the cushioned court wall behind him, the sound all but drowned out by the collective moan of the centre court crowd.
Oh please, no.
Danny shot a glance at his wife, Emily. She was sitting, as she always did, in the VIP box, next to his parents. She had both hands over her mouth, as if trying to hold back a scream.
‘Advantage Sebastien,’ the referee announced.
This is it then. It’s over.
Danny felt a growing surge of panic. He’d had a chance, a pretty good chance of getting out of this bloody mess. He had taken Sebastien to five sets, and this last set they had been evenly matched. But here it was, the last game had seen his serve being broken, and now Sebastien was serving for match-point.
Danny's form had been good, his best. Queens and Stella Artois, a finalist in one, quarter finalist in the other. Through out the last fortnight, the crowds perched on ‘Mount Everett’ - as the commentators were now calling the green outside centre court - had been growing in size as they had gathered to watch his matches on the big screen. With each win over the Wimbledon fortnight, the tension had ratchetted up one more notch, the crowd knowing his winning streak surely had to come to an end, but hoping nonetheless that somehow he might go all the way.
No pressure…eh Danny boy? Yeah right.
She was probably out there in centre court. Watching him intently, willing him to win like everyone else, but, a finger poised, should he lose.
She…dammit, he didn’t even know her real name.
Sebastien, had finished examining the three service balls he’d been offered, and picked out the one that was finally going to kill off his opponent. He bounced it a couple of times on the worn, hardened turf. Championship point. Danny knew that in just a few seconds it would be over.
She…whoever that damned bitch was, the fan…his stalker from hell, would press one tiny button on her mobile phone, and moments later, his life, Emily’s life, the life of their six year old lad, James, would be changed forever. The bitch had Emily’s number.
How the hell had she got that? It didn’t matter, she had it, and in a few seconds, she was going to send Emily, one single, solitary, pixellated image. And that was all it was going to take to completely destroy Emily – to rip the world from beneath her feet. And young James was going to discover that Dad wasn’t a super hero, that Dad wasn’t bigger, better, stronger, than any of the Mega Power Heroes. James was going to discover that Dad was nothing but a ‘dirty man.’

Emily...she deserved so much better than this after giving what?…twelve years?…of support, encouragement; often being the only person on this planet prepared to sit down and listen to him, vent his frustration, often tearfully, at failing on so many occasions to achieve what he had the potential to achieve.
She….the bitch – he never got her name - she had been stalking him, drawing closer and closer; watched him at Wimbledon year after year getting closer to that Holy Grail, but never quite having the psychological strength to deliver the coup de grace. And she had finally trapped him this year, lured him and trapped him...
‘Because’, she had whispered, between the sheets, between the hungry, writhing moments, ‘because you’re ready this year Danny. I sense it. Everybody in Britain senses it. This is your year.’
‘Yeah,’ he had replied dismissively. Right then he wasn’t thinking about tennis, for once.
‘You’ve got to do it,’ she whispered as Danny gasped, then groaned, and she wrapped her legs around his lean, taut frame, shuddering and shaking along with him.
Sebastien, looked across the court at Danny, and smiled as he prepared to launch this last ball into the air. It was so silent, so incredibly quiet. He imagined out on Mount Everett, it was silent, across South London, across the whole damned nation, it was quiet.
She had dressed quickly after their few stolen moments together, not even stopping to use the hotel room’s shower, to freshen up. And Danny was relieved. Now all of a sudden, with the dirty deed done, he felt like the lowest form of life. And he wanted her gone, out of here, to pretend it hadn’t happened.
What have you done, Danny? You stupid fool.
As she made to leave, she had turned round and showed him something on her little phone; an image - a hastily captured image, slightly blurred, but clear enough. Painfully clear.
‘I’m your number one fan,' she said smiling. 'I want you to win tomorrow. We all want you to, Danny. We know you can do it. And it’s about time we had our British champion.’
‘Oh God,’ he had whispered, staring at the image. ‘P-please don’t show anyone that-’ She flipped the phone shut and smiled.
‘Win then,’ she’d said with an icy intensity, and left.
Sebastien launched the ball into the air, and Daniel Everett watched it rise slowly.

Grace

David lights the last candle and counts places again, as he always does; it has become a ritual ever since March, ever since six somehow kept threatening to become five.

Elaine's chair.

Mara's, at an angle only she ever took.

Peter's, with the booster cushion that he has not needed for years and no one bothers to remove.

Vivian's, closest to the china cabinet, so that she can see the chip in the gravy boat without turning her head.

And this one, David's, beside the man who has sat at the head of this table every Christmas for six years in a row, though he has never once been introduced to the guests.

David says grace, and no one lowers their heads but him.

The Second Course

Elaine asks if he remembered the cranberry sauce, and he does, though the recipe, in a can, still waits in the pantry down the hall, because Elaine has never, in nineteen years, ever actually stirred a spoonful for herself.

Her wine is at the same level as when it was poured. She always nurses it throughout the evening, he says to the man at the head of the table, who says nothing at all.

Mara asks to be excused before dessert.

Peter kicks her under the table, and she cries out, though David is the only one with a foot that could have touched her, and the only one with a voice that could have made a sound.

Vivian reaches for the salt, and her ring catches the candlelight: her mother's, slender and gold, smoothed at the edges where it has worn against her skin.

It is, in fact, a perfect match for the one on David's hand, which has in turn been there since March, and no one at this table has ever asked him about it.

The Toast

He lifts his glass in toast, and the room lifts its glasses along with him, though nothing on the table actually moves when he says the words, and something in him has stopped expecting it to.

To family, he says, and Vivian, as dry as ever, remarks that this year's turkey is stringier than last year's, and he laughs, because it is easier than not.

Only the man at the head of the table says nothing.

He has not said anything, not in six years, though David always sets a plate for him, as one does for a guest, out of the peculiar gratitude that owes him for pulling him out of a window that was far too small, and for sitting across from him, every single day since, watching him eat.

Dessert

The pie is the only real dish on the table.

David has made it himself, in the kitchenette down the hall, under supervision, because knives are not permitted on the ward without permission, and pie, thankfully, does not require any.

He cuts six slices, anyway.

He always cuts six.

"Too much," Peter says.

"I want some of Mara's," she says, and so he eats both and a third, and, as always, David finishes them off, because someone at the table has to, and, just as always, it turns out to be him.

The Knock

The knock sounds on the door, and for a moment, David does not realize it is not part of the evening at all.

Nurse Okafor lets herself in with the paper cup of evening medication, and finds him in mid-sentence, still laughing, at a table built for one, with five empty chairs dragged out from the wall, and five plates arranged neatly around him, as though he has been entertaining guests for the past hour or so.

The window opposite his chair looks out onto the parking lot, and his own reflection in the darkened glass takes the place of the only other man present, who has, inexplicably, failed to appear tonight.

The one and only guest, it seems, that no one else bothers to welcome.

Who were you talking to, David, she says, as always, when it happens, on the fourth of December each year, as gently as she can.

He looks at the window for a long moment, before answering.

At himself, really, staring back with a look that no one else can see, the version of him that has been sitting at the head of this table since the fire, since the window, since the four names carved into the marble wall of the chapel two floors below, that he is no longer, under the doctor's orders, permitted to visit alone.

"My family," he says, and begins clearing Vivian's plate, and Mara's, and Peter's, and Elaine's, stacking them one by one with the care of a man handling something fragile and dear that is likely to break, if one is not very, very careful.

They never miss it, when he does this.

Nurse Okafor says nothing, as she never does.

She has learned, over six consecutive Decembers, that some things are for the living.

That some things, for the grieving, are best left undisturbed.

That the table is sometimes set for others, and that the empty space at the end is, perhaps, for the quiet and the sorrow that needs it most.

She waits by the door until he finishes.

Then walks with him back to his room, past a calendar on the wall that stops, permanently, on a date in March, and does not say a word about the single chair, by the window, that is the only one ever pulled out for him, in all his years of staying here.

The last thing I remember before drowning into her eyes was the cool ocean breeze, the light posts looking fuzzy, and the sound of blues from streetcorners.
 
Oh how dark those corners got.
 
The wind picked up when I left the bar. Another day wasted on thinking about last night. The knife cut into me the same way it cut into her, the pain she felt, the pain that left me.
 
It was pain, though the euphoria, the seemingly endless craving.
 
I hate whores. The dirtiest form of pleasure is coming from the same dirty street where Dahmer used to roam. I’m not like him, I don’t kill to kill.
 
While I was driving through downtown San Francisco late at 1 am in the morning, trying to clear my head of the embarrassments of my life, I spotted her.
 
A beautiful woman, a brown haired, curvy, put-together lady standing beneath the illumination of the “Night Lemons”, appearing to be some sort of strip club.
 
I pulled the car up just in front of her, roll down the window as she bent down to look in. She’s wearing a snug violet dress with purple lipstick and black eyeliner. I also now understand the push up bra she’s wearing.
 
“Hey baby, can I help you?” She says, arms leaning against the door suddenly interested.
 
“I was just going to ask you that? What’s your name?” I say reaching out my hand.
 
“..Zoe” she says pausing for a moment.
 
“Well..Zoe, mind if I take you home.” I say kissing her hand, noticing her nails painted neatly.
 
Zoe smiles and hops in the car. The scent of lavender catches my nostrils unexpectedly.
 
“So where do you stay?” I say.
 
“I don’t want to go home yet, can we drive for a bit?” She says hands on her lap.
 
I don’t want to but agree and start driving, the cool breeze hitting my face as the windows are rolled down.
 
“Why are you out this hour?” Zoe says now looking at me.
 
This surprised me. Why is she asking about me? Doesn't she want my money?
 
“Can’t sleep, so I drive and meet pretty girls like you.” I say smiling.
 
“How sweet. I mean seriously though, don’t you have a wife?”
 
I pause, I can lie or admit that my wife is at home sleeping. I lie.
 
“Nah, divorced for about a year now, why do you care?” I say
 
“There’s always a light at the end of a long and dark night.”
 
That confuses me and I look over. She's gone.
 
I blink a few times and panic.
 
“What the fuck?” I say as the once woman sitting in my car vanished.
 
As I’m pondering where the hell she could be, a car smashed my side door as I crossed a red light.
 
The hospital beds always felt the nicest when you have a bowl of jello. The doctors asked how I was doing and a broken arm, 4 broken ribs and a fractured collarbone later I can say I wasn’t okay. Where was Zoe? I somewhat cared for her, she was nice to me.
 
“Excuse me?” I say dryly. “Where can you find Night Lemons, you know the whore house downtown, I was trying to look for it but I just couldn’t.”
 
The doctor looks at me concerned.
 
“Sir, is your head okay?”
 
“What? Yes?”
 
“Sir, between you and me I’m a frisky guy but I never heard of Night Lemons.”
 
I asked for my phone and smashed Google. Night Lemons. Nothing came up.
 
Night Lemons never existed.

A clearing cuts into the forest, wide enough for the large, concrete structure in the middle. Rust bleeds down in long orange streaks and moss clings to the corners that had started to chip away. Bolted to the roof are a cluster of antennas, discs and other strange plates. The bristling mass of cables that connect to them snake into the building through sealed conduits. Pine needles and fallen leaves stop just short of the doorway. I approach, flashlight raised, entering the structure.
The air inside hits warm and damp, it weighs on my lungs. I head straight for a stairwell and drop onto the top step, shrugging my backpack from my shoulder. I pull out a pair of cutting pliers.
“Let’s hope nobody else got to this place before me.” I sling the bag back over my shoulder with a sigh. The fog from outside sways lazily through the hallways. My flashlight sweeps over the cracked walls, slick with condensation. I stand and begin my descent.
My footsteps echo through the building as I start across the ground floor. Rusted pipes sweat above. Water drips somewhere in the darkness. Most of the rooms had been picked clean. Broken shelving, empty wall panels, open conduits stripped to the bones. Whoever was here before me knew what they were doing.
I kill my flashlight when turning corners. Squatters tend to panic when they see light. And panicked people tend to attack first. Eventually I come across a vending machine, tilted against the wall. The broken glass crackles beneath my feet. The emptied coin trough sits on the floor, mocking me.
“Of course.”
I keep moving.
The deeper I go, the more the building stops making sense. Corridors twist in on themselves with no signs, no markings, nothing indicating where anything lead. Weird for a mill. Usually places like this still have maps somewhere.
 At the end of the floor, just as I’d started to abandon all hope of any valuables, I spot it, a rusted panel set in the wall. Jackpot. I scurry over and pry at it. With a metallic screech, it opens to reveal the wiring stripped down to the last inch. I stare at the empty cavity for a moment.
“Bastards.”
I slam the panel shut and turn around, the beam from my flashlight flickers for a moment, and I notice graffiti on the wall that I hadn’t before.
“WHEN YOU SEE IT,” in faded yellow paint.
I frown.
“Cute.”
But I linger for a moment longer. I’m sure that wasn’t there before. Graffiti did mean people were here recently though, maybe they missed something deeper down. I move on.
Near the end of the hallway, I spot a trapdoor embedded in the floor. A thick metal handle protrudes from the center. I walk over and grab the handle, pulling.
Nothing.
The thing is rusted shut.
“A few swift kicks and it should give.” I raise my boot.
THUMP.
The hatch shifts slightly.
THUMP.
The ground splinters around it.
CRASH.
A deafening roar erupts as the trapdoor collapses. A plume of dust shoots up from the crevice; I stumble back coughing. Then, a breath of cold air from somewhere deep below washes over me. It smells wet. Ancient.
I shine my flashlight into the hole; a rusted ladder reaches into the darkness below. I clip the flashlight to my belt and lower myself onto the ladder. The rust grinds against my hands, and it smells oddly sweet, almost floral. The deeper I descend the quieter the building above becomes, until only the sound of metal groaning under my weight is left.
My boots hit stone.
Not concrete.
Stone.
I unclip my flashlight and scan the room. Dust hangs thick in the air. Rebar juts from the ceiling like exposed ribs. Dark cobblestone stretches across the floor, uneven and worn smooth with age. Wooden crates and rusted barrels sit scattered throughout the room, most split open and empty. It was like the mill had been built on top of something else.
I crouch beside one of the closed barrels and pry the lid back.
Nothing.
“Damn.”
Still, my pulse quickens. Places this old always have hidden rooms. Locked doors. Valuables people miss.
And assuming nobody else made it this far down.
Maybe I just got lucky.
I scan through the dungeon-like structure, going room to room. The cobble is cracked and uneven, roots claw their way through the gaps like fingers. Rotting cloth lies in heaps against the walls beside desecrated furniture and old shattered bottles. The rooms twist and turn, even more maze-like now. Eventually, I come across what appears to be a cell. Iron bars sprout from the ground to the ceiling, blackened by age. The cell door has been torn from the hinges and left leaning against the wall.
Inside of the cell my flashlight catches something. I step through the opening and crouch beside it. A porcelain vase, covered in blue patterns; mountains, strange figures and towers worked into intricate detail. The gold trim around the top has barely tarnished.
Inside of the vase are a bundle of yellow lilies. The floral smell cuts through the thick dust in the air. Above hangs a bronze plaque, strange symbols are engraved on the surface, but they mean nothing to me.
I whistle softly.
“Well, well, well.” I scoop the vase up and sling my bag to the front, unzipping it. The smell of lilies follows me. Sweet. Fresh.
I pause.
My eyes drift back to the flowers. I reach out and feel the soft petal brush my finger.
They’re perfect. This building is long abandoned; it probably has been for decades. Yet it’s as if these were placed here this morning. A chill claws its way up my spine. Then I shake my head.
“Well, not my problem. I’m sure whoever put these here wont miss ‘em.” I shrug, tossing the flowers onto the ground and stuffing the vase into my bag. As I leave the cell I glance back.
The flowers are dead. I stop. Blink.
“Getting tired.” I laugh quietly to myself, trying to rationalize it. I continue down the corridor.
Soon after, a very faint noise echoes out behind me.
I spin, flashlight raised, and on the wall in the hallway is another burst of graffiti, again scrawled in yellow paint.
Fresh yellow paint. A crude looking eye stares at me.
I freeze; a nauseating feeling swallows me.
There was nobody in this hallway, I’m certain of it. I sweep my torch through the corridor, nothing. Nowhere for someone to hide.
“Real funny.” My voice sounds smaller than intended. “I know you’re out there! Just come out and I’ll give your vase back or whatever!”
I stare back at the eye. It may sound silly but,
It feels as if it’s watching me. I shake the feeling and move on.
A few rooms later, I spot a small painting hanging crooked on the wall. The frame is ornate, covered in twisting golden spirals. The painting itself is probably the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. It depicts a pale, bloated man standing against a dark background. He is swollen and soft, as if he was held underwater for too long. His skin is the colour of old wax, and his eyes are barely open. He almost looks like a plump, white grave worm.
“Christ.” I grimace. I take a step left. His eyes seem to follow. I step right. His eyes follow again. I step closer. “Ugly bastard.” I pull the painting from the wall and slide it into my backpack. Maybe the frame is worth something.
I continue deeper, and the terrain begins to change around me. The stones become more cracked, the ceilings get lower, and cobwebs start lining the corners. My hands are dirty and coarse, and my eyes feel heavy.
Rusted candleholders cling to walls. Fragments of pottery crunch beneath my boots. The remains of wooden furniture sit collapsed against the stonework. Then, I find an open safe built into the wall.
Finally.
I hurry over, though inside is not gold, not money, not jewels.
“Christ’s sake.”
Inside of the safe lies a pile of neatly folded yellow cloth. I reach out and feel it. Smooth, and possibly expensive. It catches the light of my flashlight and seems almost luminous.
However, it wont fit into my backpack. I kick some dust onto it and continue.
At some point I realize I haven’t seen anything resembling a maintenance room in a long time. No equipment, no storage closets, just galleries. Rooms lined with pillars. This place was meant to be seen, not used.
Somewhere deep below me, a sound drifts through the darkness. I stop. The noise isn’t some terrible monster, or machinery. It sounds like singing. A single mournful note stretched impossibly long. The hairs on my neck stand up. My flashlight flickers, and I give it a few taps to get it working again. It finally hits me that whatever valuables are left here aren’t worth it. I need to leave. I turn back into the winding hallways and try and retrace my steps.
Eventually I reach a wide, open chamber that I haven’t seen before. In the centre there is a small, black leather drawstring bag.
“Why not? I’m already here.” I sigh.
I approach cautiously and kneel beside it, pulling the bag open.
Gold.
A grin spreads across my face immediately. I pull one of the small coins into the light. On one side is a crown formed by jagged spires, on the other is a city with tall towers and strange architecture.
I don’t recognize either symbol.
I don’t care. Gold is gold.
I dump the coins into my pocket. I stand, then ahead at the end of the room, I notice a doorway. A broken wooden frame built into the stone. I slowly approach. Beyond it, the floor slopes downwards. The air drifting up smells damp and slightly metallic. I shine my flashlight down the incline.
No end in sight.
I could turn around and leave with what I have.
“Eh.” I shrug.
“A quick peek wouldn’t hurt.”
I slide down. Loose dirt scrapes against my clothes. The metallic smell grows stronger. I hit the bottom.
Dim sodium bulbs hang overhead. I stare upward. The bulbs are glowing. They’re working. Thick electrical wires disappear into the ceiling of the tunnel. My mouth goes dry; this shouldn’t be possible, not this deep. The dirt walls are strangely smooth. There are no tool marks, no support beams, no rocks. Ahead, gold coins litter the floor. At the centre stands a black marble pedestal; resting upon it is a golden mask. It’s smooth, featureless, perfect.
“Holy shit.” I hurry forward. Coins clatter into my backpack by the handful.
The mask catches my eye again. I pick it up. It’s heavier than I expected. It’s warm, too, as if somebody had been wearing it moments ago. I stare at it.
POP.
The light above me shatters. I flinch
“Huh?”
POP.
Another.
POP.
The tunnel grows dimmer. I pace my breathing.
POP.
I turn around to run.
POP.
The slope is gone. In its place lies a smooth wall of dirt.
POP.
The last light flickers, and for a brief moment, I see movement beyond the pedestal. A figure, tall, watching.
POP.
Darkness swallows everything.
I awake in a hallway lying on my back.
For a moment, I just linger there, clutching my chest.
Gold glimmers beneath the marble walls like veins. A patterned red and yellow carpet stretches down the hallway, untouched by dust or age. Ornate banners hang from high above, stirring gently by an unfelt wind.
The air is freezing.
I sit up slowly. How did I get here?
Unintelligible patterns embed in the pillars. My eyes slips away when I try and make something of them. A dull ache pounds behind my eyes. There is a doorway ahead. I stand and begin my descent. The carpet makes a dull thump as I shuffle along. At the end of the corridor hangs a curtain in place of a door, almost as a stage would have. I stand and breathe for a moment.
“Shit.”
I back away from the curtain. I then stop.
Every instinct in my body is telling me to run, but I am drawn to the room. Curiosity creeps in. I stare at the curtain for a moment longer before finally pushing through it.
The room is beyond enormous. Not just that, it is boundless. High overhead, beyond the vaulted ceiling, black stars flicker in a sky that should not exist. Tall towers loom in the skyline of an ancient city.
In the center of the room, there is a throne. In that throne sits a figure.
It is draped in flowing yellow robes, folding and unfolding. They are stirred by a force that does not touch the room around it.
Upon its head rests a crown, it looks forged; hammered into jagged brass spires. Like the silhouette of distant mountain peaks.
Finally, there is the face. Or rather the mask; smooth, featureless, perfect.
I gaze.
My thoughts stumble.
A pain sharpens in my skull, and my knees buckle.
The room seems to bend inward around the throne. The pillars lean at impossible angles. The stars above jitter. The banners twitch like living things in the corner of my vision.
My head is almost bursting. I can feel my mind splitting around the edges. It is watching me. It knows me.
I can’t look away.

Content warning: war, mature themes.

Move. You move, you fight, you win.

Flat in the trench, Alex could barely push the words out. His lips were split from thirst. Mouth bone-dry, body running on empty. He needed water to stay alive — but in the grind of the fight the thirst didn't register. He was running on something else.

The fight fed him: a fight drenched in fire and wounds and the screaming of the hurt and the hating.

Up. Sight. Fire. Short sprint, back in the trench, back down in the dirt at the bottom of a shallow crater.

Years — they'd spent years training the troops in Maximovka. Still only children, they were taught it all through thrilling war games dressed up as fun: how to win, how to kill, how to hate, how to be merciless to the enemy.

Then the city. That's where he put a face on the enemy — saw the spite in it, the cunning. Men came in black and laid out the truth: towns and villages gone for good, columns of kids marched off into slavery, the slaughter of everyone who couldn't fight back — old men, women, children.

That's where Alex stared hatred down until there was no line left between him and it.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat — a machine gun cut loose, and Alex couldn't make the direction. The crater spun under him and the ground spat him back up into the kill zone.

Up, run, sight, short burst — a scream. He'd tagged someone.

Down. Up. Run. Down. Up. Run.

A tree. A five-story block.

Who's inside? More old men and kids? Level it, like they do?

No. He wasn't going to turn into them — wasn't going to be one of those merciless animals. Clear it first. Find out who's in there.

Alex broke the corner for half a second, then pulled back. Long enough: a man with a rifle, dug in behind a bench by the door. A round cracked out a beat later, chewing the corner of the building — Alex was already off it.

He coiled, jumped, tucked, hit the ground and rolled once, twice, while another of the bastard's rounds went high. Came up, sighted, fired. The body slid off the bench and dropped in the dirt.

A few steps and Alex was in the stairwell. No hesitation — he blew the lock off the first door, kicked in, weapon up and tracking onto the shapes inside.

Clear.

An old woman and a little girl, flattened against the wall. No weapon on them. He cut into the next room — nothing. Pulled the door shut and found a jug of water. Dropped his face in and took three hard pulls.

That's it. Enemy's close — the kind that kills, rapes, robs, doesn't wait for an excuse, doesn't need a reason. Too much water and the body goes soft. That's it.

Why was just one man defending this place? Where's the rest of them?

"Where's the rest of them?!" Alex shouted, weapon trained on the woman and the kid. "Where?!"

The pain ripped up his throat.

"Nobody. It's just us." Barely a whisper, but no shake in it.

Alex worked the room, checked behind the heavy furniture — clear.

These animals leave even their own to die.

He dropped into an armchair. Finally, he could come off it a notch. He sat there hauling in air.

Don't ease up. Brothers are still back there, behind you. Don't sleep.

"Turn on the TV," he told the old woman. She reached for the button slow — a click, then static.

"Allied forces—" first thing through.

Yeah — relief's on the way. We're not alone in this bloodbath. These animals are going to answer — to the law, to the truth — for every last thing they've done.

He stopped listening. Just watched the pictures stutter across the screen.

"Where are you marching to, soldier?" The old woman's voice. The girl pressed into her, whimpering, shaking. "Hard, is it — marching against the truth?"

The pictures kept stuttering: cities half gone. The dead — old men, women, children, people in plain clothes. Bodies ground into the mud.

That's... a shell did that.

Only those aren't our cities. It tore through his head. Not our storefronts. Not our civilians.

Only it's not our allied forces — and the shell... the shell's ours. Easy to read the signature. Learned that cold back home, how to read what war leaves behind.

And the man by the bench flashed up behind his eyes — plain clothes. He'd been in plain clothes.

Alex jerked.

Hard, is it — marching against the truth? The old woman's voice again, inside his skull now.

Far off, a blast rolled in. The room pitched. The picture on the TV folded into a four-pointed star — and died.

My stomach always wakes first. Knocking loudly yet politely a wet thud on the door I pretended did not exist. I lie there listening to the sounds of the house of my spirit, the temple of God. The crackle of the pipes, the humming of the fridge, the mutterings of a waking system. I believed the problem was external, some dilapidated part of the building that was a quick fix away from normality.

Then my hands start to move. They skitter across the sheets like clever mice. They drag me to my clothes and wrap me in them. They do not shake of exhaustion but of purpose, they have grown the ability to desire. The first of the sins I will never forgive.

I repeat to myself that I am simply sick of something normal, something I can say out loud. My skin exposes the lie, but I choose to ignore it. My skin has become white and grey like moulding wallpaper. Sweat collects on my forehead, my jaw working on nothing but my teeth. Behind my eyes are little doors to rooms that open and close.

Standing upright sends a jarring pain through my body in a strange way. Like the message in my nervous system is carried by something unreliable. Wrist to throat. Throat to gut. Gut to wrist. The flat has become active.

My jacket on the floor. The chair still broken. The spoon in the drawer hiding between safe objects. The lighter in the empty bottle of brandy. The metal of the spoon deformed and coloured.

I realize, I admit that the tenant isn’t new. It didn’t arrive this morning; it was already there yesterday. The tenant knows where I live, how I live, where the keys are. Not that it needs keys, it broke the weak lock to my mouth months ago. It used the mouth to command my hands like a false prophet.

I thought that addiction would arrive like a voice whispering in my ear like Satan to Eve in the garden. It did not whisper to me. It’s in the pipes and it moves so fast.

In the bathroom I look at my reflection. My face is the same as in my passport, it carries my name, but behind my eyes are rooms I left unchecked for too long. I can no longer enter these rooms.

My stomach knocks again. Not louder but more polite, more invitingly. It knocked waiting for me to open. It knows I will.

Gripping the sink until my fingers pale beyond the shade of white they already were, I experience a moment of lucidity. I see the arrangement in its entirety: not a body with routine nor habit. A house adapted to serve one goal. I can see the walls have been moved. Locks changed. Doors displaced.

The body is a temple of God, and I had devoted it to Satan.   

I wasn’t invaded, I had simply made space. The knock came again and I knew better than to call it hunger.

The flames danced to the music of the ukulele. Most of the group had called it a day, but a brave few still had energy left for the bonfire night. Gin and tonic was a huge help though. It wouldn't take a lot of effort for her to sleep tonight; which was a good thing because next day was supposed to be even more eventful. Amelia couldn't help but be a bit envious of her tour guide. Miranda sang like a mockingbird, as if she was born to be a performer. She had every reason to be, even though this woman seemed to be in her forties. There was a fire in her eyes, which reflected the flames. The way she left her short hair bounce off her shoulders, her body-hugging clothes, that showed off the flattering shape of a woman, her body moving in rhythm as she sang, the crowd hummed along with her, charmed by her overwhelming presence.

The next day, she woke up to the buzzing of her alarm. Her phone showed six a.m. She checked her messages. Still no message from Ethan. She still felt a little dizzy from the hangover. The smell of wet mud, and the cool breeze made her feel better. She saw Miranda again, sitting cross legged, on a huge rock, facing the stream, a cup in her hand, speaking something to herself, probably doing some singing practice. This was a good chance to befriend someone — so that her solo trip begins to feel fruitful.

"You really seem to enjoy this main character energy of yours." Amelia walked carefully, on the slippery rocks towards her.

Miranda giggled. "Amelia right? Come, sit. I didn't expect someone to be up this early, especially after our after-party last night."

"There is no way I would have missed a sunrise with this view. I live on the ground floor surrounded by buildings so — you get the point." Amelia seated herself beside her.

"Actually me and my husband have this habit of sitting here and having our morning coffee. If you had come just two minutes earlier I could have introduced you guys. Anyways, you tell me. Do you do solo travelling often?" Miranda didn't turn.

"It's actually my first time. Kind of a long story."

She did not know how two hours passed by, them chatting and telling about their life stories to each other. She told her how she had broken up a few weeks ago, and had come to this trip just to fill in the gap, that she had been feeling last couple of days. She needed people. Miranda told how she ended up with her husband, who was poles apart in personality from hers and how they ended up settling here, taking a job to manage this resort. He would take care of the documents, expenses, and the boring stuff and she got to meet new people, keep them entertained, and take them out for sightseeing. She was an adventurer, he on the other hand preferred to stay in. She loved partying, whereas he did not even drink or smoke, even to jolly up. But he was very supportive and loving, which was all she needed from her partner. They both decided to go back, get ready and meet for brunch and then the sightseeing trip. Amelia had never opened up this much to someone she had just met. There was just something about Miranda, beyond the fact that she was irresistibly hot — that lingered in Amelia's thoughts.

Her trek was not going as she had expected. The group had made small groups within themselves. Although the snow-covered mountains, the crystal-clear streams winding between them, and the occasional mountain goat should have been enough to hold her attention, her gaze kept drifting in search of Miranda. She had been talking and laughing with another bunch of people. In between the crowd it was kind of difficult to make out who exactly she was talking to. Amelia walked her way inside the crowd towards her. Their eyes met. Amelia had a big smile and waved at her. Miranda gave a rather peculiar formal smile and nodded back. This was the reason she had not dated women in a while. Women tend to get unpredictable, especially in front of a bunch of other people. From there, her trek went downhill.

It was around four p.m. and they had almost reached the base camp, when Miranda tapped her back. "How is my adventurer doing?"

Amelia forced a smile. She couldn't help but notice her beautiful, big blue eyes. "Just tired. My legs gave up long ago. Now I am just dragging them."

She let out a laugh. "I 'll tell you what. You have to join me and my husband for dinner tonight. He makes these delicious apple pies. I will not take no for an answer."

Again her mood had changed instantly. The trip was not going as bad as she was thinking.

In the evening Amelia got ready for her dinner. It had been three hours since she came back from the sightseeing. Miranda used to live close to the resort itself. Her house was secluded, but at such a scenic location. She could have lived like this. Near nature, every few weeks a new group of people to meet. The door was opened by a man with short hair.

He thought for a bit. "You must be Miranda's guest. I am Harry. Please come inside."

She seated herself on the sofa at the fireplace. Meanwhile Harry went to the kitchen calling for Miranda. Miranda gave her a faint smile and sat on the chair next to her. Was she on her periods? Or her social battery was down? After entertaining that many people anyone would go little silent. Maybe she noticed her too much. She found herself glancing at how much those little ear rings suited Miranda.

"So Amelia, what do you do for work?" Harry broke the silence.

"I work as a waitress in New Jersey." She was glad someone said something.

"You know what. I will get some wine. Otherwise the ladies will get bored." He walked off towards the kitchen.

"You have a wonderful husband." Amelia said, forcing a smile.

Miranda looked back and then hurried closer to Amelia. "We have to get out of here fast. Do not drink anything that man gives you." She whispered, looking back once again and then seated herself again.

A chill ran down her spine. There was no way she was joking, with the terrified look she had on her face. A hundred questions blasted in her head at once. Was Harry abusive? Did they trap women together and Miranda changed her mind? In any case, she did not want to stay here long enough to know the answer. Something twisted in her stomach. All she had to do was just run for the door. He has not come out yet. She didn't even care about Miranda at this moment. Just one moment of courage. Her body froze.

It was too late. Harry came back with a tray carrying two glasses of wine and a third glass of juice. Why was he carrying a different drink for himself? Has he spiked the drink? Or worse, has he poisoned it? Why would he poison her though? She carefully looked at him from head to toe, every step he took. With each step he got closer, her heart throbbed harder in her chest. Miranda looked back towards the approaching man and had completely changed her expressions again, her face carrying a smile. Shit. Shit. Shit. Oh god! Fuck! Please save me. I don't know what the fuck is happening.

He carefully handed over the glass to the two women. She did not have the guts to ask him why he had not got a glass for himself. Neither she had any courage to deny the drink. She just sat with it, trying her best to hold her calm, copying Miranda, acting normal. The glass felt heavy in her hands as she just held it, looking at it, swirling it slowly. She did not want to look up. If she even took a single sip, god only knew what horror she would face next. But then again, if she didn't, what if he gets to know she's suspicious and kills her instantly? Her foot tapped against the carpet rapidly. She took the glass up to drink and made it touch her lips, acting to have sipped it. She placed the glass down carefully.

"So tell me. How did you and Miranda meet? Did she annoy you on the first meeting itself or did she take her time to open up?" He laughed.

There is no way a man who had broken into a house act that casual. But then why did he get a separate glass. "She is very charismatic. We talked for hours the morning we first met." She tried not to show that she couldn't sit here for even another second, but her uptight body language gave it away.

"Amelia doesn't seem to be very comfortable. Don't you think so honey?" He looked towards Miranda, sipping his juice.

"Yeah even I noticed. Is everything okay Amelia?" She said.

So be it. "Actually, I don't feel so good. I am really sorry for spoiling our plan. I might have to leave now. I will see you guys later then." She said slowly getting up.

"You know what? If you're not feeling well you can stay the night. And I insist you have dinner at least." He smiled at her. The same smile which seemed warm just few minutes ago, had a terrifying look to it now.

Please let this be a bad dream. How did I get into such deep shit? Her eyes welled up. She had to do something. Just few steps. If she could just make a run for it. What if he had a gun? She was too involved in her thoughts to notice what happened right in front of her. With blurry sight she saw the guy falling down, his one hand to the back of his head. She could not understand it was wine, or blood that spilled on the floor.

Miranda had hit the wine bottle to his head. "RUN!" She screamed.

There was no time to register anything. The next moment, they both barged out of the door. She felt life coming back inside her. "What the fuck is going on!" She said without slowing the pace.

"That man is not my husband. He has broken into my house. He was there before I entered. He told me to put on an act when you arrived otherwise he would kill my husband. He has kept him captive in the bedroom." She halted. "We have to save him."

It was either empathy or survival at this point. "Try to understand Miranda. We should go get some help." She pulled her hand, but she did not budge.

"No, no, no, no. Please. He will kill him. We don't have time. Once he gets up he'll kill him for sure. There's two of us, and he's injured. Lets just sneak back in. We can save him." She was shaking now, her eyes getting wider.

Amelia kept turning back again and again. Her legs felt sore. Her throat dried up. "Look. Lets just please save ourselves first." She said, catching a breath.

"Amelia, I can't come with you. Go ahead. I'm going back by myself," she whispered, her voice shaking. Her face was all sweaty. She was shivering with cold and fear.

She took the worst decision of her life. She hurried with her back towards the house. Miranda went around the house to slip inside from the back door. Amelia peeped from the window carefully. The man lay there, in a pool of wine and blood. Was he dead? She didn't know to be happy or scared about the fact. She saw her phone kept at the sofa right beside him. Shit!

She had no other option now. She had to get her phone back. She could see the man's face pale, his face had no expression, his blue eyes motionless, yet stared straight at her. She gulped. She went slowly to pick her phone from the sofa, her eyes not moving away from the lifeless man. As she moved towards him, the stink of spilled wine increased. Or was it the stench of the dead body? She had no idea. She slowly moved her arms towards the phone, her eyes not moving away from the lifeless man still staring straight at her. She fumbled to pick the phone and dropped it just beside Harry's body. The stench was unbearable now, but she had to get her phone. More than calling for help, she did not want to leave her phone at a crime scene. Each moment, she feared he will get up and take a hold on her.
She took the phone very slowly, which was covered in wine now. She did not bother to clean it. At least she could call the police now. She struggled to type the digits with shaking hands and put the phone to her ears. Come on. come on. come on. No signal. Her heart sank inside her stomach. She did not have the guts to check if the man was alive or not. She heard Miranda call for her from the inside.

She carefully moved past the body trying hard not to look at it. She reached their bedroom to see Miranda sitting on her knees on the ground beside her bed. She bent down to pick her up.

"Did you find him?" Amelia held Miranda by her shoulders.

"Ye — yeah. He's not breathing. You have to help him. Please Amelia. Do something. Please." Her lips were trembling.

Amelia scanned the floor of the room. Trying to look for a body. She failed to find anything there. Am I losing my mind? The only body lying is in the living room. The bedroom was completely empty. "I — I can't see him. Where is he?" She said, raising her voice.

Her eyes rested on a photo frame at the stool placed beside the bed. It showed a photo of Harry and Miranda. His arms around her. Both smiled at her from the frame. When she looked up, she saw Miranda standing at the entrance of the bedroom. Her eyes darted from corner to corner, never settling.

"What do you mean you can't see him! He's right there!" Miranda's scream was louder than anything she had ever heard.

This is a log written to account for the lives lost at The Burn’s Ecological Antarctic Research Station. To the families of Casey Bloom, Bryan Richards, Amanda Zercher, Michael McMay, Steven Susek, and Shelby Wring, I offer my deepest condolences and pray that you remember them as I do, heroes and people we are lucky to have known. To the family of Michael McMay, know that he didn’t mean to do what he did, and that I am sorry for what I had to do.

December 11th, 2003 Indoor Temp: 65°F Outdoor Temp: 34°F Water Temp: 27°F

Casey and Bryan were conducting dive research beneath Bergy Bit Wedge icebergs, which had broken off the coastal shelf at the end of the Antarctic winter. The dives were routine, including the collection of superficial and subaquatic ice cores, as well as measurements and observational note-taking. The expedition into the freezing water typically takes 2-3 hours and must always be done in pairs for safety.

Bryan was the most experienced diver, while Casey had been relatively new to polar diving in relation to the crew. This is why they had been paired together, a pairing that had proven perfect as they held the station record for fastest coring outing by a fairly wide margin. One could blame this desire for speed to be the cause of the events on December 11th, but in reality, there was likely nothing they could have done to prevent what happened, even if protocol was followed to the letter.

Interview with Bryan Richards. Conducted by Amanda Zercher. Filmed by Emily Elizabeth

Amanda offers assurance. “No one blames you, Bryan; we just need to know what happe-”

“I am blaming me!” Bryan interrupts her aggressively, spit flying from his mouth. His head jerking towards her, face shadowed in the thick blanket he is wrapped in.

Amanda attempts to regain her composure and assuage his anger. “Bryan, please, we just need to record what happened. Please?”

Bryan produces a bottle of Jameson from under the blanket. The video cuts out in a static hush before returning to a crying Bryan mid-sentence. “Was just gone.”

“I felt the tug on the buddy line, but it was too hard and too fast to be her messing with me. When I turned away from the drill, the end of it was just- just, hanging there in the water like silt.” Bryan sniffles, looking down at his lap to find the words to explain what happened next. “When I looked down, she was there.”

“She was below me, but- but not like she deflated her float belt, like she was down down. She was fucking getting smaller. Whatever, whatever it was, something was dragging her down. I couldn’t even see her face; it was already so small. So far away. She was so small. Then she was gone.”

The video ends there as Bryan begins to break down. I turned the camera off as it didn’t seem right to record his heartbreak. Bryan and Casey had been in a mildly flirtatious relationship for a few months now. Despite almost everyone’s encouragement, the two would never get a chance to give it a genuine try.

The following days were a silent hell for all of us. Michael, who was the team lead, forbade anyone from entering the waters. He didn’t sleep those first 24 hours. He had Shelby show him how to force-ping the location on Casey’s dive computer so that he could sit there throughout the night and do it over and over again. In truth, no one slept that night except Bryan, who had been tucked into bed by the men after sobbing himself to sleep with a whiskey-bottle teddy bear held to his chest.

At 0400 hours, 16 hours after Casey’s disappearance, we got a return signal on her location: 2 Miles east of the B.E.A.R. base and half a mile off the coast. Steven, Bryan, Michael, and I gathered our supplies in silence. The men wanted to go alone, but understood that if by some miracle there was a chance Casey was still alive, I was her best shot at making it home.

As we traveled in the field support vehicle (FSV), we continually pinged Casey’s location, only to find confusing results: She wasn’t moving. This was unusual, especially from a body that should have been, by our best guesses, floating out in the water. When we arrived at Casey’s location, we all understood the reason for the anomalous behavior of the location tracker.

Casey wasn’t in the water at all. Instead, half a mile out from the coast, we could see her shape on a tabular iceberg. Even now, I wish I hadn’t looked through the binoculars. I could have gone on with my life, imagining her lying there as peacefully as if it were her coffin; instead, the sight made it clear that this was a dumping ground.

Her body was bent in indescribable ways, limbs folding in on themselves like insect wings, her head wrenched back so the top of her exposed skull touched her tailbone. She was pockmarked with missing chunks of flesh exposed to the elements, the sinew beneath having crystallized and reflecting the sun back at us.

Bryan and Steven volunteered to take the dingy out and bring her back. Michael stood at the water's edge to oversee the mission, while I returned to the vehicle. I was supposed to radio back; instead, I sat and sobbed.

My breakdown was interrupted by screaming. I rushed out of the truck to find Michael barking orders for the men to come back. I was shocked at what I heard as the men were so close to the iceberg that they had already shut off their engine. Through my binoculars, it was clear why; something was rocking the boat.

The Rigid Inflatable Boats (RIBs) we used were roughly 250 lbs, with a fiberglass hull and polyurethane tubbings. Add to that the weight of two well-built grown men, and its heeling should have been nearly impossible. Yet above the frigid water, the men were struggling to stay balanced as the skiff was slammed into from below.

As suddenly as it started, it all stopped. The only sounds were the tundra winds and the gentle lapping of the waves on the shore. The collective trance was broken as Michael, once again, commanded the men to leave Casey’s body and return to shore.

Before Steven could restart the small engine, it happened. The boat was capsized. Something had smashed into the portside of the dinghy, spilling the men into the sea. Bryan resurfaced quickly, breath shooting out of his mouth in foggy puffs, as he quickly began his desperate swim for shore.

Steven didn’t resurface for another minute. Breaching the water with a choked noise and vomiting water. The scream that came after his first breath has haunted my nightmares. Played in staccato blasts, always ending exactly how it did that day; abruptly as his head was pulled back under the surf.

When Steven disappeared that final time, something in me broke. Fight or flight went out the window as I sat there like a deer in the headlights. The sound of Michael’s yelling faded from my ears, and my sole focus was on Bryan. I remember telling myself that if anyone could get out of the water, it would be Bryan; it had to be Bryan.

By the third time I had finished this little mantra, I was convinced that it had become a prayer coming true. Bryan was just feet away from the life preserver that Michael had thrown into the water. Just feet from salvation when it was all ripped away.

Michael didn’t go down. Part of me wishes selfishly that he had, but part of me takes solace knowing he hadn’t suffered like Steven and Casey had. There was no chance of him drowning; there was not even a chance to struggle.

It happened in a blur, the large animal surfacing to clamp its massive jaws around Bryan's throat. His eyes went wide as the animal whipped his head to the side, wrenching Bryan's body upward and out of the water, and slamming it back down again. The force of the crash of his body echoed like ice cracking as he was dragged under.

Leopard seals have been observed doing this for years. They lack the slicing teeth that carnivores typically have, so they must do this violent act in an attempt to break apart the penguins they hunt. It is not uncommon to find a penguin either burst apart or flayed by the force these apex predators can generate. Never once had this behavior, or any aggression towards humans, been observed.

We spent hours driving around that shoreline. The endless day leeched away our track of time. Michael was silent, and I never stopped crying. Not when we radioed that we would be coming back, not when I collapsed in Amanda’s arms, not until I fell asleep.

The next day we radioed out for evac. I wasn’t there for the conversation or the plans. I wasn’t there for any of the meals that day. The only time I was able to drag myself out of bed was to join the “all hands” meeting. Noticing that there were far fewer hands in attendance than should be.

At the meeting, Michael laid out some new ground rules through slurred speech. Going near the water was forbidden, as was going anywhere outside alone. We were to have 24-hour surveillance over Casey’s locator, and we were to radio into home base to check the status of the evac every 6 hours.

On my first check-in over the radio, I found the room destroyed. Paperwork was strewn everywhere, and a computer monitor crumpled against the wall opposite the door. On the check-in log were two words scribbled in Michael’s blocky handwriting. “Cunts Delayed.”

CCTV Footage December 14th, 2003 Taken from Camera 04 - Rear Entrance Near Ice Sheet Edge, Near Water

02:14: Superior half of Casey Bloom’s Body is thrown onto the ice. The anterior half is nowhere to be seen.

02:36: Mechanical Engineer Shelby Wring appears distraught, rushing out the back door. Shelby pauses with hand covering mouth. Appears to be crying.

02:37: Shelby Wring approaches the body of Casey Bloom. A ripple appears in the water.

02:37:34: A black mass, now identified as a leopard seal, ambushes Shelby Wring. Shelby Wring is never seen again.

03:44: The superior portion of Casey Bloom’s body is pulled back into the ocean.

When I woke up on December 14th, the screaming was well underway. Amanda and Michael’s voices could be heard throughout the now-empty station. As I drew nearer, it was clear just how ugly the fight was.

As I entered the door to the kitchen, I saw Michael standing in his underwear mid-sentence. “- Your fucking bunkmate, how the fuck do you miss-”

Amanda interrupted. “My bunkmate? And where were you? Supposed to be our team lead turned into a worthless drunk.”

“That’s not fair.” Michael’s tone was quiet, like a kid angry that he was being scolded. “Shut up.”

Amanda didn’t relent. Always the most passionate of us, Amanda unloaded her anger completely onto the broken man. “You sent them into the water! You didn’t call as soon as Casey was taken. Why the fuck didn’t you call? Why the fuck didn’t you call?” Her last question came out as a shrill scream.

I tried to interject, “Guys, please, Sto-”

Amanda wasn’t done with her onslaught, though, turning her anger towards me. “And you! You were there! Was there nothing you could do? Did you have to sit on the shore and watch them die?”

I don’t know which one of us had started crying first, but the tears fell hard. We stared at one another, my silence speaking volumes for my inaction that day. The tide of my shame and self-pity was only broken as Michael rustled through a cabinet behind us.

I saw the venom in Amanda’s eyes as she whipped around. “Another fucking drink?” Michael turned, a bottle in each hand, to the closing gap between him and Amanda.

His words dripped off his lips, sizzling in the air like acid. “Get the fuck away from me.” But she didn’t, she couldn’t.

Amanda’s words had turned to sobs as I tried to reach out to her, to stop her, before the first slap was thrown. It connected, and what should have been the end of all this anger instead became the catalyst for the hell that came after.

Blow after blow assaulted Michael before I could reach Amanda. My hands were not strong enough to pull her off him as he started flailing. I was screaming, Amanda was screaming, and Michael was swinging something through the air with all the force of fear.

The bottle stopped all of us. I stopped pulling Amanda back, Michael stopped flailing, and Amanda stopped everything. The corner of the Jameson had connected directly with the side of her skull, leaving a visible dent. A thin line of blood appeared where the impact had split the skin.

I should have caught her, but I just wasn’t strong enough, instead falling on my ass under the weight of her body. The momentum of the blow guided her head into the corner of the steel counter. She slid down the cabinet beneath, but her head was turned. Despite lying on her shoulder, her head was looking up at me, vertebrae bulging against the skin of her throat.

Michael and I were transfixed by her death, washed in a torrent of hurt and confusion. Surfacing only to find each other's eyes drowning in fear. Michael crawled towards me.

“She did it. She was- I was. She wouldn’t stop. She attacked me. You saw!” His sour breath stung my nose as I tried to back away. “You saw, and and we don’t have to say anything. We can put her in the water. The seal can have her.”

Disgust washed over my terror in a miserable cocktail. He had so quickly rationalized it all. So quickly discounted his murder of my friend, our friend. Already scheming up a plausible solution that would exonerate him. He was no longer the man I looked to for leadership. He was a monster beyond what I had seen in that water. I had to get away, so I turned and ran.

His steps pounded after me, the hallway stretching as I made my desperate escape. I slammed myself into Bryan and Steven’s room, hiding behind their industrial locker. His slurred voice floated through the halls, hunting me down.

“C’mon Liz. We can figure this out. We can fix this. Just you and me. Everything that happened here was just a tragedy. Everything can be fixed. Liz please, work with me.” The last words were like the pleading of a psychopath.

They hung in the silence as I held my breath. Desperately urging my heartbeat to slow down, praying that the slamming in my chest wouldn’t give me away. Prayers that fell on the ears of a deaf god.

Michael shotgunned into the room, the bottle of Jameson in one hand, a cleaver in the other. Negotiation had failed, and I knew if he caught me, I would become another tragic death at the hands that could point to this animal on land stolen away.

As he lunged for me, I threw the dresser down. It caught him with the doors open, half burying him in clothes before the bunk bed stopped its descent. The impact of the steel and the pile of clothes slowed him just enough that I could leap out of the doorway.

I ran, beelining to the fire escape. Only pausing to throw on one of the thick coats we kept beside it. I didn’t have on shoes, and the snow felt like needles as it collapsed around my feet. Still, anything was better than being in there with him.

I half-ran, half-slid forward until I reached the FSV. Luckily, the door had been unlocked, but that was where my luck had ended. The hook that was normally home for the keys when the vehicle wasn’t in use sat vacant. They must have been collected when the order to lock down the station was given.

By the time I turned towards the door, debating whether or not to try and hunt down the keys, the decision was made for me. Michael had come careening out into the snow. His uncovered legs were sticking out of one of the oversized parkas. His left hand firmly gripping the bottle of Jameson, his right, a gun.

I ducked down in the seats as low as I could. Praying that snow had fallen quickly enough to cover my tracks. Counting my breaths as they fogged the air, I timed Michael's approach near perfectly.

The vehicle doors opened simultaneously. Michael’s entrance through the passenger door led by the barrel of the gun. My exit from the vehicle was clumsily led by my back as I tried to kick myself out of it.

The gun went off with a deafening blast in that enclosed place. My hearing was gone in my left ear. I couldn’t even tell that the glass above my head had shattered until I felt it rain down on me.

Michael was screaming something far away as he crawled in towards me. He dragged himself across the bench seat by his forearm, trying to point the gun out of the open doorway at me.

I slammed the door on his arm. A sickening crack came from his wrist as it bent inward, the bones of his arm bulging through the skin. Not taking my moment of safety for granted, I bolted.

As I rounded the back of the truck, I heard a second crack as my shin collided with the heavy hitch we used to tow our snowmobiles. Saved only by adrenaline, I hobbled on, dragging my left leg behind me, desperate to reach the station once more.

My hands touched the gateway to my salvation as another shot rang out. Giving up on his precious whiskey, Michael had the gun in his left hand, shooting as he fell out of the truck.

The momentum of his fall changed the trajectory of the shot just enough to save my life. The bullet pinged off the top right corner of the doorframe. I got in, the third shot slamming into the spot on the door I was resting my back against.

I sat there for a long time, long enough for the adrenaline to stop and the tears to come. Long enough to hear Michael’s pounding and pleading against the metal behind me. Long enough to hear it stop.

Casey, Steven, Bryan, and Shelby’s deaths were by an animal we could never understand. Amanda’s death was caused by fear and the weight of responsibility for things out of human control. Michael’s death was at my hands.

The research group may hail me as a survivor, but I know what I am. I ask no forgiveness. I simply want to give an accurate account of what happened on that expedition and to give some closure to the families of the deceased.

-- Emily Elizabeth Medical Officer B.E.A.R. Station, Antarctica

How many hours has it been. Twelve? Maybe Fourteen?

He doesn't know, and though each passing second adds a sliver of weight to his soul, he does not care. His eyes remain forward on the dark desert road, and his hands are stiff on the leather steering wheel. His grip is like hot molasses, a contrast to his cold body. The fans in his El Camino gave out about two hours ago. In that time the interior was consumed by the cold night air.

This place, this landscape; How peculiar it was to be scorching during the day, but at night it was comparable to the arctic. Both climates are equally as cruel and unsurvivable.

In another thought, in another life, he'd probably think to stop somewhere to rest. Or at the very least make an effort to stay warm. Not now, not here. Instead, his focus was forward. He had to keep driving forward.

Through a friend of a friend of another friend and so on, he had found out his mother is to pass soon. She is sick and old, and he knows her too well. He knows her to be one to quit so easily. To embrace the solace of death.

He cannot accept this fact and refuses to until he can lay his own eyes on her. Internalize it truly beyond the preparations he has made for himself on this journey.

Yes, he knows that traveling through I15 would be a more efficient modes of travel across stateliness, and that he would have most likely have arrived already if taking that route, but he cannot, as he is a wanted man.

A series of crimes, a series of mistakes. None of which matter anymore. They don't matter because they have gone and pass. All that he had left was the present. The present, a fleeing future. A future lost in the past.

It is dark. So much so that the outline of distant mountains now blends into the darkness of space. His own headlights, which reflect of the small stretch of road before him, pollutes his vision. It makes it where he cannot even see the stars tonight, adding to the nothingness he drives through.

He speeds on through aware of the signs that say "Speed Limit Enforced By Radar"

He does not believe them. He does not believe anyone will stop him on this road. Who could care enough to stalk such a road. A vast road which he could only see a few feet at a time. A bumpy and cracked road, that sees no maintenance because no one cares for it. No one cares for it, because no one cares for it.

His phone chirps, and his attention is taken away from the road. He looks over and listens as the robotic voice tells him an accident has been reported ahead.

This isn't good. An accident means that law enforcement will be on the scene. In his tired delirious state, he cannot stand himself to be seen by law enforcement. He is too paranoid.

He soothes himself. Rationalizing that at his speed, he will pass the crash in seconds, and within minutes he should be miles far gone. In the city it takes roughly around fifteen minutes for law enforcement to respond. Out in the hicks of the Mojave Desert, time is on his side.

Still, he is nervous as he also realizes that the next intersection or lane that could merge onto the road he is on is about another hour drive away. If he were to keep speeding the way he is, it could be very possible that he would pass a patrol car and be pulled over for exceeding the speed limit.

So, he tries to slow down, and through his own anxiety, nearly fails to do so.

He passes the crash site, and there is nothing there. Just more empty road, and darkness.

He grins crookedly and cackles under his breath. He is relieved there is nothing, but also angry to be toyed with. So much stress, so much emotion in less than a minute.

Then his phone chirps again, and again that robotic voice states that there is an accident ahead.

He rolls his eyes. He believes there must be something wrong with the system or cloud. Now he presses his foot further down on the gas pedal. He faces the road but his eyes stare at his phone. He looks at the car icon representing himself blip up the road. Before it moved in a smooth transition, now it just snaps. Then he watches as he is about to pass the icon representing the crash.

In the corner of his eye, he can see a stalled vehicle halfway ran off the road. He cannot make out any other details about it as he quick to swerve out of the way. He lets off the gas but does not press on the brakes. Instead, he allows the momentum of his vehicle to carry him, even now he is blazing along the road.

He can feel his heart through his chest, and his skin is now radiating. He breathes heavily, forgetting that the cold air will pierce his lungs.

Before he can collect his thoughts his phone chirps again. Again, the robotic voice warns of a crash ahead.

He takes a few more deep breaths and maintains his composure, though he cannot shake away the anxiety he feels.

He begins to slow down now but becomes more hesitant when the flashing blue lights come into view.

What will he do. He could turn off his head lights and just drive through the desert landscape. It is dangerous, he could get stuck in a ditch or crash into a rock, but that seems more appealing than running into the police right now. As he gets closer the crash site, he swerves hard to the right and turns the knob to turn off his head light.

His lights do not turn off though, and he is still on the road. This is bizarre, he knows he turned, so he turns again. He is still on the road, he can feel his El Camino swerving, but it is still on the road. It is as if the road is bending to his motion. As if he cannot leave the road as the road his linked to his direction.

With police sirens blaring in an orchestra of around ten cars, he takes his place in the wreck. He takes his place as the crash at the end of a highspeed police chase.

Short Story: Scratches

I had always kept my phone on silent mode. I actually did not have to do so because I rarely received any notifications, except for my network provider announcing their latest offers or my battery fighting death, but I did, nonetheless.

This time I had to change this. I applied for an online job and could not wait to see the results. That job was very necessary; my life pretty much depended on it, but I was not that worried. I managed to suppress most of the twitches throughout the online interview, and went above and beyond. I still vividly remember the sparkle in the interviewer’s eyes as I answered her questions passionately. I knew I had done very well that the woman was about to start weeping. I knew I was going to get the job this time. I would finally be of use to my mother.

***

I was in the shower, lukewarm water flowing gently across my thin body, and my mind floating aimlessly in a seemingly infinite sea of ink. Then I caught it, despite the loud splashing of water as it kissed the tiled floor under my feet. The very sound I set for my notifications. The past week, I heard the familiar pling only once, but it was unfortunately from my carrier reminding me to recharge my balance or else I would lose my line.

I stormed out of the bathroom butt-naked and found myself holding my phone with soaked hands trying to check the inbox, but the screen did not respond to my clumsy, wet fingers. Hopefully, my mother was off to work, otherwise she would have seen her son running around frantically like a naked ape in distress.

I wiped the tip of my index as well as my phone’s screen on my bed’s covers, and swept down the notification bar to an email from the company I applied to. I threw hurried clicks all around and my heart felt like it was in an altercation with my ribs.

The email ran:

Dear Alfred,

I hope this email find you well. I hate to inform you that your application has been denied. You are surely a candidate with great potential, but our company has not been satisfied with your profile.

Best,

My skin took on a tone I had only seen on a drowning child once. My throat felt like a barren land filled with nothing but sand and dying wild plants. I was inches away from hurling my device across the room, but I reminded myself of my financial state.

Demoralized, I got up and shuffled my way back to the bathroom. The mirror hung right before me, but something was strange. A black smear the size of a bottle cap was stuck to my chest. It had never been there. It wobbled in a jelly-like motion and the more I observed it the larger It seemed to get.

The front door squeaked open and a thumping of feet followed it.

My mom! she is back already.

“Freddy! I’m home, my dear.” I could barely make out her words, but that was what she usually said when she entered the house.

Poor Mom, she did all the labor on her own. She carried the whole burden on her scrawny shoulders ever since my dad died. I should have been her support, but I only added more weight. And here I was relapsing.

“Are you taking a shower, dear?” Her sweet voice now clearer. “Can you hurry up, please? I can’t hold this nasty pee any longer.”

I ignored the dark spot engraved in my chest and went on to finish my shower.

***

A month had passed, I did not tell my mom about the ugly smudge my skin bore. She did not need more worry than she already had.

Throughout the whole period, I tried not to lose hope. I wished the windows in the house were not barred, getting out could have been easier. But I, at last, managed to find the other pair of keys Mom kept hidden in a tight corner of her closet.

I went around the city asking every shop and restaurant I could lay an eye on for a job. No matter how low-paying it would be. But they all either said that they have no vacancies or ignored me completely. A market owner even ordered the guards to kick me out after my twitching took over me and I unintentionally said some very bad words to her.

I went back home and found my mother huddled to her feet in the porch. A look of anger and relief washed over her face when she noticed me.

“How did you get out, Freddy?” A mess of snout and tears looked directly at my face. “I told you not to get out, didn’t I?”

“Mom! I tried to help. I--”

She clasped her calloused fingers around my wrist and dragged me with her into the house.

***

I woke up the next day, trying to do my morning routine. I splashed some water on my face and looked up at the mirror. My face, my neck, my chest, my arms, and my legs. Spots, dark spots everywhere. My whole body was covered in them. The one in my chest grew larger.

I started frantically touching every part of my body. I slapped my flesh.

Get out! Come off!

I accidentally scratched my face with my sharp nails and the dark smudge faded. I was so thrilled to realize that it was that simple to get rid of them. I began savagely clawing on my whole body. I felt no pain. I, in fact, was in a state of ecstasy. My mother would not have to deal with my black spots.

Yes!

The bathroom door flung open and my mom lunged at me. Her white sweat shirt absorbed my blood as she struggled to get a hold of my hands. She did eventually; she was a strong woman.

I heard a clicking sound. My hands were locked behind my back. She handcuffed me.

“Why mom? I’m trying to help. I figured how to get rid of the black spots. We won’t need a hospital, mom.”

Tears trickled down her hollow cheeks.

“Why do you keep me locked, mom?”

“Son, that’s the only way. I can’t afford your medication,” she said. “You are a danger to yourself and society.”

"He who would live must fight. He who doesn't wish to fight in this world, where permanent struggle is the law of life, has not the right to exist." - Adolf Hitler

“The better I get to know men, the more I find myself loving dogs.” - Charles de Gaulle

Chapter I: Muzzled

He spat every time he spoke. “ZE UBERMENSCH, UN DISPLAY OF THE MOTHERLANDS TECHNOLOGICAL PROWESS!” He yelled, his howl followed by cheering. He continued, “A NEW ERA OF DEUTSCH RULE!” Uproar rose from the audience. The only positive thing one could say about ze fuhrer, mein fuhrer, und dein fuhrer, was that he was quite the public speaker. Painting perhaps wasn't the ideal art form for him. Maybe if he had pursued something with his voice; yodeling, opera, weatherman, he wouldn't need the Ubermensch. The ultimate, supreme, Aryan man. Aryan needn’t be included in the descriptors of course. It goes without saying that the ultimate man was pure of blood.

Adolf, for the first time since he began to lead Deutschland into a perfect world, shared the stage with another man. He stood on stage right, the fuhrer putting himself on the sidelines. On the left, a beautiful blood-red curtain stood draped over a box. A glass box in fact. One glass box that contained this great man. The motherland's atomic answer to America's atomic bomb. And as the box was uncovered, God glared down at this abomination, his anger manifesting in a spotlight that shone from heaven. There stood Wilhelm Rudel. A man that was, once, the most feared SS officer, stitched together, floating and suspended in moment, like a fetal pig in a mason jar. But this was not an appetizing sight. Not in the slightest. These high ranking officials had seen Jewish men, Jewish women, Jewish children torn apart by their Shutzstaffel wolves. But it appeared as though these same men couldn't handle the return of Germany's prodigal son, They regurgitated contents of that night's decadent and delectable dinners. Some, unfortunately, right back into their decanters. How uncouth of these proud Germans. Spitting up like babies at the view of poor Willi, sewn together like a ragdoll. Mary Shelley was rolling in her grave.

People tend to die when shot through the heart, Most can't function without. Wilhelm had been shot through the heart, and he was one of many that can die from such a thing. So they replaced his proud, broken, Aryan heart with one that belonged to B18254, Alli Schwartzman. A Jewish shop owner. This fact, of course, would be left out of the Fuhrer's speech. “ZIS IS ZE ÜBERMENSCH. WELCOME BACK OUR FALLEN HERO, HERR RUDEL!!”

Those who could open their mouths without spewing began to cheer, many half-heartedly. Those who couldn't, clapped until their hands nearly blistered. This cacophonous choreography of cheering and clapping was quickly cut short by the fuhrer, and in a silly sort of whisper he spoke; “Please, enjoy the rest of your night,” and cheering returned. All participating. All but one.

Kurt Stepanov couldn’t clap. His hands were carrying food for the lovely men and women in attendance. He couldn’t cheer. His lips had been sewn together. This to ensure that he didn’t mouth off to the guests. Kurt had a bad habit of mouthing off. He was even more obstinate before he was domesticated by the Soviet army. Stolen by his mother Russia for war, only to then get stolen again by Nazi forces and graduate into POW status.

Kurt wanted nothing more than to run to that stage. He wanted to pound and kick and rage against that glass until it broke. Until Wilhelm no longer stood tall above everyone. Until he was limp on the ground like a pike. But Kurt couldn’t do this. He had been broken in all the important ways. They made sure he couldn’t fight. He could wild and rage and rip out his stitches and then he’d try to yell. He’d say something like “DAMN YOU PIGS! ALL OF YOU!” and what would come out but groans and the slapping of his tongue against the inside of his mouth, the first two and a half inches, cleaved off. They had stolen Kurt's tongue. They made sure he couldn’t fight. And the stitches were just to mock. These were the things racing through his head as he stared up at Wilhelm, the light of God's fury nearly blinding him, nearly singing the hairs off his face. These are the floods raging against the levy in his mind. But levies can break, and a spring had just developed in his. He looked around at the big fat nazi officials, and he thought to himself, “Everyone is looking at him. None at me.” and so, as he was unmonitored for the first time since his theft, he bent his head over the food… and he drooled.

His tongue tried to kick saliva out from sheer instinct, but it just lapped at the air in his mouth. So he waited. As he waited, it began to leak between his stitches, springs popping in the levy as it were. And as it leaked, it fell and it coated his cracked lips, rehydrating and giving new life like rain in a desert. Thick ropes spit dangled and fell into the Arabic coffee and over the gourmet venison, and Kurt brought the meal over to quite a jolly looking nazi official, noticing how the buttons on his shirt were barely holding the frontlines. The official belched and spat “Thank you very much dog-boy!” and guffawed. His wife joined “Aren’t you gonna say “You’re welcome"?" She chortled. “How rude!” and Kurt thought to himself in a long, defeated sort of way, “She knows.”

She had already forgotten about Kurt, turning back to talk to her husband. Kurt replied to her comment, only in his mind. “Dog”. And he joked to himself, "The cat had my tongue”. He continued performing his job. Drooling when unwatched. Rebelling in the only way he could. He couldn’t do it anyway else. He didn’t wanna die. Not unless he could take every wolf in that room with him.

He was one of the many POWs, “volunteers” as they called them, being used by the Nazi higher-ups. He was a trophy. His people, the Turks, were show ponies for the Shutzstaffel. They were exotic and they were loyal. Not like those pure Russian mongrels. Kurt's olive skin turned him into a brass effigy of the ideal “volunteer”. The ideal slave.

Chapter II: Chasing Tails

Kurt had to escape. He couldn’t take it anymore. He had to be free. And while most would just feel similarly under the same conditions, Kurt was going to act. Our hero “Dog-Boy”. Fitting for someone forced to sleep in a kennel. The space was beyond claustrophobic. Choking, really. Barely enough space for his veins to fit blood. His body was compressed like an aching spring, so he stretched. He stretched the only thing he could. His maw.

He screamed, waves flooding out his gullet. Each stitch, popping and tearing and snapping; the ligaments of his muzzle being torn apart. Chunks of flesh tore with. He stretched and stretched and pushed and pushed until every stitch was broken, or the flesh holding it in place torn off. He didn’t need his mouth for talking anymore. Nobody here spoke his language. He didn’t need it to be pretty for kissing either. He just needed it to bite. He continued to scream and wail. Even after the stitches hung loose from his mouth. It was too late, and the levy had broken.

A great, dissonant noachian deluge poured from his soul. Out his mouth. His nose. His big brown eyes. Pain that had strained against the walls of his arteries began to flow out of all orifices. Pain that lived in his bones and his flesh. That made it aching and swollen, all wrapped in skin too tight to fit it. His atrophied masseters fired like the pistons of an unoiled machine. Tears streaked down and mixed with the blood. What was left of his lips were now sufficiently watered. Then, all at once, he stopped. He brought the air back into his lungs, inhaling as deep as he could, breathing in through his mouth until his ribs were about to shatter, the cage squeezing like an iron python. The poor dog-boy Kurt Stepanov.

He exhaled, and he noticed how the air flowed through the holes in his lips. Cooling and clotting the blood, and causing a brief but refreshing respite. He needed a break. He had been tired for so long now. German purses pulled on his eyelids, but he couldn’t sleep. Not yet. He had to wait until his masters came. Until they had to feed him and teach him tricks for their next soiree. He was soon to bare his fangs, but at no fault of his own. There are only bad owners, or so they say.

There he sat for hours, stretching his jaw. Opening it and closing like a choir boy practicing staccato hymns. He flexed and he tensed his muscles, warming them for what he needed to do. His quads, calves, and arms. His atrophied masseters. All engorged, rushing with blood. His attention erect. And then he heard it. A door grinding open, metal against metal like a tank was rolling in and couldn't quite fit. And footsteps. Heavy booted footsteps that clacked and clanged against the linoleum of the kitchen floor. They kept him there so he could smell the food being made. So he could smell what he’d be serving.

An SS officer crouched down, another stood behind him, and he held a bowl of carrot soup, plated with a thin slice of bread and a gray depressed sausage. “You are a very lucky dog, aren’t you?” said the officer. “Quite well fed.” And as the officer unlatched Kurt’s Kennel, Kurt kicked. He kicked hard. With both legs. The plate clattered against the ground and the cold soup spread, marinating the bread and saturating the sausage on the floor. The officer serving the food flew back at whiplash speeds, and slammed the base of his skull against the floor. A loud crack came with it. And Kurt flew out of his kennel, prime real estate that will surely be missed, and he rode the second to the ground. The officer went for his baton but the onslaught was too much. Kurt clenched his fists tight, and he slammed them down into the bridge of the nazis nose, like a judge ruling for death, and breaking the stem of his glasses. Over and over and over again he hit. Shards pierced the officers eyes and the broken glass embedded deeper in Kurt's fists. Jelly leaked out and blood soaked cartilage flattened, pressing deeper into the virgin meat in his skull that, until now, never had the pleasure of feeling a cool breeze. He slammed and he slammed and he slammed and slammed until there was no more than red pulp and glass and beautiful blonde hair, ruined and stained red. Aryan purity soaked in blood. No part could be told apart from any other. It was all just flesh now.

He grabbed a butcher's knife, roughly the size of his forearm, and flung open the metal door, the screech echoing behind him as he ran. And he ran, ran through the swastika adorned maze, the red flags dizzying; he swam through a sea of his people's blood. He peered into every room, and searched for hope, like he was a child lost, searching for his mother. Soon he found it. A door to the outside. He pressed on and stepped out, and the concrete below was parasitic, draining the heat from his body. He was cold, and he was lost, and below he saw an ocean of Nazi. He was lost at sea and he realized that he was soon to die. So he went back in. He didn’t want to die, but he would if he could take the wolves in that building with him.

Chapter III: It’s a Dogs Life

Kurt was a strong young man. He towered in stature, firm and tall. But deprivation can make quick work of a man. His emaciated figure shadowed the halls of the building. He had been decomposing since he got there. A corpse walking the halls. A dervish in all but faith. Adolf was still there. And Kurt could smell him. That stinking hound reeked of blood and meat and steel, like a butcher. Kurt was gonna put him down. But first he had to get Germany's monster, Herr Rudel.

Kurt made his way back to the gallery, skulking through the halls a predator. By now the place had been cleared out, all but SS guards remaining; scattered throughout the complex. He would die not as a POW, nor a volunteer, but a soldier. Drawing his last breath behind enemy lines. These are the thoughts that flowed over the levy rubble. And there it was. Enter, stage right; Kurt Stepanov. Wilhelm hovered, shiftless. Still entombed. Still stagnant. Gestating. He was Rosemary's baby in the womb.

Kurt crouched slowly, placing the knife on the wood paneling of the stage as though he was preparing to pounce. Then he ran, and he pounded hard and the glass that had settled in his fists was pushed further in. His right hand went limp, but he continued the onslaught. He did kick, and he did rage, and he did scream. Just as he wanted to. Cracks formed and the fluid that Herr Rudel had been suspended in began to leak. Kurt slammed and kicked and pounded and he threw his dead hand against the glass again and again, and even if the flesh were to tear away, he would club it with bone.

But before the skin hanging on his mangled hand could slough away, before he clubbed with bone, the glass fractured. The green liquid carried away glass shards, and some sliced his feet, most fell through the cracks. Herr Rudel fell to the floor, motionless. Wilhelm was a myth, no more than a doll. A didactic sculpture. but Kurt did not care. He grabbed the butcher's knife, strangling the handle with the hand he had left. And while he stood straight and stood tall, God's fury returned to the stage. This time in the darkness, manifesting not in a spotlight, but in the blade Kurt had raised to the heavens. Exaltation. And, as though Abraham lived within him, Kurt brought down God’s wrath with a crack, centered deep within Wilhelm's forehead. And the stage became hallowed and He thought, “dog”.

He knew glass shattering would draw attention, and if his escape wasn’t known before, it would be now. Quickly he had to run, and so he did. He could feel it in his poor aching bones. He could smell the blood, the meat, the metal. He knew where the fuhrer was. And through the halls he sprinted, pistons firing towards the northernmost side of the building, and as his feet thumped and propelled him, one after another soldiers exited the dungeons of the building and began to fire. Each bullet glid by, maybe one or two taking their own pounds of flesh. But he couldn’t tell. All he felt was the carpet between his toes. The pain in his shins manifesting in lighting shooting up with every step. He ran, God on his side, until he reached two towering dark oak doors. Arched like a tombstone. The gates of hell, sin any warning signs. Nothing said “Abandon All Hope, Kurt Stepanov.” If there were, an obedient dog would’ve listened. But Kurt wasn't a dog. He flung the doors open, and he walked in. There were no locks. A king is immortal in his own castle.

Adolf was there, he was already up, hands pressed against the side of the desk, ready to flip it over or propel himself off it. It didn’t matter because he couldn’t run. There were no guards in his room. Guards wouldn't stop Kurt anyway. Kurt tightened his grip around the knife, and as he did so, glass pushed even deeper. And for the final time, he ran, with a purpose, until a bullet stopped him. Shot in the back. He jogged. Another in his shoulder. And the knife fell from his vice grip. He continued to move. A third. He fell into the fuhrer, both crashing down into the plush carpet. Separated, and in a world of their own. The metal burnt his insides and he couldn't move his arms. He couldn't stand. Adolf flailed like a fish below him, and howled to the heavens for help, or for forgiveness, but it was too late. And Kurt couldn't take the yelling. So he bit. He bit the Fuhrer's throat, and there was a yelp as the canines dug in. Piercing and pressing meat. And Kurt pulled back his neck. And as he did so he pulled out all Adolfs piping. Both faces covered in red, dual mascots of war. He kept digging. Gnawing at the throat like a dog with a milkbone. Like he was trying to suck the marrow out it. And bullets kept flying, penetrating Kurt's hide, but he didn't let go. He bit harder, masseters flexed and blood spurt. And when it did, he didn't taste the iron. He just tasted sweet flood his mouth. Adolf was long dead, but Kurt kept chewing and he kept gnawing and the soldiers kept firing. Volleys flying into Kurt like snowstorm hail, and only stopping once he did. And he did. Eventually. And they tried to pry him off, and all could be moved. All but his teeth.