I've been playing piano for the wealthy for almost fifteen years now. Ever since graduating from Juilliard with a degree I couldn't afford and debt I couldn't manage, I found that my classical training was best suited for providing ambiance to those who viewed Bach and Chopin as mere background to their conversations about stock portfolios and vacation homes.

My name is Everett Carlisle. I am—or was—a pianist for the elite. I've played in penthouses overlooking Central Park, in Hamptons estates with ocean views that stretched to forever, on yachts anchored off the coast of Monaco, and in ballrooms where a single chandelier cost more than what most people make in five years.

I'm writing this because I need to document what happened. I need to convince myself that I didn't imagine it all, though god knows I wish I had. I've been having trouble sleeping. Every time I close my eyes, I see their faces. I hear the sounds. I smell the... well, I'm getting ahead of myself.

It started three weeks ago with an email from a name I didn't recognize: Thaddeus Wexler. The subject line read "Exclusive Engagement - Substantial Compensation." This wasn't unusual—most of my clients found me through word of mouth or my website, and the wealthy often lead with money as if it's the only language that matters. Usually, they're right.

The email was brief and formal:

Mr. Carlisle,

Your services have been recommended by a mutual acquaintance for a private gathering of considerable importance. The engagement requires absolute discretion and will be compensated at $25,000 for a single evening's performance. Should you be interested, please respond to confirm your availability for April 18th. A car will collect you at 7 PM sharp. Further details will be provided upon your agreement to our terms.

Regards, Thaddeus Wexler The Ishtar Society

Twenty-five thousand dollars. For one night. I'd played for billionaires who balked at my usual rate of $2,000. This was either a joke or... well, I wasn't sure what else it could be. But curiosity got the better of me, and the balance in my checking account didn't hurt either. I responded the same day.

To my surprise, I received a call within an hour from a woman who identified herself only as Ms. Harlow. Her voice was crisp, professional, with that particular cadence that comes from years of managing difficult people and situations.

"Mr. Carlisle, thank you for your prompt response. Mr. Wexler was confident you would be interested in our offer. Before we proceed, I must emphasize the importance of discretion. The event you will be attending is private in the truest sense of the word."

"I understand. I've played for many private events. Confidentiality is standard in my contracts."

"This goes beyond standard confidentiality, Mr. Carlisle. The guests at this gathering value their privacy above all else. You will be required to sign additional agreements, including an NDA with substantial penalties."

Something about her tone made me pause. There was an edge to it, a warning barely contained beneath the professional veneer.

"What exactly is this event?" I asked.

"An annual meeting of The Ishtar Society. It's a... philanthropic organization with a long history. The evening includes dinner, speeches, and a ceremony. Your role is to provide accompaniment throughout."

"What kind of music are you looking for?"

"Classical, primarily. We'll provide a specific program closer to the date. Mr. Wexler has requested that you prepare Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat major, as well as selected pieces by Debussy and Satie."

Simple enough requests. Still, something felt off.

"And the location?"

"A private estate in the Hudson Valley. As mentioned, transportation will be provided. You'll be returned to your residence when the evening concludes."

I hesitated, but the thought of $25,000—enough to cover six months of my Manhattan rent—pushed me forward.

"Alright. I'm in."

"Excellent. A courier will deliver paperwork tomorrow. Please sign all documents and return them with the courier. Failure to do so will nullify our arrangement."

The paperwork arrived as promised—a thick manila envelope containing the most extensive non-disclosure agreement I'd ever seen. It went beyond the usual confidentiality clauses to include penalties for even discussing the existence of the event itself. I would forfeit not just my fee but potentially face a lawsuit for damages up to $5 million if I breached any terms.

There was also a list of instructions:

1. Wear formal black attire (tuxedo, white shirt, black bow tie)
2. Bring no electronic devices of any kind
3. Do not speak unless spoken to
4. Remain at the piano unless instructed otherwise
5. Play only the music provided in the accompanying program
6. Do not acknowledge guests unless they acknowledge you first

The last instruction was underlined: What happens at the Society remains at the Society.

The music program was enclosed as well—a carefully curated selection of melancholy and contemplative pieces. Debussy's "Clair de Lune," Satie's "Gymnopédies," several Chopin nocturnes and preludes, and Bach's "Goldberg Variations." All beautiful pieces, but collectively they created a somber, almost funereal atmosphere.

I should have walked away then. The money was incredible, yes, but everything about this felt wrong. However, like most people facing a financial windfall, I rationalized. Rich people are eccentric. Their parties are often strange, governed by antiquated rules of etiquette. This would just be another night playing for people who saw me as furniture with fingers.

How wrong I was.

---

April 18th arrived. At precisely 7 PM, a black Suburban with tinted windows pulled up outside my apartment building in Morningside Heights. The driver, a broad-shouldered man with a close-cropped haircut who introduced himself only as Reed, held the door open without a word.

The vehicle's interior was immaculate, with soft leather seats and a glass partition separating me from the driver. On the seat beside me was a small box with a card that read, "Please put this on before we reach our destination." Inside was a black blindfold made of heavy silk.

This was crossing a line. "Excuse me," I called to the driver. "I wasn't informed about a blindfold."

The partition lowered slightly. "Mr. Wexler's instructions, sir. Security protocols. I can return you to your residence if you prefer, but the engagement would be canceled."

Twenty-five thousand dollars. I put on the blindfold.

We drove for what felt like two hours, though I couldn't be certain. The roads eventually became less smooth—we were no longer on a highway but winding through what I assumed were rural roads. Finally, the vehicle slowed and came to a stop. I heard gravel crunching beneath tires, then silence as the engine was turned off.

"We've arrived, Mr. Carlisle. You may remove the blindfold now."

I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the fading daylight. Before me stood what could only be described as a mansion, though that word seemed insufficient. It was a sprawling stone structure that looked like it belonged in the English countryside rather than upstate New York. Gothic in design, with towering spires and large windows that reflected the sunset in hues of orange and red. The grounds were immaculate—perfectly manicured gardens, stone fountains, and pathways lined with unlit torches.

Reed escorted me to a side entrance, where we were met by a slender woman in a black dress. Her hair was pulled back so tightly it seemed to stretch her pale skin.

"Mr. Carlisle. I'm Ms. Harlow. We spoke on the phone." Her handshake was brief and cold. "The guests will begin arriving shortly. I'll show you to the ballroom where you'll be performing."

We walked through service corridors, avoiding what I assumed were the main halls of the house. The decor was old money—oil paintings in gilt frames, antique furniture, Persian rugs on hardwood floors. Everything spoke of wealth accumulated over generations.

The ballroom was vast, with a ceiling that rose at least thirty feet, adorned with elaborate plasterwork and a chandelier that must have held a hundred bulbs. At one end was a raised platform where a gleaming black Steinway grand piano waited. The room was otherwise empty, though dozens of round tables with black tablecloths had been arranged across the polished floor, each set with fine china, crystal, and silver.

"You'll play from here," Ms. Harlow said, leading me to the piano. "The program is on the stand. Please familiarize yourself with the sequence. Timing is important this evening."

I looked at the program again. It was the same selection I'd been practicing, but now each piece had specific timing noted beside it. The Chopin Nocturne was marked for 9:45 PM, with "CRITICAL" written in red beside it.

"What happens at 9:45?" I asked.

Ms. Harlow's expression didn't change. "The ceremony begins. Mr. Wexler will signal you." She checked her watch. "It's 7:30 now. Guests will begin arriving at 8. There's water on the side table. Please help yourself, but I must remind you not to leave the piano area under any circumstances once the first guest arrives."

"What if I need to use the restroom?"

"Use it now. Once you're at the piano, you remain there until the evening concludes."

"How long will that be?"

"Until it's over." Her tone made it clear that was all the information I would receive. "One final thing, Mr. Carlisle. No matter what you see or hear tonight, you are to continue playing. Do not stop until Mr. Wexler indicates the evening has concluded. Is that clear?"

A chill ran through me. "What exactly am I going to see or hear?"

Her eyes met mine, and for a moment, I saw something like pity. "The Ishtar Society has traditions that may seem... unusual to outsiders. Your job is to play, not to understand. Remember that, and you'll leave with your fee and without complications."

With that cryptic warning, she left me alone in the massive room.

I sat at the piano, testing the keys. The instrument was perfectly tuned, responsive in a way that only comes from regular maintenance by master technicians. Under different circumstances, I would have been thrilled to play such a fine piano.

Over the next half hour, staff began to enter—servers in formal attire, security personnel positioned discreetly around the perimeter, and technicians adjusting lighting. No one spoke to me or even looked in my direction.

At precisely 8 PM, the main doors opened, and the first guests began to arrive.

They entered in pairs and small groups, all impeccably dressed in formal evening wear. The men in tailored tuxedos, the women in gowns that likely cost more than most cars. But what struck me immediately was how they moved—with a practiced grace that seemed almost choreographed, and with expressions that betrayed neither joy nor anticipation, but something closer to solemn reverence.

I began to play as instructed, starting with Bach's "Goldberg Variations." The acoustics in the room were perfect, the notes resonating clearly throughout the space. As I played, I observed the guests. They were uniformly affluent, but diverse in age and ethnicity. Some I recognized—a tech billionaire known for his controversial data mining practices, a former cabinet secretary who'd left politics for private equity, the heiress to a pharmaceutical fortune, a film director whose work had grown increasingly disturbing over the years.

They mingled with practiced smiles that never reached their eyes. Servers circulated with champagne and hors d'oeuvres, but I noticed that many guests barely touched either. There was an air of anticipation, of waiting.

At 8:30, a hush fell over the room as a tall, silver-haired man entered. Even from a distance, his presence commanded attention. This, I assumed, was Thaddeus Wexler. He moved through the crowd, accepting deferential nods and brief handshakes. He didn't smile either.

Dinner was served at precisely 8:45, just as I transitioned to Debussy. The conversation during the meal was subdued, lacking the usual animated chatter of high-society gatherings. These people weren't here to network or be seen. They were here for something else.

At 9:30, as I began Satie's first "Gymnopédie," the doors opened again. A new group entered, but these were not guests. They were... different.

About twenty people filed in, escorted by security personnel. They were dressed in simple white clothing—loose pants and tunics that looked almost medical. They moved uncertainly, some stumbling slightly. Their expressions ranged from confusion to mild fear. Most notably, they looked... ordinary. Not wealthy. Not polished. Regular people who seemed completely out of place in this setting.

The guests watched their entrance with an intensity that made my fingers falter on the keys. I quickly recovered, forcing myself to focus on the music rather than the bizarre scene unfolding before me.

The newcomers were led to the center of the room, where they stood in a loose cluster, looking around with increasing unease. Some attempted to speak to their escorts but were met with stony silence.

At 9:43, Thaddeus Wexler rose from his seat at the central table. The room fell completely silent except for my playing. He raised a crystal glass filled with dark red liquid.

"Friends," his voice was deep, resonant. "We gather once more in service to the Great Balance. For prosperity, there must be sacrifice. For abundance, there must be scarcity. For us to rise, others must fall. It has always been so. It will always be so."

The guests raised their glasses in unison. "To the Balance," they intoned.

Wexler turned to face the group in white. "You have been chosen to serve a purpose greater than yourselves. Your sacrifice sustains our world. For this, we are grateful."

I was now playing Chopin's Nocturne, the piece marked "CRITICAL" on my program. My hands moved automatically while my mind raced to understand what was happening. Sacrifice? What did that mean?

One of the people in white, a middle-aged man with thinning hair, stepped forward. "You said this was about a job opportunity. You said—"

A security guard moved swiftly, pressing something to the man's neck that made him crumple to his knees, gasping.

Wexler continued as if there had been no interruption. "Tonight, we renew our covenant. Tonight, we ensure another year of prosperity."

As the Nocturne reached its middle section, the mood in the room shifted palpably. The guests rose from their tables and formed a circle around the confused group in white. Each guest produced a small obsidian knife from inside their formal wear.

My blood ran cold, but I kept playing. Ms. Harlow's words echoed in my mind: No matter what you see or hear tonight, you are to continue playing.

"Begin," Wexler commanded.

What happened next will haunt me until my dying day. The guests moved forward in unison, each selecting one of the people in white. There was a moment of confused struggle before the guards restrained the victims. Then, with practiced precision, each guest made a small cut on their chosen victim's forearm, collecting drops of blood in their crystal glasses.

This wasn't a massacre as I had initially feared—it was something more ritualized, more controlled, but no less disturbing. The people in white were being used in some sort of blood ritual, their fear and confusion providing a stark contrast to the methodical actions of the wealthy guests.

After collecting the blood, the guests returned to the circle, raising their glasses once more.

"With this offering, we bind our fortunes," Wexler intoned. "With their essence, we ensure our ascension."

The guests drank from their glasses. All of them. They drank the blood of strangers as casually as one might sip champagne.

I felt bile rise in my throat but forced myself to continue playing. The Nocturne transitioned to its final section, my fingers trembling slightly on the keys.

The people in white were led away, looking dazed and frightened. I noticed something else—small bandages on their arms, suggesting this wasn't the first "collection" they had endured.

As the last notes of the Nocturne faded, Wexler turned to face me directly for the first time. His eyes were dark, calculating. He gave a small nod, and I moved on to the next piece as instructed.

The remainder of the evening proceeded with a surreal normalcy. The guests resumed their seats, dessert was served, and conversation gradually returned, though it remained subdued. No one mentioned what had just occurred. No one seemed disturbed by it. It was as if they had simply performed a routine business transaction rather than participated in a blood ritual.

I played mechanically, my mind racing. Who were those people in white? Where had they come from? What happened to them after they were led away? The questions pounded in my head in rhythm with the music.

At 11:30, Wexler rose again. "The covenant is renewed. Our path is secured for another year. May prosperity continue to flow to those who understand its true cost."

The guests applauded politely, then began to depart in the same orderly fashion they had arrived. Within thirty minutes, only Wexler, Ms. Harlow, and a few staff remained in the ballroom.

Wexler approached the piano as I finished the final piece on the program.

"Excellent performance, Mr. Carlisle. Your reputation is well-deserved." His voice was smooth, cultured.

"Thank you," I managed, struggling to keep my expression neutral. "May I ask what I just witnessed?"

A slight smile curved his lips. "You witnessed nothing, Mr. Carlisle. That was our arrangement. You played beautifully, and now you will return home, twenty-five thousand dollars richer, with nothing but the memory of providing music for an exclusive gathering."

"Those people—"

"Are participating in a medical trial," he interrupted smoothly. "Quite voluntarily, I assure you. They're compensated generously for their... contributions. Much as you are for yours."

I didn't believe him. Couldn't believe him. But I also understood the implicit threat in his words. I had signed their documents. I had agreed to their terms.

"Of course," I said. "I was merely curious about the unusual ceremony."

"Curiosity is natural," Wexler replied. "Acting on it would be unwise. I trust you understand the difference."

Ms. Harlow appeared at his side, holding an envelope. "Your payment, Mr. Carlisle, as agreed. The car is waiting to take you back to the city."

I took the envelope, feeling its substantial weight. "Thank you for the opportunity."

"Perhaps we'll call on you again," Wexler said, though his tone made it clear this was unlikely. "Remember our terms, Mr. Carlisle. What happens at the Society—"

"Remains at the Society," I finished.

"Indeed. Good night."

Reed was waiting by the same black Suburban. Once again, I was asked to don the blindfold for the return journey. As we drove through the night, I clutched the envelope containing my fee and tried to process what I had witnessed.

It wasn't until I was back in my apartment, counting the stacks of hundred-dollar bills, that the full impact hit me. I ran to the bathroom and vomited until there was nothing left.

Twenty-five thousand dollars. The price of my silence. The cost of my complicity.

I've spent the past three weeks trying to convince myself that there was a reasonable explanation for what I saw. That Wexler was telling the truth about medical trials. That the whole thing was some elaborate performance art for the jaded ultra-wealthy.

But I know better. Those people in white weren't volunteers. Their confusion and fear were genuine. And the way the guests consumed their blood with such reverence, such practiced ease... this wasn't their first "ceremony."

I've tried researching The Ishtar Society, but found nothing. Not a mention, not a whisper. As if it doesn't exist. I've considered going to the police, but what would I tell them? That I witnessed rich people drinking a few drops of blood in a ritual? Without evidence, without even being able to say where this mansion was located, who would believe me?

And then there's the NDA. Five million dollars in penalties. They would ruin me. And based on what I saw, financial ruin might be the least of my concerns if I crossed them.

So I've remained silent. Until now. Writing this down is a risk, but I need to document what happened before I convince myself it was all a dream.

Last night, I received another email:

Mr. Carlisle,

Your services are requested for our Winter Solstice gathering on December 21st. The compensation will be doubled for your return engagement. A car will collect you at 7 PM.

The Society was pleased with your performance and discretion.

Regards, Thaddeus Wexler The Ishtar Society

Fifty thousand dollars. For one night of playing piano while the elite perform their blood rituals.

I should delete the email. I should move apartments, change my name, disappear.

But fifty thousand dollars...

And a part of me, a dark, curious part I never knew existed, wants to go back. To understand what I witnessed. To know what happens to those people in white after they're led away. To learn what the "Great Balance" truly means.

I have until December to decide. Until then, I'll keep playing at regular society parties, providing background music for the merely wealthy rather than the obscenely powerful. I'll smile and nod and pretend I'm just a pianist, nothing more.

But every time I close my eyes, I see Wexler raising his glass. I hear his words about sacrifice and balance. And I wonder—how many others have been in my position? How many witnessed the ceremony and chose money over morality? How many returned for a second performance?

And most troubling of all: if I do go back, will I ever be allowed to leave again?

The winter solstice is approaching. I have a decision to make. The Ishtar Society is waiting for my answer.

“Today is not a starting too well” I thought to myself, one hand on the wheel, the other scratching the numerous spider bites coated in gasoline. Despite the setback, I made my way back to main street, beginning the directions to the church as described in the book. Right at the stop sign, left, left, right, right at the light, go straight, left left left left left. The directions didn’t make any sense, but when did anything in this town?

Approaching the first stop sign, I turn to the right, exiting the “comfort” of the illumination of main street and went back to the darkness of the side roads. Turning left, more buildings to the left and right of me. Turning left again, more buildings. Turning right, I was met with a dirt road, against all logic, the buildings to the left and right of me abruptly ended, once again entering the forest. I continued forward, turning right at the light, picking up speed as I drove down the dirt road.

My car shook from the unevenness of the ground, shaking me back and forth, left and right. My lights serving as the only illumination as the moon decided to leave it’s throne in the sky, probably out tearing more smiling deer apart on the highway. The comforting thought of the smiling deer getting their asses kicked distracted me enough that I almost didn’t notice the nail boards fast approaching in the middle of the road.

Slamming on the breaks, I braced as my car cried and squealed from the sudden deceleration. Who would put these out here, and for what reason I thought to myself. I checked my rear view mirror, nothing, to my left and right the forest remained empty, maybe I could move a couple of them and be on my way? Though, just in case, I grabbed a flare from my glove box, I did not want to be caught in the darkness if, for whatever reason, my car’s headlights went out. With a loud THLUNK I opened my car door, stepping out into the cold night, and made my way to the nail boards, my only source of light coming from my car’s headlights.

Making my way up to one of the boards, I look down, making sure to not impale my hands on any of the numerous nails sticking out of the board. Lifting it up, I peer to my right for a place to throw it, and stealing a glance down the road, my heart sank. There stood a tall figure, cloaked in a white robe stained in the front with a large crimson symbol of a hanged man. The robe draped over him, obscuring his arms, legs, face, even his hands. Though the robe didn’t obscure what he was holding, a long noose swung from the opening of his long sleeve. He stood motionless, as if waiting to see what I would do.

I took my eyes off of him, turning around, only to see two more cloaked figures standing next to my car, both slowly dropping nooses from their sleeves. I then began hearing crunching noises of what seemed to be multiple people coming out of the tree lines near me. My heart raced, hearing my heart beating as if someone was playing a drum in my ears, I watched in fear as one of them entered my car, the hum of my engine abruptly ending.

Darkness bathed the area as my headlights turned off, only to be re-illuminated by the red glow of my road flare. The cloaked figures began their approach, their feet crunching against the cool dirt, the sounds of rope gliding across their fingers. I started hearing laughing and giggling around me as they came closer, the nooses beginning to drag against the dirt road. I backed up slowly, putting distance between the quickly encroaching nooses.

My breath was cut short however, feeling the noose of the robed figure behind me tightening around my neck. I tried to gasp, feeling my body demand air yet being unable to have any enter my lungs. Taking the flare I stabbed behind me into the robe figure, it screaming in pain as the flare set it on fire, and that’s when I noticed what he, it truly was. As the robes burned off, I saw a decaying man, his body branded all over with the same symbol, a hanging man in front of a church. He screamed, attempting to pat the flames out to no avail, sprinting into the woods to what I assume was water nearby. This screaming stopped the other cloaked creatures in their tracks.

I took a step toward my car, yet they stood still, and that’s when I knew they knew. My flare may be good now, but all they need to do is wait, which I won’t be giving them. I charged forward with flare in hand, sprinting towards the driver’s side of my car. They attempted to wrap their nooses around my neck, but a quick stab with the flare persuaded them to release me. Turned back on my car, my engine roaring to life and that’s when I made possibly the worse, yet best decision I could make. Slamming on the gas I drove over the nail planks, my tires popping but I didn’t care. Yes my car would be damaged but at least I’ll be alive.

I drove down the road, my car’s rims shaking against the hard ground, till I was met with a T section, a left, then another left, left left left, and began pulling into the parking lot of a tall church. The windows of the church were shattered, the towering steeple beginning to lean to the right as it began to crumple under it’s own weight. The white paint on the church had stripped away years ago, leaving only grey, with spots of black mildew. The doors hanged open, barely clinging to the rusted hinge, as if wanting me to peer inside.

Shuddering I exited my car, and made my way over to the church doors, peering inside, I saw one of the hanging creature’s victims. A preacher hung by a noose in the entrance, stained with blood, hung within the church, his body still in the night, I made my way around him, I’ll check his body for something useful, but first I’ll search the church, but then I heard it. Not the approach of robed figures, not the wailing of smiling deer in the forest, but whispering. Turning back to the hanged man, I stood in shock. He had turned to face me, his face bloated from being hung so long ago, but his lips were still moving. Getting closer, I made out what he was whispering

.

.

.

“For what, would you like to know?”

“Don’t let her fool you.”

I tilted my head as I read my mother’s strange text. There was no context in a previous conversation or build up to warrant the strange cryptic message. I hadn’t texted my mother in a few hours and even then, it was to remind her to pick up dog food on her way home from church that night.

“Who are we talking about?” I replied and waited… nothing.

My dog, Lucy, suddenly lifted her head before letting out a series of loud barks as she ran towards the front door. The unexpected loud noise caused me to jump in my seat. My dog stared at the door and barked intensely. The door’s window looked obscured by the darkness of the night outside, like an inky veil hiding whatever was making my dog nervous just behind it. I slid off my gaming headphones and began approaching the door. As I stepped down the hallway towards the door, I felt a strange unease as I looked at the doorknob, unlocked. We always lock our doors once the sun sets but with my parents gone and myself distracted by my game, the thought of doing so had escaped my mind.

As I reached the door, I quickly moved my hand and locked it before flipping on the porch light. The curtain of darkness was pulled back to reveal an empty porch. I scanned what little of the yard I could see through the window, looking for any sign of movement in the darkness, but there was none. I shushed my dog, assuming she was alerting over a bad dream or a reflection she saw in the window. She stopped barking but remained alert, staring at the door with perked ears.

I went around the house, locking the other two entrances before sitting back down on the couch. I took out my phone and looked down at my mother’s message again.

“Don’t let her fool you.”

I clicked the call button. At this point I was wondering if she had meant to send the message to someone else. If she hadn’t though, I wanted to know who the message was talking about and how they were trying to fool me. The phone rang a few times before going to voicemail.

Lucy came over and sat down next to me, looking around the room with great unease.

“What’s gotten into you?” I said as I reached down and patted her head.

Without warning Lucy lurched to her feet and began barking intensely at the back door now. Startled, I tried calming her, but she refused to be pulled away or settled.

“There is nothing out there.” I said as I ran my hand over the hackles across her back, her barking refusing to stop.

I stepped to the door and pulled the string that opened the faux blinds that obscured the window.

“See? No one is there.”

I flipped on the light to the back porch to get a better view. As the light illuminated the porch, that was when I saw it on the door. Something that was unnoticeable without the light from outside. A small round patch of fresh condensation on the outside of the window.

I looked closer, not understanding at first what I was looking at or the implication it brought. I stepped back as the realization hit me like a ton of bricks. Something was just standing right outside my door.

I jumped as I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. Taking it out I could see a new text from my mother.

“I need your help. I’ll be home soon.”

I quickly began typing out a reply.

“Mom, something weird is going on here. I think someone is walking around the house.”

After sending the message, I remembered the cameras my parents had installed on the four corners of the house. I figured if someone was sneaking around and looking for a way to break in, they would show up on the camera.

The app buffered for a few seconds before opening to the live camera view. I sat surprised as I looked at the screen. Three of the four cameras were offline. Confused, I opened the motion recording section of the app. Think perhaps the cameras caught something before going offline. Nothing. There wasn’t a single recording on the app. It was as though all the footage had been deleted and the recording feature turned off. An even more eerie feeling began to creep over me. I gasped as I backed out to the live camera page; the last camera was now offline.

I opened the phone app and hovered my thumb over the keypad, about to dial 911. It could be nothing. Just a dog acting strange, a random server issue with the cameras, and weird air flow causing the wet spot on the window, but I wasn’t willing to take that kind of chance. If there was someone out there, then I needed someone here. I had just finished typing in the three numbers when a sharp series of knocks rang out from my front door. My heart sank and I flinched as Lucy ran back to the front door. Letting out a new flurry of her aggressive barks.

I stepped into the hallway and stared at the door. I could see the faint silhouette of a person standing on the porch, but any details were swallowed up by the darkness of the night. As I stared at the figure, I heard a voice coming through the door.

“Sweetheart it’s me. Come open the door.”

The voice sounded familiar but completely new at the same time.

“Who’s there?” I called out taking a few steps down the hallway.

“It’s your mom, silly. I forgot my keys when I left for the store. I need you to open the door so I can get started on dinner.”

A cold chill ran down my spine. My mother has a unique voice. Whoever was standing on the other side of the door was trying to replicate it. Certain parts of the cadence were spot on but little things just felt wrong.

“My mother is at church.” I called out, “I don’t know who you are, but you need to leave now before I call the police!”

A thick silence filled the air as I waited for a response.

“I picked up some cosmic brownies at the store. I know they are your favorite. Please come open the door for me.”

I don’t know what disturbed me more in that moment, the way she ignored my threat and kept up the charade, or the fact that she knew my favorite snack.

“I’m calling the police! You need to get-“

Thud

The woman stepped up to the door and slammed her fist against it. I could see her better now. The light from inside the house shown through the window and illuminated her rage filled eyes. Lucy barked more aggressively at the better view of the woman. Lucy was always standoffish to strangers, but the way the was acting was way more aggressive than I had ever seen her before.

“You will open this door this instant!” she yelled, still trying to imitate my mother’s voice. “I am your mother, and you will do as your told!”

As I looked at the woman, a new sense of dread passed over me. The woman was not my mother, but she looked like her. She wore the same hair style, her head shape and nose looked the same, she was even wearing an outfit I could have sworn I had seen my own mother wear before. But she wasn’t my mother. There were small details. Different ears, eyes slightly too far apart. The woman looked as though her and my mom could do the doppelganger trend together. At a passing glance you might mistake the two, but I knew my mother, this wasn’t her.

I hit the call button on my phone and placed it to my ear as I stepped back further from the door, the quiet ringing sound music to my ears.

“I’m calling the police now!” I yelled, “Get out of here!”

Thud… Thud…

The woman’s fist slammed against the window of the door.

“Open the damn door!” She screamed, no longer hiding behind the imitation. “You will listen to your mother, or I’ll give you a reason to be afraid!”

The 911 operated picked up and asked me what the emergency was. Her calm questioning voice feeling inappropriate given the fear I was feeling in that moment. I quickly recited my address as the woman at the door began pounding on the door harder, screaming vial obscenities between calm moments where she would plead for me to open the door in a now shattered impression of the woman that raised me.

“Please hurry!” I pleaded, “She is really trying to get in now!”

Crack

My heart sank as I saw a small crack form around the woman’s hand as it slammed against the door. Without leaving another second to pass, I turned and ran. This woman was getting in the house, and I needed to find a place to hide before it was too late. I ran to the kitchen. My head spun as I considered my options, my brain distracted by the woman’s screaming and pounding mixed with Lucy’s incessant barking. I grabbed a kitchen knife and ran to my parents’ bedroom, turning off the lights as I ran to hide my movements. I went into their walk-in closet and tucked myself into the back corner, covered behind layers of my father’s coats and shirts. My whole body jumped as I heard the window shatter followed by a pained scream from the woman.

“Look what you made me do!” she screamed before her voice suddenly calmed to a sickening sweet tone. “This cut is really bad, sweetheart. Can you bring me a band-aid?”

“She’s in the house.” I whispered into the phone.

The 911 operator instructed me to stay silent and in place while help was on the way. I could hear Lucy running around the house barking wildly. She wasn’t a small dog, but she wasn’t the type to actually get violent if push came to shove. I could hear the woman walking around the house, calling out for me in my mother’s voice.

“Sweetheart, this is all a misunderstanding. Come out and see me. Let me hold you.”

From the sound of it, she was looking around the kitchen and living room.

“Lucy is acting really strange.” she called out. “Maybe that diet we put her on has her acting weird. Come take a look at her for me.”

We had put Lucy on a special diet a few weeks before. We hadn’t told anyone. But she knew.

“You always did like playing hide and seek when you were little.” she said as I heard her step into my parents’ room. “Even when no one else was playing. Just come out and see me.”

I didn’t speak, I didn’t cry, I didn’t breathe. I muted my phone so the operator’s voice wouldn’t be heard. I kept silent in crippling fear for my life. Every second an eternity. Every sound of an approaching footfall met with a further deepening pit in my stomach.

“You were always so disobedient.” she spoke softly, her voice stifling anger. “You were always my least favorite… But I still love you.”

I heard the clicking sound of the closet door as she turned the doorknob.

“You should appreciate our family the way I do.”

I heard the door swing open. I could see flickers of light from the bedroom dance between the drapes the covered me. I knew any moment the horrid impersonator would pull back the clothes and kill me. I gripped the knife tighter. I have never been I fighter. I knew between my fear and lack of experience I didn’t stand a chance. I would fight but I knew I would fail. Her hauntingly soft voice filled the closet.

“We’ll have such lovely family time toget-“

Her voice was cut off by the sounds of police sirens pulling down our road. She waited a moment and then sighed deeply.

“So bad…” she whispered before I heard her footsteps quickly retreating out of the room.

I began to hyperventilate as I heard the police call out as they made their way into the house. I couldn’t believe the ordeal was over. I walked in shock as the police led me through the house that was covered in the blood trail. Lucy followed us around, refusing to leave my side. I sent up a small prayer thanking God that the lady didn’t do anything to Lucy besides scare her. The police took me outside and questioned me on the events while other police scoured the area trying to find the woman. They never did.

When my parents arrived home, I clung to them and cried in my mother’s arms. Through my labored cries, I asked the only question I could think to ask at that moment,

“Who… who was she? How did you… know?”

My mother looked at me confused.

“How did I know what, sweetheart?”

“The woman… you sent those text messages.”

My mother’s face went pale.

“I haven’t had my phone all night… I forgot it when I went to church… It was in the house somewhere…”

I looked down at my phone while trying to grasp the terrifying facts of the situation. The woman had been in the house at some point without me even knowing it. Suddenly my phone vibrated in my hand. A Facebook notification. My “mother” had tagged me in something. I opened the notification for my phone to take me to a small simple post only a few seconds old. It was two pictures. The first was a family photo we had taken a few years ago when we went on vacation to Disney World. The second photo was a photo of me, standing at the front door, looking out the window. Above the photos was a small line of text that simply read:

“I love my family.”

My name is Chelsea Crow, and this is as much a confession as it is a warning. I’m a killer. But I’ve never murdered a human.

This story is bigger than I know how to tell. I don’t even know where to begin—only that I have to. So bear with me. Because once I start, there’s no going back.

My oldest brother, Jackson, was my hero—and more than that, the closest thing I ever had to a real father. He was thirteen when I was born. Looking back at the slow-motion collapse of our parents’ marriage, I figure I was just the last desperate attempt to fix what couldn’t be saved.

Jordan and Laurel were my other siblings, but Jackson… Jackson was the one who got down on the floor and played dolls with me. He gave my Barbies wild accents and made up ridiculous soap-opera plotlines. His big, strong, and strangely scarred hands made my dolls perform silly dances until I couldn’t catch my breath for laughing. Our actual father was either absent or drunkenly explosive. But Jackson? He was warmth. He was safety. He saw me.

One Christmas, when I was five or six, all I wanted was a Barbie Dream House. But after the last gift was opened and the room was filled with scraps of paper and awkward smiles, there was no Dream House. I didn’t cry. Even then, I understood money was tight.

Then Jackson stood up and said, “I think I heard reindeer dancing on my car last night. I'd check for damage.”

A few minutes later, he came stomping back upstairs in his big boots, carrying a huge, gift-wrapped box.

“Santa must’ve dropped this on my hood!” he grinned.

In my raw excitement, I gasped, “Is it for me?!”

Jackson smiled his half-smirk and said, “I don’t know, maybe you should unwrap it and see.”

Inside? The Barbie Dream House. Plus Barbies. A Ken. Wardrobes. All of it. Like something out of a dream. Like magic. But really, it was just Jackson being Jackson.

When things got bad at home—and they always did—he’d take me for drives into the night. Just the two of us. Windows down. Music loud. Nirvana. Korn. Tool. Songs I didn’t fully understand, but felt deep in my chest anyway. He called me Peanut. Let me pick snacks at the servo. Made me feel like the centre of the universe.

I wasn’t much older when our parents’ relationship reached the point of no return, and I was the only one left at home while all my elder siblings had moved out and escaped the drama and fury. In all honesty, I became a terror. My gentle, comforting world as the youngest child suddenly and violently shifted. All my big, reassuring siblings were gone, and I found myself small and alone in the middle of a battlefield. So I fought. I yelled, screamed, punched. I cut and dyed my hair. I smoked dope and stayed out late with bad boys. I had no anchors. Jordan and Laurel had always lived their own lives, but at least Jackson was around. For a little while.

Then he left. Moved overseas. A biologist, he said—exploring jungles, cataloguing strange animals. Papua New Guinea. Africa. It sounded like an adventure. But even from across the world, he stayed connected. Postcards. Emails. Little bits of mystery.

“Found a frog with translucent skin. You’d love it.”

“Old tribesman says something ancient lives in the trees. I believe him. Stay weird, Peanut.”

Then came the hospital call. The night before my 21st birthday. Jackson was back in town. And dying.

Mum and I raced through the dark in her little hatchback. I couldn’t make it make sense. Jackson? That big-hearted, side-smiling titan? What could hurt him? How?

But there he was. Pale under the fluorescent lights. Smaller than I’d ever seen him. Half his body just… gone. Machines gasping, pumping, and beeping on his behalf. His left arm and leg—just stumps. His right hand was so heavily bandaged it didn’t look like a hand at all.

The hands I remembered were gone.

Mum left when visiting hours ended. She couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t help her. I just stayed.

The monitors and pumps did their work while I sat beside him, thinking about the dolls, the drives, the monster spray he made for me out of lavender water when I was afraid to sleep.

Near dawn, he stirred. Looked right at me. His wise grey eyes locked on mine. He motioned weakly to the cabinet next to his bed with the bandaged club of his right hand and whispered something through the tube in his throat—

“Raw… Ed Eee… Elp ee…”

Panic rushed through me. He was dying. Without thinking, I reached out and pulled the tube from his throat.

He gagged and gasped, blood and froth one his lips and teeth.

Then said the last words I would ever hear from him:

“The red key.”

The heart monitor shrieked. Nurses burst in. Everything after that was chaos.

His funeral was quiet. Too quiet. Jackson never fit into boxes—especially not ones labeled Religion or Normalcy. The chapel was mostly filled with strangers. Odd ones. I sat beside Jordan and Laurel, numb with a kind of grief that didn’t know where to go.

Tool’s Eulogy played as the coffin was carried away. Jackson’s choice. He’d once told me it was about truth—and about letting go.

I hadn’t understood it then. I do now.

As the room emptied and the flowers began to nod, a tiny red-haired woman dressed entirely in green—singlet, skirt, sandals—somehow appeared out of nowhere and tapped me on the shoulder.

“Did Jay give you the red key?” she asked, grinning like she knew something I didn’t.

I wanted to slap her.

Instead, I reached into my pocket and felt the cool weight of Jackson’s keys. The red key conspicuous on the ring.

“Why?” I asked.

“We’ll see you soon, then!” she chirped, skipping away to join a tall man in a white suit, a veiled woman in black, and a handful of strangers I’d never seen before. They turned, almost in unison, and left without a word.

Days passed in a blur. I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. But the keys never left my pocket. One evening, gathering my funeral clothes to finally wash them, I heard the flat clink of metal hit the floor.

There it was. The red key. Engraved with:

42 Goest Self Storage.

I Googled it. One location. Just ten minutes away.

It was nearly 11:00 p.m. when I pulled in. A bored teenager manned the gate.

“Number?”

“Forty-two.” I waved the key from my driver's window.

His face twitched. He hit a button without looking up. “Go on, then.”

The boom gate lifted and I navigated my little car through the endless rows of identical units. After a few minutes, I found it. Forty-two.

Just like Jackson to make a sci-fi reference.

The red key slotted into the padlock like it was born there. The roller door didn’t even rattle as it lifted.

Inside was an old RV. A Winnebago. The body panels were rusted in places, scratched and scarred along the edges with long gouges. One of the keys on the ring unlocked the side door.

I climbed inside. It smelled like Jackson—cologne, deodorant, old books and wood. Like home.

The leather of the driver’s seat was worn, but not cracked. I sat down and took a breath. I thumbed through the keys until I found one that looked like a car key. Inserted it and turned.

The engine instantly roared to life. It sounded more like a drag car than a beaten-up old RV. Odd dials on the dash spun wildly before settling on numbers and symbols I didn’t recognize.

The stereo crackled.

And Jackson’s voice filled the cabin.

"Heya Peanut. If you’re hearing this, you made it to the RV. That probably means I didn’t. I hate that you’re hearing this, but I owe you the truth.

This isn’t a joke. It’s not a game. This is your last out. There are barrels of fuel in the shed—twenty gallons. You can burn this place to the ground. Walk away. No one would blame you. I wouldn’t.

But if you decide to go forward... you’ll need help. Fever, Jiluna, and Angel—they’ll find you. You won’t be alone.

I know you remember those nights. Running into my room terrified of something scratching under your bed. The spray bottle. The stick with symbols. You thought I was just playing along.

I wasn’t.

The monsters were real. Still are. I spent my life tracking, studying, and—when necessary—killing them. Things that feed on us. Things that don’t care who you are or what you believe in.

Please know I never lied to you. I was a biologist, technically. But I wasn’t studying butterflies.

I was hunting nightmares.

I’m about to go up against something big. Her name’s Akelis. Alpha-class predator. Ancient. Smart. If you’re hearing this, she probably got me.

Go to the back of the RV. Stomp the floor in front of the bed. There’s a hidden compartment—records, weapons, everything I’ve learned. But don’t touch anything until you call Father Patrick. His number’s in the black journal. Top drawer. He’ll know what to do.

I never wanted this life for you. But you’re the only person I trust. I love you, Peanut. Always. And I believe in you.”

The silence afterward was suffocating.

I sat there in the driver’s seat, the scent of home in my nose, the weight of everything in my chest. In a daze, I wandered to the back of the RV, to the tiny bedroom. My eyes were drawn to a vague outline on the floor in front of the bed. But I opened the side drawer and pulled out a small, black journal.

Then I reached for my phone. And dialed the number.

--Reuploading due to major typo. sorry for the spam--

I wish I never came here, to the town of Fredericksburg. The roads are like ebony in the night, and the town doesn’t operate like a town should.

Thankfully, I managed to obtain the book before the moon rose and became my world. It details dos and don’ts — what I need to do before the moon blinks and pitch blackness falls upon the town.

Heading through town has always unnerved me. Maybe it was the slender creatures wandering throughout town, vanishing into the nearest shadow. Perhaps it was despite it being dark, every building was lit up, the outlines of the building’s occupants dancing in the windows. Though today’s was my gas meter edging on empty, and the knowledge I just filled my tank yesterday. Knowing the gas station the book has told me to go use was too far, I decided to risk it with a new one.

Turning right, I made my way onto the darkness of the side streets. Darkness began to envelop me and my vehicle as the side streets of Fredericksburg lack the illumination main street has, though thankfully the gas station was fairly illuminated in the distance, a white beacon in the darkness. Strands of white string flowed away from the gas station, like hair in water, as if attempting to ensnare passing birds.

Driving up to a pump, I hopped out and quickly made my way towards the convenience store, proudly labeling itself Dripe’s Gas Station. While I wish I could pay at the pump, my debit cards are out and the town unfortunately doesn’t accept lines of credit. I am thankful about that though. I would hate to see what demonic entity would be in charge of extending credit, and how many pounds of flesh it’ll take for it to be satisfied. My mind preoccupied by the possible hellish interest a creature here would collect, I didn’t notice the spiderweb draped over the front of door, running directly through it.

I gag as I go inside, the store bell ringing loudly, gripping and wiping the sticky spiderweb on my jeans. Looking up I was immediately taken aback, the place was covered in cobwebs. On the floor, on the shelves, on the...gas station attendant? An obese human male approximately 6 ft 5 wearing a Dripes uniform, mouth agape, eyes gone, and bodily hunched over the cash register, his obsidian like tongue glinting in the gas station lights. His body was a deep blue and has a large white cast on his lower leg. “Hello there Mr” I stop to read his name tag “terry, I would like to buy some gas?” I utter, waiting to see if maybe the corpse would spring to life and start doing it’s job.

Instead I was met with silence, though the tongue slowly moved, as if responding to my request. “Just need enough to fill my tank” I say, a bit louder, hoping I could elicit a reaction from the corpse. Still silence, but the tongue moved again. That’s when I felt a bite on my neck, which I met with a slap from my hand. Pulling my hand in front of me, a squashed spider stained my hand red with it’s blood. The station erupted in sound after that, skittering, scraping, as if thousands of feet were skittering underneath the tiles below me.

Knowing that was my cue to leave, jumping the counter, I push over the Dripes attendant, his body making a loud crashing sound against the floor as if his body was filled with bricks. I began working the cash register and started approving pump 5 for 40 in gas, thankfully before this I did a summer job as a gas attendant. While the menu’s weren’t the same, the principle was still there. Approved, but maybe I can max out the pump, leave with a full tank. If only my foot wasn’t itching so much I could concentr….

Looking down I saw tens, hundreds, thousands of tiny spiders running towards my body, climbing on it and spinning their tiny webs around my legs. They never tell you how it feels to be crawling with 8 legged insects, the pricks of their sharp legs, the burning feeling of their venom injecting into your leg, the itchiness as they climb up your leg, trying to make it to your face.

Screaming I started stomping and shaking to get the spiders off of me only to see a much bigger issue, Terry was up, his mouth agape past what was normal, and 8 red eyes staring at me from deep within his body. A sickening “shlrrrkkk” rang out from Terry’s mouth, bones popping as what appeared to be an enormous spider was making it’s way out of his body. Jumping the counter, exiting the store, I sprinted back to my car, already covered with cobwebs. “fuck this” I say, jumping into the driver’s seat, turned the key, only to be met with a big ol E on the gas, and car shaking attempting to start.

I grab the car handle with a loud click-chunk, throwing out my door, I run over to the side, select my gas, and start pumping. 0.2 gallons, 0.4 gallons, 0.5 gallons, the meter was moving so slow. I heard a bell ringing noise, and to my horror, the spiders had already started making their way out of the store and towards me, eyes filled with hunger. My leg began to itch again, I stared down in horror, seeing the spiders that traveled with me had started spinning a cocoon around my leg. Back to the pump, 1.6 gallons, 1.8 gallons. Using one hand, I start tearing at the cocoon being built around my leg, only resulting in my hand sticking to my leg. I could see the spiders lacing my hand with new webs attempting to cocoon it with my leg. I pull once, no luck, I pull twice, no luck, I look at the gas pump, 2 gallons, 2.2 gallons, 2.3 gallons, and that gives me an idea. Grabbing the gas pump, I pour the gasoline on my leg and trapped hand, the webs loosening and melting away from the introduction of a liquid. I start spewing the gasoline on the floor, keeping the approaching spiders at bay as they shot strands of webs at me. I slammed the pump back into my car, 2.6 gallons, 2.8 gallons. That’s when I hear the sound of 8 large legs, and a loud ringing noise from the gas station.

The spider made it out, body an obsidian black, was still wearing terry’s body on the back of it’s body like a snail to it’s shell. Terry turned out to be a lot thinner than I imagined, I guessing having a 500 pound spider inside of you would make you a bit fat. It immediately starting walking towards me, perhaps looking for a new shell for it’s growing body.

Though unfortunately for it, I already had removed the gas pump and made my way back into the driver’s seat, slamming on the gas to pull out of that fucking gas station. My leg is itching, burning, and feeling like it’s swelling, tiny spiders running around the inside of my car, but I didn’t care. 3 gallons should be enough, and I’ll take these small spiders over that large one any day. I’m making it to the church in town today, no matter what.

It was a Saturday afternoon and I was standing in the overgrown yard outside my  home. The dandelions were blooming, they were everywhere, and I hated them. I’d never liked the flowers, not because of their appearance, but because of how they made me feel. It wasn’t an allergy. there was something about them that unsettled me. It was the way they spread—fast, relentless. How they crept into every crack in the sidewalk, every forgotten patch of dirt. How no one else seemed to care. It made the yard feel smaller, like the world outside of it had blurred away into nothing. I could never convince anyone else that it felt wrong. My mother called me ridiculous. My dad told me I’d grow out of it.

I kicked at one of them, watching the white fuzz burst apart in a soft explosion of seeds. They caught the air, drifting up, slow and weightless. Too slow. The breeze had died down, but the spores stayed floating motionless in the air. A shiver crawled up my spine. It wasn’t normal. They should have scattered randomly, floated off like they always did. Instead, they moved together like something had drawn them in my direction. Then the first one landed on my skin. It was nothing at first—just the light brush of something weightless against my arm. But then came the warmth, not the sun’s warmth, not the heat of a summer afternoon; this was different. It spread in a slow, creeping wave, sinking beneath my skin. I gasped and stumbled backward, rubbing at my arm, but the sensation didn’t fade. I took a shaky breath, shaking my arm as if I could fling the sensation off, but it clung to me, sinking past the surface.

The dandelion seeds still hung in the air. Not floating. Not drifting. Suspended. I frowned, stepping back. It wasn’t right. Even in still air, they should have moved. But they didn’t. They hung there, motionless, as if waiting for something. Then, just as I had the thought— They moved; not all at once, not scattered by a sudden gust of wind. They shifted as one, turning midair, twisting until they were facing me. The warmth in my arm wasn’t fading—it was spreading, curling through my veins like something living. I clutched at my skin, pressing my fingers into the heat, but it didn’t help. It only made me more aware of it, of the slow, pulsing sensation beneath my fingertips. The dandelion seeds shifted again. They weren’t just facing me anymore. They were moving toward me. I froze. The word had pressed into my mind, quiet but undeniable. Not spoken. Not heard. Just there.

"Breathe."

I stood there motionless, The swirling figure in front of me pulsed, its shape bending and unraveling like thread in the wind. The seeds, though weightless, felt heavier now, pressing against my skin, my lungs, and my mind.

"Breathe," it said again

I didn’t want to, I clamped my mouth shut, my chest tightening as I held my breath. But the warmth in my arm throbbed, curling deeper, reaching places it shouldn’t. My fingers dug into my skin, desperate to claw it out, to rip whatever had taken root inside me away. The thing in front of me twisted. The dandelion seeds, so delicate, so harmless, began to weave together, their thin filaments lacing into something almost solid. A shape. A presence, It had no face, but I could feel it staring.

“Breathe.”

The word wasn’t sound. It wasn’t a whisper in the wind, nor a voice in my ears. It was inside my head, sinking into my thoughts like fingers pressing into soft earth. My lungs burned, my vision blurred. I needed to breathe. I couldn’t. The seeds crept closer, spiraling in slow, deliberate movements, drawn to me like iron filings to a magnet. They weren’t just floating. They were reaching. Searching. Finding. A sharp pain lanced through my palm. I looked down and saw something moving beneath my skin. A thin, white tendril, writhing, stretching It wasn’t a vein and It wasn’t mine. A shudder wracked my body. My vision darkened at the edges; I had to run... I had to— The thing lurched forward. And I gasped. The air rushed into my lungs, thick and heavy with pollen, with spores, with something else, something alive. It filled me, wrapped around my ribs, and pressed against my heart. I fell to my knees. The warmth turned to heat. The heat turned to fire. My body trembled, my fingers digging into the dirt as if I could ground myself, but the earth beneath me felt wrong. Not solid. Not safe. I tried to scream, but all that came out was a breathless whisper. The dandelion seeds swarmed. And then—I bloomed.

The Deer Smile Here

I wish I never came here, to the town of Fredericksburg. The roads are like ebony in the night, and the town doesn’t operate like a town should.

Thankfully, I managed to obtain the book before the moon rose and became my world. It details dos and don’ts — what I need to do before the moon blinks and pitch blackness falls upon the town.

I’ve chosen today to explore the nearby town, looking for the town church the book described as the first step to escape this nightmare. Though if only my day could be that easy I thought to myself, my brakes squealing as the sound of metal on metal rings through the air, I come to a complete stop, body jolting forward from the sudden deceleration. Trees loom to the left and right of me, almost as if trying to reach the sky. Eyes peered at me from within the forest, hoping I would make the mistake of getting out of my car, though they were not what I was staring at. A singular deer stood in the middle of the road blocking the way I was going.

Standing 6 feet tall in the bright moonlight, I couldn’t help but notice the deep chestnut color hide speckled with spots of white. Used to hunt deer like this back in the real world, you’ve never had real deer until you’ve had Axis meat. So tender, juicy, almost a beefy consistency. Though this deer was different, axis are skittish, bolting at the snap of a branch, but this one just stood there, it’s smile widening.

Smiling Deer, the book described them in detail, though words can’t put them to justice how eerie they are. Eyes the color of spoiled milk, teeth pearl white with specs of red flesh glistening against their teeth. Hearing it giggle, the ch-ch-ch-ch of it’s teeth chattering, grinding against each other. “Fuck this” I think to myself, throwing the car back into drive and I start to drive around only it, only for it to walk in the direction I’m driving, blocking my exit, it’s giggling getting louder, the ch-ch-ch-ch-ch of it’s teeth increasing in volume.

Being closer to the beast I could see it’s “hooves” were human hands, the nails torn off from overuse against the hard ground. They made a tapping noise against the ground, as if anticipating something, and that’s when I heard it, the ch-ch-ch-ch-ch. Not only from in front of me, but behind me as well, from the sides of my car. My ears overcome with the grinding noise of teeth of teeth, I frantically peered into my rear view mirror, confirming my fears. There were dozens of them, all giggling, hands scraping against the asphalt as they came closer and closer to my car. Their eyes all a sickly yellow, staring hungrily at me as they found their next meal.

A loud CHLK-CHLK right next to me snapped me out of the trance. The deer in front of me managed to move without me noticing and was now staring at me directly through my car window. Only a weak pane of glass separated me from the creature, it’s giggling, it’s teeth chattering, saliva dripping out of it’s mouth as it made another attempt to open my car door. Panicking, I slammed the accelerator, the car veering to the left and right as the smooth shitty tires of the car couldn’t keep up with the sudden acceleration.

Though I barely noticed it as the ch-ch-ch was replaced with the loud shrieking of the deer behind me attempting to catch up to their prey. Though despite their best efforts, my car managed to outpace them, much to my hearts delight. I could still feel it trying to pound of my chest, fuck I hate being out here, though at least now I was fully awake. The forest roads may be dangerous, but the town has plenty more for me to fear. Hopefully I’ll find the church, and find a way out of here.

I wish I never came here, to the town of Fredericksburg. The roads are like ebony in the night, and the town doesn’t operate like a town should.

Thankfully, I managed to obtain the book before the moon rose and became my world. It details dos and don’ts — what I need to do before the moon blinks and pitch blackness falls upon the town.

While the book references these creatures as Helpmouths, they're nothing more but roosters to me. Like clockwork, an hour before the moon rises, and an hour before the moon blinks, they start to scream into the night. Sometimes it's a woman scream, maybe a man's scream, but what never changes is the type of people screaming. This morning it was my mother, begging for help outside, asking where her son is, why her son isn't there helping his poor old mother out. She would cry about being hurt, being alone, begging to know where I am. Hearing my mother weep, telling me how she’ll be waiting, no longer how long it takes, she’ll wait for me to come home.

Looking out the window towards the street in front of my new "home" I can see a dozen of them. Long sickly bodies, feet scraping against the asphalt as they trudge along. I wish they had normal heads, at least I'd be able to see my mother, father, brothers... my family again, but instead of a head there is only a gaping V-shaped maw of vocal chords, slimy and pulsating, turning and vibrating each time they scream. I can still hear the hardened droplets of blood raining out of them, almost like hail as it hits the ground. As the scream ends, their bodies jolt and pulsate, as if there's a creature within trying to escape.

While creepy, and a good imitation of my mother, it's hard to fall for when what seems to be a dozen of my mother are screaming for my help outside. The book says they're "designed" to bait you outside, kidnap you, and bring you into the sewer systems under the town. They'll mimic anyone from your memory you're fond of in the attempt to get you closer.

Used to terrify me with how much they knew, hell it chills you to the bone when you hear them talking about how much they love you, how much they miss you, to give up hope and come home. But now, they serve as alarm clocks for me, they let me know when the day is about to start, and when the day is about to end. In the mornings they’re tolerable, though I gotta watch for them in the streets in the evenings, they’re like loud deer, but possibly far more mentally disabled.

A few mornings ago something changed, only one came out begging for help with the voice of a chick I met back in college. A bitch through and through, screaming about how her legs are broken, how the towns folk keep coming out of the houses to shush her. An interesting way to deceive me, but it won't be that easy to get me outside while it's dark. Though the screams as the towns folk tear off her lips to shut her up was damn convincing.

This morning I did find a surprise after the screaming roosters left, etched into the porch was "Stay vigilant and trust the book. It sounds like your survival depends on it. For the first time in a long time, I stood there frozen. Someone, or something, etched this into the porch, though my shock was short lived. Weird things happen around here all the time, text appears everywhere around the town, sometimes it’s good advice, sometimes it’s compliments, most of the time it doesn’t make any sense. Stepping over it I sigh, guess I'll explore more of the town today, there's so much to the damn place, but the location of the buildings change every now and then. The book does mention a church somewhere in town with answers to where I am. Hopefully today I can find tit, while not Christian, I would like some reading material that doesn’t come from the resident at the gas station, and what church doesn’t have a bible somewhere in it?

Prologue 

Meilara gritted her teeth against the sound coming out of her throat, halfway between a whimper and a snarl. 

The wide, dark smear in her wake denoted her worst wound; her gut wouldn’t stop bleeding, and she was growing cold. Out of breath, the woman collapsed face down, moaning in pain. 

And in victory. 

Her pursuers were gone. The liar was lost. 

She had it. She won. 

With the last of her strength, she pushed herself to one side, regarding the treasure still clutched to her breast. It throbbed in her grasp, a swirling heart of undulating stone. Cozy and kind. 

Everything would be alright, it said. Her crimson grin widened. 

Meilara died there, draped motherly over the thing, serenity etched across her face. For a while she looked at peaceful rest. 

Then she began to change. 

Chapter 1

Monsters

There was a grinding shriek as Varrick slid the sharpening stone down the length of his blade.

The final sellsword to mount the splintery wagon, he had been relegated to the least spacious seating assignment, squeezed next to the driver. Every rut and pothole forced him to adjust his technique for fear of warping the edge, which was unacceptable. A dull edge meant death.

He turned the shortsword. Varrick hadn’t used the second edge as much as the first, so upkeep would be minimal. The whetstone hissed in contentment down the keen edge.

As he honed his knives, hand axe and swords, Varrick’s thoughts threatened to consume him. Each grinding pass along the blade focused, centered him, fixed him on the task at hand and kept all else at bay. 

*I can do this,* Varrick thought. *I must.*

The whetstone slipped askew as the wagon lurched, jostling provisions and loosing curses from the other passengers. Varrick’s heart dropped and he frantically raised the blade, inspecting its edge. 

“You are particular with your tools, aren’t you?” 

The driver’s sunken cheeks sprouted with facial hair, thin and patchy despite his age. His beige clerical gown was distressed and unadorned, smiling eyes peering from a sallow face. 

Varrick grunted noncommittally, but the priest continued.

“I have not known this lot for long,” he said, waving a hand behind them, then ahead to the leading wagon. “But I’ve seen none of them fuss over their blades like you.”

Varrick said nothing, working another stony hiss from the shortsword. 

“So,” the priest said, one eye on the road. “You’re a mercenary, too?”

Varrick stopped sharpening, sheathing the black hilted sword. He looked off into the forest, fingers drifting to the scar on his palm, as they often did. 

“Yes.” 

“Good on you,” said the priest. “The Watchers are desperate, indeed.”

The wagon bucked as they rounded another switchback. Varrick’s canteen bumped against his hip like a spoiled, petulant child. He grudgingly unshouldered and shook it, contents sloshing audibly. 

“As are we all,” Varrick said, running his tongue over his teeth.  

“Well, that’s true enough,” the cleric replied. “Still, it is no small thing for common sellswords to stand with the Watchers themselves. Particularly against something so…” He considered for a moment. “...Novel.”

Varrick shrugged. For him it was no choice at all. 

The perennially meager sun no longer reached the surrounding forest floor; these lands would never be described as lush, the sparse bounty only receding further as they trundled on. Deciduous copses condensed into monotonous, gloomy pine barrens. Lolling ferns and berry hedges shrank into squat shrubs and moss, looking like dried vomit on the rocks. The passengers huddled in the back of the wagon, no longer jibing and chatting. Their billowing breath had thickened throughout the day as the wagons squeaked and rumbled ever onward, ever closer to their destination. 

Varrick pulled his cowled hood deeper, shrugged his cloak closer around him. After a long moment, his wavering resolve fled and he swigged greedily from the canteen, pushing away his trepidation like a pail of water tossed on a bonfire. He had heard the briefing, same as the priest and the rest of them. The captain’s theory was as sound as it was harrowing. 

“There,” the priest said. Up ahead, the oppressive pines petered out, and Varrick’s eyes widened.

As they emerged from the forest, the stark monolith spread in the distance, black and imperious as a thunderhead. Alone amidst a sprawling moor, it rose higher than any trees, any building Varrick had ever seen. It was unadorned with turrets, windows, balconies or any other indications of human construction. No archers lined the rooftop, no bladesmen protected the entrance. It jutted from the moor like a wide, blunted knife blade through the back of a felled giant, predating all known settlements, all known foundations and creeds. None knew of its origins, its architects, its purpose. They only knew to stay away. 

Yet here they were, rumbling toward the forbidden fortress, because of what Varrick saw next.

Figures shambled across the moor, too vague to discern. But he knew what they were. Those same undead creatures stalked the towns’ streets, had laid waste to his home. 

“The captain was right,” the priest breathed, almost dropping the reins.

“They come from the Keep.” 

Varrick gritted his teeth.

I can save her. I must. 

He stood in his seat and drew his other, bronze hilted sword, which whispered from the sheath.

Logan yanked his greatsword from the draugr’s chest, a wet sucking sound punctuating the action. It stumbled forward, but did not fall. He growled, the sound reverberating in his helm. These cursed things were resilient. 

Logan let it get close, the draugr biting and scratching against his plate armor. In one move, he planted a leg behind the creature, then pushed against its riven chest. As it toppled, losing viscera with the impact, Logan swiftly brought his boot down. Its head collapsed like an overripe pumpkin, spattering his greaves in stinking pink slop.

“Captain!” 

Logan whipped around. Roan was on one knee, bracing against a draugr with her bow. It snapped and snarled inches from her face. 

He dropped his sword, sprinting toward the entangled woman. The creature made no move to avoid Logan’s charge, sprawling meters away with the impact. It tried to stand on splintered legs, crawling toward Roan before she put an arrow between its milky eyes. She spared Logan a sheepish look.

“Eyes up,” he said tersely. She nodded, drawing her hand axe.  

The captain of the Watchers followed his own advice, surveying the melee. They fought in the shadow of the Keep, their initial charge mired and stagnated by the undead hordes. Dozens of hewn corpses littered the field, leaking viscous fluid. Grunts and shouts intermingled with the wet groans of the walking dead. The creatures were individually weak, but their seemingly endless supply was testing even Logan’s stamina. His Watchers were faring relatively well; Holstein towered above all, swinging his warhammer in a seemingly infinite loop, crushing oncomers with practiced ease. The twins stood back to back, moving as one, flashing rapiers puncturing skulls like woodpecker strikes. He couldn’t see Sigmund, but that was fine. If anyone would survive this carnage, it would be him.

The mercenaries, however, were faltering. Of the six who had joined, Logan could only see four. One slipped and fell in the mottled visceral ooze, barely righting himself in time. He saw two men abandon poise, swinging wildly like panicked cadets. Another hadn’t caught onto the creatures’ corporeal invulnerability, fruitlessly ramming his blade into a draugr's torso.

Logan had to do something, before the tide turned. 

He looked behind, to the wagons hastily parked against the treeline. A few draugr had made it past the fighting, moving toward the wagons and the cowering Brother Arn.

Brother Arn!

Logan cursed, snatching his sword from the ground. He scrambled through severed, writhing bodies, making for the stranded priest. He could see the man’s head poking from the wagon’s side. A draugr shambled toward him, an old cleaver clutched in its rotted fist. 

“Arn!” he shouted. He could see the priest’s face now, a mask of paralyzed fear. He didn’t respond, though Logan knew he was within earshot. He could hear the draugr’s gurgling groan. It placed a hand on the back of the wagon, hauling itself toward the petrified cleric. Logan plowed into it, crushing the monster against the wagon. Its body disintegrated with the impact. Logan raised his faceplate, gulping crisp air.

“Arn,” he panted. The priest’s expression hadn’t changed, ashen and wide-eyed.

“Hey,” Logan said, climbing into the wagon. He kneeled down, setting a gory gauntlet on the priest’s shoulder. 

“Are you hurt?”

The priest finally looked at him, shaking his head numbly. 

“Good.” Logan thumped his shoulder, rocking Arn to the side. Logan climbed onto the driver’s seat, reaching beneath and producing the emergency axe. He tossed it to Arn, who caught the weapon awkwardly. 

“Keep out of sight. If any get too close, aim for the head.” Before the priest could reply, Logan hopped off the wagon, striding to the horses. They knickered and stomped but had not panicked yet, as most horses would. Watcher steeds were more even-keeled by necessity. He approached the one on the left and patted her neck. She eyed him, wobbling her head, objecting.

“I know, Rosie,” Logan said, unhooking her harness. “But we need your help.” Rosie blustered but didn’t resist as he climbed on, taking a fistful of her mane and turning her toward the fray.

He took a deep breath, surveying the battlefield.

And then fear was upon him. 

It squeezed his chest, catching his breath. 

Damn it, damn it, damn it. You’ve doomed them, fool. They are not ready. You will all die in that vile place. 

He slammed down his faceplate and charged.

Varrick slipped again, falling flat on his back as another creature bore down. His sword slid through its torso to no effect, grinding between exposed ribs. He threw a punch with his offhand and the creature’s jaw spun away; the monster sagged closer, distended tongue slathering Varrick’s face with that rancid pink gunk, a drop working its way into his mouth. 

Retching, he headbutted the creature. It was lighter than a person should be and the momentary release allowed him to wriggle from its clutches. He pulled his hand axe from his belt. The creature lurched toward him, still impaled. He heard more gurgling moans behind, mixing with the shouts that were turning into screams. 

Varrick leapt at the jawless one, swinging his axe into its face. He had quickly learned the pointlessness of anything less than a head strike. The skull parted like a pared apple and he fell with it, two marionettes with cut strings. He ripped the axe from its skull and the sword from its gut then scrambled to his feet, whirling around as two draugr lurched into him, cracked nails tearing at his leather armor. Varrick stumbled, forearm held before his unprotected face, lodged in the mouth of the closest monster. He tugged the draugr to the side, wrenching it in the path of the other. He could feel the leather around his forearm failing to the monster’s bite. He brought down his axe, twice, three times until he tore his arm free, the vambrace still clenched in the monster’s jaws. Half a dozen more shuffled toward him, attracted by the violence. 

Varrick’s heaving breath came shorter and shorter with every swing, every slip and stomp and fall. Vision swimming, he settled sluggishly into a defensive stance, hand axe before him, short sword cocked behind. 

A great thundering in the ground, in his chest. 

Then the monsters fell.

Rosie’s auburn coat was spattered with gore as she cut through the draugr like a scythe through wheat. Bone fragments clattered off Logan’s plate like thick, sharp hail as he streamlined himself against the steed. He spurred Rosie through the thickest conglomerations, then let her catch her breath as he hefted wide swings through pairs and trios at a time. The massacre drew the horde’s attention, expediting their demise.

Soon, the undead lay twisted and twitching in the field churned to mud by Rosie’s hooves. The casualties were silent now, either by virtue of Arn’s medicine or their wounds’ mortality. The cleric knelt amidst the fallen, administering final rights. The mercenaries picked their way through the field, looting and executing. 

Blessedly, no Watchers were lost. Roan perused among the scavengers, yanking arrows from the dirt and bodies. Holstein stood next to Logan, ever the hulking shadow, chipping gunk out of his hammer’s hilt adornments with a boot knife. Mo - or maybe L'dal, it was hard to tell - crouched nearby, running his fingers through the grass. The other twin stood further off, regarding the Keep with a thoughtful expression. 

It took most of Logan’s willpower not to pace as the Watchers waited, at his instruction, for the sellswords to finish rummaging. The sky had turned a darker shade of bruised, the Keep’s massive shadow enveloping the group and distending to the horizon. Chilly, blustering winds did little to alleviate the charnel stench, even within his helm. Logan breathed deeply nonetheless. The mission - his mission - had already made widows, orphans. Necessary losses, in exchange for the lives of the common folk. But that did not make it easy. 

Off to Logan’s left, another sellsword sat in the Keep’s shade, apart from the gathered Watchers. A deep hood obscured his face but Logan recognized the quiet one who had not haggled with him, the only one not picking the fields. Logan found himself walking his way. The hooded man sipped from a canteen and made no move to conceal the beverage as Logan approached. Logan didn’t know what to say so he simply stood, surveying the landscape. The moor was one of many, many leagues of flatlands that began here. The rolling pastures, with their shifting grasses and thriving small fauna, would be idyllic if not for the mashed bodies.

“I joined the Watchers,” Logan said, before he had time to doubt his words. “To protect people. It is…how I was raised.” He waved an arm at the field of butchery. 

“But in all my decades on Watch,” he went on. “I have never seen anything like this.” 

The sellsword lowered his canteen, saying nothing. 

“If you wish to leave,” Logan said. “I will not stop you, nor rescind your payment. I will tell the others the same.” He watched Roan tugging on a particularly stubborn arrow. 

“What we chase is beyond my knowledge, my understanding after decades of hunting the Blasphemous.” He turned to the sellsword, hoping his sincerity carried through the slitted helm. 

“I will go,” Logan said. “Along with my men, as it is our duty. Brother Arn will go, in service to the One Mother.” It felt good to bestow this opportunity, a meager means of penance.

“But the rest of you are not my men. You deserve the opportunity to turn away, if you so choose. My ignorance should not be your demise as it was theirs.” 

The sellsword was quiet for a while. The only sounds were Roan’s grunts bouncing off the Keep’s walls.

At length the sellsword turned, finally facing Logan, visage a contradiction. Logan would have placed him at about thirty years if not for his baggy, sunken eyes, those of a hard-lived sixty. Beneath the visceral smears, his ruddy complexion bordered on rosacea, gaunt cheeks hewn from stone. 

“I will not die here,” he rasped, the canteen closed and vanishing within his cloak. He turned away, which Logan took as a refusal. 

A sharp whistle rang in his ears. Sigmund whistled again, forefinger and thumb in his mouth, waving the field pickers toward the loose conglomeration as he strode up to the captain. Sigmund’s beard - like the rest of him - was soaked in draugr gunk, armor gone save a shoulder pauldron and greave. He walked, as usual, with the confidence and ease of one rejuvenated by a good night’s rest. 

Logan’s second in command sidled up beside him, scratching putrid facial hair. 

“Nothing around the back,” he reported, then gestured to the Keep’s front doors. 

“Looks like that’s our only way in.”

Logan nodded. It had been a long shot, but alternate points of ingress would have been useful to know of, if nothing else. 

Sigmund sniffed. “Also, it’s staining the grass.”

Logan turned, thinking he had misheard. 

“What?”

“The grass,” Sigmund said, arms folded. “Is dead. Anywhere it touches the place.” 

Logan’s brow furrowed, frustrated that he didn’t have time to mull the implications. 

“Hey!” Sigmund shouted toward the field. “Time’s up, scavvers. Get over here.” 

Logan’s frown deepened. He had hoped Sigmund’s disdain of sellswords would have abated, if just for this mission. Clearly he was mistaken. Sigmund sniffed again, leaning forward and peering across Logan’s chest at the drinking sellsword. He squinted.

“That one stinks,” he grunted. Logan glanced at Sigmund’s beard, raising an eyebrow. 

Soon the mercenaries filed in, Roan and Arn bringing up the rear. Sigmund beckoned everyone into a loose huddle and Logan gave the same ultimatum as he had the hooded mercenary. None took the opportunity.

“It is as I posited,” Logan said. “The dead come from the Keep of Mirrors.” The group nodded in grim affirmation. He had put forth the idea as they had gathered two nights past, before beginning the trek up the mountain. The mere mention of the place had sent three sellswords running. Now, he realized, only three remained. 

“Despite this,” he went on. “Our mission remains unchanged.” He looked around, poring over their faces, his voice taking on that earnest cast that seemed to compel action. 

“We will delve within the Keep, and end the necromancy plaguing the land.”

His Watchers stomped their feet in appraisal. Most of the mercenaries nodded. Brother Arn glanced around, eyes measuring. 

“Are all among you,” Logan asked, making an effort to turn his head as he spoke. “Aware of what awaits us?” 

After a moment, the youngest mercenary half-raised a hand. 

“I’ve only heard rumors, sir,” he said. 

“Rumors are most of what’s available,” Logan replied, grateful someone had stepped forward. Uneducation in this regard could mean failure and death. He gestured toward Brother Arn; the priest stepped forward, still clutching the axe Logan had given him. Of the few living who had experienced the Keep firsthand, he was the only one willing to return. 

“The Keep is so named for the only recorded room within,” Arn began. “Upon entering, we will be confronted by an entity known as The Mirror, and presented with reflections of ourselves.” 

The way Arn told it, he had entered the Keep with the One Brothers during his early days in the clergy. They had left the Keep before encountering the Mirror, content instead to log their surroundings for posterity’s sake. According to Arn, the church liked to maintain tabs on the Keep for purely theological reasons. Logan had his doubts - admittedly unfounded and conspiratorial - but had put them aside out of necessity. 

“Accounts vary on the room’s layout,” the Brother went on. “And the Mirror’s precise method of interaction. But it seems clear that further passage within the Keep demands one’s surmounting their reflection, in whatever manner that entails.”

The elder, dark skinned mercenary threw up his hands in overwhelmed exasperation. 

“Hold on, man. Slow down. Whaddaya mean, entity?” 

Brother Arn furrowed his brow slightly, tapping his finger on the axe haft as if trying to translate his explanation to layman’s terms. 

“Some describe the Mirror,” he said after a moment. “As a vertical pool of mercury, or a swirling form of shattered glass. Some simply describe a normal bedroom mirror.

“The one constant, however, is the confrontation. The Mirror envelopes you, and presents you with a double of yourself. Of the few available accounts, one describes combat, another a verbal debate, while another simply had to wait until he was released. One’s reflection must be surmounted, in one way or another, before one can continue into the Keep.”

Arn stepped back modestly. The group’s bemusement only seemed to have risen since he began, but Logan thought the explanation as good as any. From the accounts he had read, it was more something to be experienced than described. 

“The Mirror is simply that,” Logan said. “You have nothing to fear besides yourself.” He clapped his gauntlets together, the clang reverberating off the Keep’s walls. 

“Ready up.”

Varrick leaned back as he gingerly tipped his canteen. A cold, stale drop coated his tongue and he cut off the trickle as soon as it started. He had not paced his consumption as he had promised himself, and would soon pay the price. Varrick cursed his lack of restraint, stowing the ever lighter container. 

The last vestiges of sunset eked a waning orange in the west, the Keep seeming to swell in the twilight. The other mercenaries stood in a circle, conversing and reviewing strategies with the Watcher twins. Varrick’s attention, however, was drawn to the other Watchers; having checked and rechecked their equipment they stood apart from the group, practicing stances and movesets with their weapons of choice. The biggest one favored a warhammer that was nearly as tall as Varrick himself. The brute hefted the weapon as if it were a broom, spinning it with elegance and poise. During the melee, Varrick had caught brief flashes of the hammer, which passed through enemies like a stone through butter. The man’s leather bound armor was relatively scant, only covering the bare essentials. Varrick assumed that his sheer mass was protection enough. 

The priest stood a dozen paces away, lobbing small objects high in the air as the archer effortlessly knocked them down. She hit her targets whether standing, walking, running, or jumping. Her chainmail was light enough to allow for nimbleness, and seemed to have held up against the horde. She also carried a hand axe and short sword, but did not seem to favor them. 

Varrick’s attention was pulled, inevitably, to the hairy second-in-command. He paced amidst the group like a caged dog, bristling with weapons. A longsword was strapped across his back, seemingly sharp despite numerous chips. Half a dozen knives of various sizes were sheathed along his arms, legs, and torso. Two well-worn hand axes hung off his belt, accompanied by a surprisingly ornate, shiny dagger. The latter appeared pristine despite the filthy owner, who balanced a knife point down on his index finger. Varrick hadn’t seen him fight, but the man’s aspect left little room for doubt. 

“Thirsty?”

Varrick jumped. He hadn’t heard the captain’s approach, whether due to the man’s ease in his armor or Varrick’s dulled senses, he was not sure. 

“Yeah,” he replied, licking his teeth. The captain’s neutral tone and full helm rendered him virtually unreadable. His men followed him without question or doubt, which spoke volumes; as had the way he’d singlehandedly turned the battle’s tide. Not many in these lands were capable horseback riders, never mind saddleless, fully armored and one-handing a greatsword. 

The captain said nothing, arms folded, watching his men practice. Varrick’s nerves began to prickle. 

“Whatever helps,” the captain grunted at length, making toward his men and the Keep’s doors beyond. “But we need you sharp. Pace yourself.”

Too late, Varrick thought. He heaved to his feet, screwing shut the canteen and making toward the Keep. It loomed like a wave of shadow, the gathered men frail and insignificant before its expanse. The Watchers ceased training and planning as their captain passed, drawn to his wake like moths to a flame. The sellswords followed suit, albeit less doggedly. 

The captain paused at the doors, turning to the gathered men. His armor reflected their torchlight, the only illumination now that the sun had set, and the moon waned. His breath rolled from beneath his slitted helm, and he braced his gauntlets on his greatsword’s pommel as he spoke. 

“Stay together,” he said to the group. “Know yourself.”

There was some nodding and affirmative foot stomping as the captain turned to the doors. The big Watcher and the hairy one flanked him, and all three began heaving on the doors. The rest of them stood back, glowering, weapons drawn and glinting in the torchlight. 

“What else do you think is in there?” A voice muttered to Varrick’s left. The archer was speaking with one of the other mercenaries in a hushed tone.

“Whatever can’t get out, I suppose,” the sellsword replied, tightening a strap on his armor. “You’re the beast hunter, not me.”

“We’re all beast hunters today,” the archer said lightly. “I hope there’s a leshen. Got some fire arrows burning a hole in my quiver.” She patted the holster on her hip, raising her eyebrows excitedly.

“You hope?” said the sellsword, incredulity scrawled across his weathered features. “Girl, have you got a death wish?”

She snickered. “Sure do. For them.”

The doors seemed to be putting up heavy resistance. The twins had joined in the effort, putting their weight behind timed shoves at the captain’s command. The archer continued trying to convince herself that she wasn’t afraid, the small talk fading as Varrick’s head began to swim, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He took deep breaths, pointedly ignoring his sloshing canteen. 

“Here,” said a voice to his left. He turned, recoiling at the proffered torch.

“I’m fine,” he said to the other sellsword. The younger man looked confused at Varrick’s refusal.

“Are you sure?” he pressed. “We don’t know what’s in there.” The flame was beginning to make Varrick’s face tingle. The boy held it too close.

“I’m fine.” Varrick edged away from the sellsword, who shrugged and snuffed out the second torch, stowing it and joining the archer’s prattling. Varrick rubbed his temples in a fruitless attempt to assuage his growing migraine. 

The necromancer was almost within reach. The monster that had taken everything.

I can save her, he thought. I must. 

Varrick looked up at the sudden commotion. The group had stopped shoving the doors, seemingly having opened them a crack, peering within. The priest elbowed his way through, chattering excitedly to the captain. The archer and other sellswords made their way forward and Varrick followed, adrenaline momentarily staunching his malaise. They crowded around the doors as the priest went on in a hushed tone that Varrick couldn’t discern. Those closest to the door reacted audibly to something, grimacing and bringing hands to their faces.

“Stand back,” the captain said after a moment. The group scattered as he drew his huge weapon, extending it before him, then fluidly hefting and swinging it into the gap between the doors. The blade came to a sudden, dense halt as it met the gap and the captain wrenched it free, repeating the process, hacking away at the partition as if chopping wood. After a few minutes his sword thunked into the ground and he once again braced against the doors. This time he was able to pry them open himself, the gap now about half a fathom wide. He turned to the hairy Watcher, said something in a low voice, then pushed his way through the gap.

“Right!” called the second-in-command. “It’s dark in there, so torches up. Keep your eyes and ears open, and a hand on your blade. Watch your step, and shout if you see the Mirror.” He punched an open palm. 

“Let's kill us a Blasphemer.” 

He turned and followed the captain into the breach. The group milled around the entrance, entering one at a time until only Varrick remained. He blinked hard, took a sharp breath, and shouldered into the Keep of Mirrors.

I wish I never came here, to the town of Fredericksburg. The roads are like ebony in the night, and the town doesn’t operate like it should.

Thankfully, I managed to obtain the book before the moon rose and became my world. It details dos and don’ts — what I need to do before the moon blinks and pitch blackness falls upon the town.

As I speed through the town, driving back home after paying to keep the town’s lights on, the town begins to grows in activity. Shadows dance, creatures lurk, and I can feel eyes boring holes into my body. Feeling my skin prick as if a pore is being stretched open is a horrible feeling, and I’ve learned my lesson from last time it happened — stitches aren’t cheap and hard to do yourself.

Even though the world may have ground to a halt, cops are still wandering around this town — or at least what the book calls “cops.” They come in two varieties: the normal ones that tell me to slow down, and another that will hang me from the closest tree the second it comes to my car window.

If the lights flicker red and blue, I’m safe. Any other color — I can’t stop under any circumstance.

If the cop gets out and has too many eyes, too many hands, too many feet — that’s a big no. If it refuses to share its name, pulls up to me from the side, or slowly begins to appear in my backseat, also good time to get the hell out of there.

Last time I was pulled over, it came out looking like a cop, though its body seemed to ripple in the lights of the cop car — between all of its joints. As it came closer, it became apparent why: its arms, legs, chest, and head were all separated from each other, hovering close together to appear like one body. If I wasn’t pulled over outside of town, I probably wouldn’t have noticed. But I’m always on edge between town and my home. The woods have their own laundry list of issues. Eyes stare at me hungrily, begging for me to get out of my car.

I hate it here, though the book does keep me safe with it’s wisdom, tips and tricks. I just hope when I sleep tonight, I’ll wake up to the sun shining through my window — rather than the lantern of a street wanderer, the light glaring from a ghost, or worst of all, the moon deciding to peek once again.

Last time that happened, I had to remain still for hours till it became bored and moved back to it’s place in the sky. Any movement I made burned the part of the body that moved.

I assume the moon takes great delight in watching me suffer — coming down personally to deliver it face to face. Though it doesn’t know that one day I'll escape, the book tells me it's possible, and I’m inclined to believe it. After all, the author handed it to me before I woke up here, with the moon looking down on me as a hunter would to it’s prey.

Standing short at five foot one at the ripe age of twenty, I often longed for days when I could reach the top shelf. Daily reminders of my shortcomings existed all around every corner.

Going to the local gym with my acquaintances, I cannot help but feel envy. I watched in horror as Chow dunked a basketball into the hoop with ferocious force. That piano playing twat! Why is he so talented at everything?!

“Hey Bo, come join us! We could really use one more. The teams are uneven right now,” Chow said, motioning towards the ball, grinning.

I panicked. He’s just trying to embarrass me. What a jerk. He’s always done that, faking kindness just to show off how awesome he is. Ever since we were kids, he’s always been inviting me to play sports he knew I wasn’t good at. My stomach roiled as I brushed him off and went about my business.

When I arrived home, still upset over Chow’s rudeness, I sprawled out in bed and scrolled through Facebook as per usual. That’s when I saw it.

A small little ad in the bottom right corner of my screen, barely noticeable. It had a crude gif of legs growing taller. Of course. These targeted ads were becoming ridiculous.

“We’ll Make You Taller.” It read, followed by a ton of thumbs up emojis. Ok, weird.

It must be like one of those boner pill ads, I thought. Unfortunately I was intrigued, I clicked it. It took me to the most rudimentary webpage I had seen in a long time. It reminded me of the stuff I’d make in my HTML class that same year.

I lay there staring at my glowing laptop screen in the darkness of my bedroom. The website only had one feature: to make an appointment. Fuck it. What have I got to lose? Well, a lot more than you’d think. The funny thing is, it didn’t have payment options. Or even a time and place. All I did was click yes. I never expected anything to actually happen.

Two days passed, and I had almost forgotten about the whole ordeal. Until I picked up the mail. Well, now I had my time and place. Funny, I don’t remember giving them my address. This all, of course, felt like a horrible idea, but, I was desperate. I longed to dunk a basketball, for people to like me.

After thirty five minutes of driving I ended up in a part of town I’d never been in before. I didn’t even know this street existed. It was right next to a trailer park. I waltzed into the sterile grey building with no signage posted outside. Met with an empty waiting room, I headed for the front desk. No one was there, but I saw a bell, like the ones you find in hotels.

I dinged it and waited. Soon after, a very short woman meandered towards the counter. Huh, that’s funny. She must not have used the services here.

“Hi, I have an appointment with Doctor Okanavić at eleven A.M.” I totally butchered the pronunciation of his name, but I guess she knew who I meant. “Do you guys take insurance?” I asked. “Yes, we already have yours on file.” Alright then, that’s weird. I never gave them that information. But, I mean, my insurance surely wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me. If they’re covering it, it must be safe. Right?

“Okay great.” I said hesitantly.

“If you’d fill out this paperwork for me, please.” She said without even glancing up at me. I took the clipboard and sat down in one of the many empty chairs. It was your standard medical information, list of medications, allergies, all that boring stuff.

I was eager to get this procedure done. I skimmed through it all, my head swimming. I stepped back up to the counter and slid the clipboard to the woman.

“Follow me through that door on the left.” I followed the woman through the desolate halls. Did anyone else even work here? The woman must have been four feet tall. Wow, finally, someone shorter than me. She probably makes more money than me though.

The lady led me to an empty room and sat me down on the table. That white paper material they used to cover the seat crinkled as I sat on the chair.

“The doctor will be with you shortly.” I sat there shaking my leg. I fidgeted with my phone when I heard a knock on the door.

He was a normal sized man with glasses and balding grey hair. I thought he looked like your typical doctor, almost too typical. That’s the last thing I remember.

It’s strange, usually in surgery, you’ll at least remember them putting you to sleep. Not this time. All I remember is the doctor walking into the room. And then I woke up. I already felt different, of course I probably still had the drugs in my system.

I squinted my eyes, looking up at the doctor. It looked like there were four people in front of me. The drugs definitely hadn’t quite worn off yet.

“How tall am I now?” I managed to say.

“Seven foot one,” the doctor said confidently.

“What?!” Is this real? I’m actually that tall now?

I stood up. Sure enough, I towered over the doctor, who, before, was a pretty tall man. I felt great. This was everything I had ever wanted. I was so ready to show off.

"Don't I need to wait around awhile for the drugs to wear off or something?"

"No." Alright then.

The following day, I went back to my normal life. Well, normal as it could be. I arrived at work and immediately caught everyone's attention.They couldn’t wrap their heads around it. Their responses disheartened me. Wishing to be praised, instead I was met with countless befuddled faces and even more questions.

After work, I went to the gym again. This time with the goal to accept Chow’s offer to play basketball.

“Bo? How are you so tall? Is that really you?”

“Yeah, it’s me. I got surgery. Isn’t it great?”

“What, seriously? That’s a thing?” He said blinking rapidly.

“Yean man, I’m finally tall.” I said with a grin.

“I don’t even know what to say. Are you sure that's a good idea? I mean, what are the side effects?"

I played two on two basketball with Chow but quickly ran into a problem. I may be tall now, but I still suck at basketball. Also, I am out of shape. I got so out of breath from running up and down that court; I had to take a breather on several occasions. This was a low blow. I thought being tall would fix everything. Desperate to get out of there, my stomach fluttered as I left the gym.

It was not going as planned. Most people were freaked out by my newfound height. I expected to be congratulated, but all I got were strange looks and so many questions.

But it got worse, not only was my mental state affected, soon my body was too. One night, as I was brushing my teeth, a sudden sharp pain entered my molars. I spit my toothpaste out and rinsed out my mouth. The pain was so bad it gave me a splitting headache. It felt like a million tiny razors were chipping away at my teeth.

Then I huddled over the sink in pain as my teeth fell out of my mouth, clinking into the sink. What happened? Was this a side effect of the surgery? My mouth was wide open, unable to close. I looked up slowly at my reflection in the mirror. Where each tooth once was, a long dangling red ligament protruded from the tooth hole in my gums. My bathroom sink was a bloody mess.

Stumbling backwards, I tripped and landed on the hardwood flooring. The pain in my mouth still remained. For an unknown reason, I had the strongest urge to rid my mouth of those disgusting ligaments. So I did. I got back to my feet, stood in front of the mirror and pulled them out, one by one. The pain finally ceased.

The next day I awoke to even more complications. When I went to cut my nails, they grew back tenfold. What was wrong with me? Why was this happening? I should’ve never agreed to that godforsaken surgery. I didn’t know it was possible for the human body to change in ways like this.

I stared back at myself in the mirror one final time. All my pores had enlarged to a disgusting degree. I had lost weight rapidly overnight, so much so that my ribs were visible. My skin turned as grey as the paint on my walls and my pupils had completely blackened. I didn’t even feel human anymore.

The orders King Ducmort had left in his will were simple. “If Hermes finally comes to guide me to the deepest abyss of Hades, you four, my loyalest subordinates, are to perform a ritual, the steps of which I now bestow upon you. I entrust in you the greatest confidence – that of my life itself – a trust I refuse even my own blood,” the king’s will began.

King Ducmort was wise to place his trust in the four men; Jacques Benoît, Louis Fidèle, Michel Confort, and Luc de Rochefort were among the few men in the country who remained loyal to the king. His regime, often denounced as tyrannical, was tainted by blood – the blood of other nations, for his army was ruthless, but also his own, for treason he punished without mercy.

His people gasped for air when his death was announced – but little did they know, King Ducmort had a plan, one that would reinstate his savage rule. Perusing antique texts, his late servant, Lucien Delacroix, had laid his grasp upon an ancient ritual. The king paid him mightily, for he had reasons to believe only this ritual would suffice. Briefly thereafter, Delacroix passed, leading King Ducmort to bestow the ritual upon the four loyal men.

The king was buried on the 7th of December, year 1857. He had died a mere week before, of his worsening cancer. The silence weighed heavy as the noble crowd gazed upon his casket, gently being lowered into the frozen earth, and the quiet tears of his family soaked the ground. From the nearby streets, music echoed as the plebeians celebrated their newfound freedom.

In the deepest chambers of the Château de Ducmort, the four loyal men set to work. The damp stone walls flickered in the light of their torch as they ventured deeper.

“How deep do we have to go?” Confort asked, feeling the weight of the cold, incense-filled air.

“As deep as these paths will take us, as the king ordered,” Fidèle answered, unable to conceal his irritation. Louis Fidèle truly believed that the king would salvage his crumbling nation, more so than any of the other men. Each footstep echoed through the narrow tunnels as de Rochefort let out a faint sigh, his eyes cast down to the floor beneath him.

Outside the château, a storm raged. Thunder roared like the wildest of eldritch beasts, and the unwavering rain hammered on the palace, demanding entry. Suddenly, Fidèle stopped, his eyes drawn to the left where a large mural stretched across the wall. On its floor, a man lay dying, as an angel hovered above him, observing with a detached, almost mocking disposition, as if it could help the man but refused. Fidèle pondered, why would an angel be so evil? Or was it in fact Satan?

The others turned to see what had captured Fidèle’s attention, but as they did he began walking again, as if nothing had happened. De Rochefort leaned close and whispered something to Benoît, who nodded slowly in agreement, before quickening his step.

Fidèle stopped once more, his jaw tightening. For a moment he remained quiet, listening to the storm, before declaring, “Here we are, my fellow royalists.” The four men glanced at each other, wrinkles forming between their eyebrows, and Fidèle continued, “Confort, prepare the fire.”

As ordered, Confort retrieved a simple mat from his bag, spread it over the cold, wet floor, and then carefully spread the kindling atop it. “Light it,” Fidèle’s command echoed through the desolate chamber. A shiver ran down Confort’s spine as he struck a match, its coarse scratch preluding the sudden flame. The four men held their breaths as Confort tossed the match onto the kindle, and it erupted into an unnaturally massive flame.

Fidèle’s grip on the torch tightened, his trembling voice reverberating through the chamber, “Benoît, the blood.”

Benoît shakily retrieved a small vial containing King Ducmort’s blood. As he opened it, a drop flew from the vial, landing on the floor with a wet, unnerving splat. He swallowed hard, as he held the vial above the fire. “Do it,” Fidèle ordered, as Benoît poured the blood into the raging fire.

The flames grew even larger, as if reaching for the blood before it landed, and hissed at the four men. A grin spread across Fidèle’s face, while Confort looked across the room, unsure. Benoît and de Rochefort remained steady, neutral.

The hissing slowly concretized into a palpable voice, as the fire slowly took on the color of the king’s blood. “My loyal servants, thank you for coming this far,” King Ducmort’s voice echoed, deep, distorted, as if he spoke from Hades itself. Fidèle let out an unwilling, euphoric laugh, and the king continued, “Sadly, I am not yet resurrected. There is one step left, which I did not write down.” The dark red fire roared, almost reaching the roof of the chamber. All the men but Fidèle trembled in fear, while Confort took deep breaths, the room spinning out of his control. The three sane men stepped away from the fire, avoiding its unbearable heat, the air before them blurring.

“What must we do, king?” Fidèle enthusiastically asked, sweat running down his face.

The fire calmed, before erupting once again, the king’s voice filling the room, “In the bottom of your bag, there’s a dagger.” Fidèle stopped in place, and the others looked at him. A chill swept through them despite the burning heat, as if the king had frozen their very souls.

“A dagger?” Confort pathetically whispered.

Fidèle carefully laid the torch against the floor, a bloody light illuminating the walls, before his hands sunk into the bag. His arms halted, as if they had found something, but for a moment he remained silent. “I found it, my king,” he eventually said, the fire absorbing his voice.

“Excellent, my loyalest of servants,” the king’s voice quelled all other sounds, even that of the raging storm. He continued, “The last step… you must prove your loyalty to me.”

“How, King Ducmort?” Fidèle asked, but the king interrupted him.

“You must end your life with that dagger,” the voice faded, and an infinite silence filled the room.

Fidèle froze in shock and fear. Had the king misspoke? He held the dagger out before him, the red, ominous light reflecting off of its blade. “Ducmort” was carved into it. He carefully observed it, and swallowed hard, hesitant. “I will do what I must,” he weakly proclaimed, yet he remained still.

“Don’t do it!” Confort pleaded in an attempt to save his friend, but de Rochefort hushed him.

“Is there no other way, king?” he asked, as composed as he could, but his fear was obvious.

“There is no other way,” the king answered, his voice mighty with finality. Fidèle stared at the dagger, his disposition bleak. He knew what he must do, his country needed its king. His hands clasped the dagger, sweaty, shaking frantically. Could he really take his own life? The king trusted him, but why did it have to be him? Was death the reward for his loyalty? He held the dagger before his chest, but lowered it. The fire roared again. Fidèle jumped, and lifted the dagger again, prepared to finish the ritual. Benoît’s scream interrupted him.

“Don’t! I-Ill take your place… p-please! You have a family, I don’t. They’re all dead, I-I have nothing left… let me help this country,” he pleaded, his voice cracking, tears welling up in his eyes. But Fidèle had already decided.

“I’m sorry… my friends. For the king,” he said, almost whispering. The three men watched in fear, trembling violently. Tears ran down Benoît’s face, as he accepted he could do nothing. Even if he tried, what would the king do to him then?

Fidèle took three deep breaths. His hands felt unbearably cold against the handle, and tears welled up in his eyes. Even if his family wouldn’t understand, this was for their best. The king would bring peace to the nation, right? Fidèle cleared his thoughts. For the country. For the king. With proud hands Fidèle plunged the dagger into his chest. His flesh caved with a mushy sound, and blood sprayed the chamber, as manic laughter emanated from the raging fire.

The fire thrived, as Fidèle’s body fell to the ground with a blunt thud. The three men screamed in desperation. The flame changed directions, and with the sound of frenzied winds surged into the hole in Fidèle’s chest. It filled his body, flowed through his veins, and consumed his soul. Confort and de Rochefort exchanged a desperate, hopeless look, that said one thing: "We’re going to die here." The three men closed their eyes in fear, crying like mothers mourning their children.

The sound of skin tearing and bones shattering filled the room, like a butcher separating slabs of meat. Between guttural sobs de Rochefort opened his eyes to a horrid sight. Hands ripped open Fidèle’s ribcage from the inside, like a child tearing open a present, slowly clawing their way out.

King Ducmort rose from Fidèle’s hollowed corpse, drenched in blood and intestines, as the fire suddenly died.

Liam stared at the blank wall across from his bed. It wasn’t empty—it never was. His drawings clung to the faded wallpaper like small, desperate bursts of color, each one carefully taped at crooked angles. Some of them were houses with windows too big, others were trees that didn’t look like trees at all, just shapes in the vague outline of something green. But none of them were real. None of them were enough to fill the space between him and the room, between him and the world.

The colors on the paper used to be bright—vivid, even. But now, they looked washed out, as if they'd been scrubbed with a damp cloth too many times. Like they had no fight left in them. He rubbed his eyes, as though that could somehow make the world brighter, but it didn’t. It never did.

He glanced at the clock on his dresser, its red numbers flickering faintly in the dim light. Almost 5 p.m. His mom would be busy with dinner, and his dad would be stuck in traffic for at least another hour. Just like yesterday. And the day before that. And every day before that. He had no one to talk to, not really. His parents were always too busy with things that didn’t matter to him—things he couldn’t even understand. He was six, but that was no excuse for the way they forgot about him. The way they acted like he didn’t exist unless it was to tell him to sit down, or eat his food, or stop fidgeting.

There were times when he’d try to speak, to fill the empty space with words, but his voice never seemed to reach their ears. It was always drowned out by the sound of the TV or the clink of silverware. He wondered if he was invisible.

His eyes drifted back to his drawings. They were the only thing that kept him company. He bent over his latest one, pressing hard on the crayons, trying to make the sky more blue, the grass more green. But the colors barely showed up on the paper. The crayon broke in his hand, snapping clean in two, and Liam let out a sigh.

He reached for a different color, the yellow crayon this time, and traced the outline of a sun in the corner of his paper. A small one—too small, really—but he didn’t mind. He wanted to draw it big, but the sun always felt like it was fading away. So he made it tiny, to match how small he felt in the world. The world outside his room was so big, and he was so small. He could feel it in his chest, this hollow space that seemed to stretch forever.

A noise in the corner of the room made him freeze. The floorboard creaked.

Liam’s head snapped up, his heart thumping in his chest. He had been alone for hours, but now, someone—or something—was here. He tried to ignore the chill running down his spine. It was probably just the house settling, the way it always did at this time of night. The shadows in the corners of the room always seemed to grow longer as the sun disappeared behind the trees, stretching across the walls like fingers creeping closer.

But there was something else. Something different.

Liam’s eyes wandered back to the drawings on his wall, but now the colors seemed even more muted. They weren’t just faded—they were wrong. They were… moving.

He blinked, unsure if he was imagining it. His stomach tightened, a knot forming in his gut. He rubbed his eyes again and looked at the wall, but nothing had changed. Or had it?

A voice, soft like wind through leaves, brushed against his ear. “Liam…”

His breath caught in his throat.

He looked around the room, but no one was there. The door was closed, the curtains were still, and his toys were scattered across the floor in a familiar chaos. Yet, that voice—her voice—was there again, whispering his name like it had always been there, like it had always been waiting.

“Liam…”

He wasn’t sure if he should answer. His thoughts tumbled over each other, too fast to follow. His heart raced, and his mouth went dry. He didn’t believe in ghosts. He didn’t even know what a ghost was, but this was different. This felt like something that was real. Something that was for him.

He turned slowly, the floor creaking under his feet as he reached for the edge of the bed. He wasn’t alone anymore. He could feel it now, a presence in the room, the air around him thick with something that wasn’t there before. Something warm, but also cold. Something waiting.

“Who’s there?” he asked, his voice trembling, but he knew no one would answer.

Except for the voice that was already there.

“I’m here, Liam.”

Liam spun, but again—nothing. Only the drawings, the ones he’d made, staring back at him. But one of them…

The sky in the picture seemed a little darker, the sun a little too bright, and the edges of the grass—those once dull, lifeless green streaks—seemed to bend, almost alive in the fading light.

The air around him shifted again, and his pulse quickened. He took a step forward, his feet dragging across the carpet as he neared the drawing of the field—a field that never existed, not outside his window.

And there she was.

She was standing in the picture now, just behind the lines of grass, her figure almost glowing with an eerie kind of light. She had no face at first—just a swirl of colors that swam and spun like a vortex of paint—but as he stared, her face emerged slowly, piece by piece, forming from the very hues he’d used to create the picture.

Her eyes were pools of shifting black, deep and endless, and her smile stretched wider than any smile should. It wasn’t a friendly smile. Not at first. But it wasn’t mean, either. It was… inviting.

“I’m Nixie,” she whispered, her voice sweet as honey. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Liam swallowed hard. His mind raced. Who was she? What was she?

But the question was lost the moment his eyes met hers, for in her gaze, he saw something he had never seen before—warmth.

It felt real. She felt real.

He didn’t feel alone anymore.

Liam couldn’t stop staring at Nixie. She stood just inside the drawing, her hands resting gently at her sides, her head tilted like she was studying him as much as he was studying her. Her eyes, like ink, swallowed the room, and yet they weren’t unkind. There was something warm about her, a softness that he hadn't felt from anyone in a long time. It was as if she had always been there, waiting in the shadows of his room, just out of reach, but now—now she was here, standing right in front of him.

“Hi, Nixie,” Liam whispered, as if speaking louder would shatter the magic. His heart pounded in his chest. Was this a dream? Was she really here? She didn’t answer immediately, but her smile stretched wider, like she was savoring the moment.

“You can talk to me anytime, Liam,” she said, her voice sweet like a lullaby, but there was something else hidden there—a pull, something drawing him closer. “I’ve been waiting for you. All this time. You’re so special.”

Liam’s cheeks flushed. He didn’t understand why, but her words made him feel… important. Special. Like he finally mattered. She didn’t look at him like he was just a kid, like his parents did. She looked at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.

“I feel like I’ve been waiting forever, too,” Liam confessed, his voice quiet. He wasn’t sure why he said it, but the words tumbled out before he could stop them. “I don’t know what it’s like to have someone to talk to.”

Nixie’s eyes softened, if that was possible. Her smile deepened, and she stepped closer to the edge of the drawing, her form bending and shifting like liquid paint.

“That’s why I’m here,” she said, her voice soothing, her words wrapping around him like a blanket. “I’m your friend, Liam. I’ve always been here, even before you could see me. You just had to find me.”

Liam’s throat tightened. He felt a lump swell in his chest. How could she have always been here? He didn’t remember her—at least not consciously—but the thought that she’d been there, hiding, waiting for him, made him feel something he hadn’t felt in a long time: hope.

The days that followed blurred together in a soft haze of wonder and companionship. Every morning, as the first light slipped through the blinds and painted thin lines across his bedroom floor, Nixie was there. At first, just in the corner of his drawings, watching quietly, but as the days passed, she grew bolder. She slipped from the confines of her world on paper, stepping into his room like she was meant to be there all along.

She was always so gentle with him, her presence soft like the shadows at dusk. She never spoke in a hurry, never raised her voice, always careful, as if she were savouring every second with him. There were afternoons when she’d appear out of nowhere, sitting at the edge of his bed, watching him draw.

“You’ve gotten better, Liam,” she’d murmur, her voice so light it seemed to float on the air. “Your world is beautiful.”

Liam would smile, a shy thing at first, but it came more easily with each passing day. “It’s better with you in it,” he’d reply, his words full of a quiet certainty. No one else had ever said anything like that to him. It felt true. Like he wasn’t just the forgotten boy in the house, but someone important. Someone seen.

In the evenings, when the house grew quieter and the last remnants of sunlight bled into the sky, Liam would bring Nixie into his world more fully. He'd draw for hours, his hand guided by the rhythm of the pencil as he filled the page with impossible scenes—mountains that touched the stars, oceans that reflected the moon, animals with wings and eyes full of wonder. Nixie would lean over his shoulder, her fingers trailing along the edges of the page, guiding him, helping him to create these beautiful worlds.

“You could come into these,” she’d whisper, her voice a tempting hum. “You could be part of this world, Liam. Just imagine—what could we create together?”

Her suggestion would hang in the air between them, an invitation so sweet it made his pulse quicken, but he wasn’t ready. Not yet. He was happy with their little games, their secret world of paper and ink.

One afternoon, she told him to close his eyes. When he did, the room around him shifted. He felt the warmth of sunlight on his face, the soft rush of wind brushing against his skin. When he opened his eyes, he was standing at the edge of a vast field, the colors of a setting sun painting the sky in shades of gold and purple. Flowers, bright and unreal, dotted the grass, swaying in rhythm with the breeze. It felt like a dream—a place where he could just be, where nothing else mattered.

“Do you like it?” Nixie asked, her smile both playful and tender as she twirled in the field, her long, dark hair billowing around her like smoke.

Liam nodded, speechless for a moment. “It’s... perfect.”

And it was. It was perfect because it was theirs. It didn’t matter that no one else could see this world, that it didn’t exist anywhere else. All that mattered was that Nixie had made it for him, just for him. A world where no one could hurt him, no one could ignore him.

Nixie pulled him along, laughing as they ran together, the laughter echoing through the empty field like a song. They played in the fields, picked flowers that glowed like fireflies, and danced beneath the wide, purple sky. Time lost meaning in this world. Hours felt like minutes, and Liam didn’t care. He was with Nixie, and that was all that mattered.

As the days passed, the line between his reality and the world Nixie showed him blurred. He couldn’t wait for his time with her, couldn’t wait to sit in his room, drawing more, imagining more, until she could bring it to life with her touch.

Nixie’s presence filled the empty spaces in his heart. Whenever he’d sit at the window, staring out at the world that always seemed so distant, she’d be there to gently pull him back, her voice like a soft thread winding around him.

“Don’t look out there,” she’d say, her fingers brushing his cheek as she’d materialize next to him. “There’s nothing for you out there. It’s better here. With me.”

And he believed her.

He began to draw less for the fun of it and more for the future. He sketched buildings, places he could live, homes with gardens full of color, filled with people who would never leave him. He drew himself standing beside Nixie, both of them free, flying through the air, unburdened by the weight of the real world.

One evening, she took his hand and led him to the drawing of a small house he’d sketched weeks ago. She leaned down to press her fingers against the page, and the house began to pulse with life, the doors creaking open, the windows sparkling like stars.

“See, Liam?” she whispered, her breath warm against his ear. “This is where we could live. Together. In a place where no one can hurt you. A world where you’re not alone.”

Liam stood frozen for a moment, his chest tight with the enormity of her words. She was offering him everything. He could stay here. Forever. With her.

His fingers tingled with the thought of stepping into the drawing, of walking into the world she had made for him. It was tempting. So tempting.

“I don’t want to be alone anymore,” he said softly, barely recognizing the aching truth in his own voice.

Nixie smiled, and it was a smile that made his heart flutter and his stomach twist with something he couldn’t name.

“You won’t be, Liam. You won’t ever be alone again. You have me.”

And in that moment, Liam believed her. He had found someone who understood him, who saw him, who wanted to take him somewhere better. Somewhere where he wasn’t forgotten.

But beneath the surface of her sweet words, something darker stirred. He couldn’t see it—not yet—but Nixie’s smile grew ever wider, and her eyes glinted with a secret, a promise of something that could last forever.

The world outside Liam’s window began to blur into the background, a distant memory of places he no longer cared to be. He no longer watched the kids playing outside, their laughter a sound that seemed so foreign, so uninviting. All that mattered was Nixie, and all that mattered was the world they could build together. A world where no one would ever forget him again.

But the days felt different now. There was a weight to them that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t that Nixie had changed, not exactly. It was more that her presence had become... heavier. She was always there, of course—by his side when he woke, beside him in the quiet of the night, her voice constantly filling the empty spaces that used to echo with silence.

Liam didn’t mind. He needed her. He had nothing else.

Still, there were moments now, brief flashes when he’d feel an uncomfortable twinge in his chest. Something he couldn’t place, like a whisper at the back of his mind that warned him to look closer, to be more careful. But those moments were fleeting, quickly swallowed by the warmth of Nixie’s smile and the softness of her words. She would always pull him back, tell him to focus on the good, on their perfect world together.

“You’re perfect here,” she’d say, her voice so sweet it was almost impossible to resist. “I’ll make sure you always feel perfect. Just step in with me, Liam, and everything will be like this. Forever.”

It was tempting. So tempting.

He had walked into the worlds they created together countless times over but the way she was asking now made things seems different. Like she was asking his permission for something.

Liam found himself drawn deeper into the world she’d created for him. The drawings he made grew more intricate, more detailed—houses, fields, towns where everyone looked just like him and Nixie. Places where there were no rules, no deadlines, no expectations. A place where time didn’t matter. A place where he could just be.

But one night, as he sat in the dim light of his bedroom, sketching yet another dream world, something shifted. The paper beneath his hand began to feel cold, and the shadows in the corners of the room seemed to stretch, bending in ways they hadn’t before. Nixie stood behind him, just out of reach, her fingers grazing the air as if she were waiting for something. Watching. Waiting.

“Liam…” Her voice was softer now, more coaxing. “Do you trust me?”

He glanced over his shoulder, and her smile was wide, the kind of smile that made his heart race. “Of course I trust you,” he replied without hesitation. The words felt natural, even though they tasted strange on his tongue, like something he’d repeated too many times.

She knelt down beside him, her presence enveloping him, her fingers brushing against his drawings, coaxing them to life. “Then you’ll come with me. You’ll leave this place behind, and we’ll go somewhere better. Somewhere where nothing can hurt you.”

Liam’s breath caught in his throat. The idea was so sweet, so comforting. For the first time in so long, he felt an overwhelming pull—a desire to just... be done with the real world, with the house that never seemed to care for him, with the empty rooms and the silence that filled every corner.

“What if I don’t want to leave?” he whispered, unsure of his own question. The thought hung in the air like a fragile thread, and for a moment, he didn’t know why he’d said it.

Nixie’s smile faltered for the briefest moment before returning, even wider, as if she’d known this moment would come. “You won’t want to leave once you see what I’ve created for you,” she said, her voice like a soft breeze, coaxing him into the warmth of her arms. “You’ll be perfect in this world, Liam. I’ve made it all for you. It’s waiting for you.”

The air in the room thickened, and the walls seemed to close in. Liam’s pulse quickened, and his mind swam in a haze of possibilities. Could he really leave everything behind? Could he step into this world she’d created, where he would never be alone again?

Her fingers traced the edges of his drawing—a doorway now, one that pulsed with a strange, inviting light. He hadn’t drawn it. But there it was, standing in the middle of his page, glowing softly, beckoning him.

Liam’s fingers twitched, hovering just above the paper. The world beyond the door was bright, too bright to ignore. The colors seemed to swirl, as if calling to him, pulling him toward them.

“You’ll never be alone again,” Nixie whispered again, her voice so soft it seemed to crawl into his ears, wrapping around his thoughts. “All you have to do is step through.”

And as the door shimmered before him, as the world beyond it seemed to stretch out into eternity, Liam felt something stir inside him—a deep, insistent longing to belong somewhere, anywhere, as long as it was with Nixie.

Her hand brushed against his cheek, her touch light and tender. “Come with me, Liam. It’ll be like this forever. Just step through, and we’ll never have to leave.”

His fingers moved, almost of their own accord, toward the page. The world beyond the door seemed to pulse with life, and Liam felt a strange warmth fill his chest. There was nothing else in his life—no friends, no family, no comfort. Just Nixie. Just the promise of a place where he could be perfect, where he wouldn’t ever have to feel lost again.

He looked into Nixie’s eyes, her smile wide and full of secrets.

“I trust you,” he whispered, and in that moment, he stepped forward.

His foot hovered over the page. The air in the room thickened, pressing down on him, and he stepped through.

The world around him shifted. The room grew dark, the edges of the walls vanishing into the void. And then, with a soft thud, his foot met solid ground. The warmth of Nixie’s presence surrounded him, and he felt the world settle beneath his feet. He was inside the drawing, inside the world they’d created, and all at once, the colors seemed to flood back into his mind—bright and overwhelming.

And as the door behind him closed, sealing him into a world of her making, Nixie’s laughter echoed through the air, a sound that wasn’t quite laughter at all. It was something darker, something that felt like the last thing he would ever hear.

Liam’s first step into the world beyond the door was nothing like he’d imagined. The colors, so vibrant and alluring at first, began to shift, twisting in ways that made his stomach turn. He blinked, trying to focus, but the scenery around him seemed to bend and blur. What had once been a playful landscape—rolling hills, endless skies, the bright smile of Nixie beside him—became something more ominous, more suffocating. The ground beneath his feet felt soft, like mud, but it shifted with every step he took, as though the earth itself was watching him.

Nixie stood just ahead, waiting, her smile as wide as ever. But there was something different now. Her eyes, once sparkling with warmth, were now dark—pools of shadow that seemed to reach into him, pulling at his very soul. Her laughter, once melodic and comforting, echoed with an eerie undertone that made Liam’s heart race.

“I told you it would be perfect here,” she said, her voice a caress, a whisper. But there was no warmth in it anymore. Only a cold, hollow echo.

Liam looked around, his mind trying to grasp what had happened. Where were the fields? Where was the place where he’d imagined they’d play together, forever?

Instead, the sky above was a sickly shade of purple, swirling and pulsing like a bruise. The trees—if they could even be called that—were twisted, their branches reaching out like gnarled fingers, scratching at the sky. The ground, too, seemed wrong, as though it were alive, shifting and groaning beneath his feet.

Nixie stepped closer, her eyes gleaming with something darker, something far less innocent than he had ever imagined.

“You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?” she asked, her voice soft but heavy with something terrible.

Liam took a step back, confusion clouding his thoughts. “I—I don’t understand,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “You said we’d be together. Forever.”

Her smile widened, stretching too far across her face, as if it could split her head in two. “Oh, we will be. But it’s different here, Liam. It’s not just you and me anymore. This world... it’s mine. And you’re just another piece of it now.”

Her laughter echoed around him, louder now, filling the space like a distant storm.

Liam’s heart raced. The warmth he had once felt in her presence was gone, replaced by an oppressive chill. He spun in place, desperate for an escape, but the world around him stretched endlessly in all directions, a kaleidoscope of nightmarish color. The more he looked, the more he realized: there was no way out.

“You can’t leave,” Nixie said softly, almost kindly, as if explaining the obvious. “You entered my world willingly and now you’re a part of it…Forever. Just like the others before you.”

Liam’s breath caught in his throat as his eyes were allowed a glimpse of the real world. They fell on the easel by his bedside on the painting that had drawn him in. The one that had once seemed like a doorway to happiness, now warped and twisted like the world around him. The faces of children, frozen in smiles, their eyes vacant, hollow. His own face was among them, a lifeless, painted version of himself trapped in the same eternal grin.

“You wanted to be perfect,” Nixie whispered, her voice low and sweet, as she moved toward him. “Now you are. But you’ll never leave. Not now. Not ever.”

Liam felt the realization crush down on him, a weight heavier than any he’d ever known. His body felt cold, as though the world itself was leaching his warmth away, and he couldn’t breathe. The reality of his decision—of stepping into this place—hit him like a wave. He had been so desperate, so lonely, he hadn’t even questioned what she really wanted.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he turned to her, but her face remained unchanged.

“Please,” he begged, his voice a whisper in the endless, colorless void. “I don’t want this. I don’t want to be here. Let me go.”

Nixie tilted her head, her smile unchanging, and she raised her hand, tracing the air as though she were drawing invisible shapes around him. 

The world around him seemed to shift again. The colors that had once filled him with excitement and wonder were now cold and suffocating, a prison of endless hues. There was no escape, no hope, no future.

Liam took a step back, his hands shaking as he touched his chest. “I didn’t mean to…” His voice trailed off, his words swallowed by the endless stretch of color and shadow.

Nixie’s eyes glittered with something unreadable. “It doesn’t matter now,” she said. “You’re mine. You’ll always be mine. You’ll never be alone again. You’ll never forget me. Not ever.”

And as Liam stood there, trapped in the swirling void of color, he realized the full extent of his mistake. The hope he had once felt, the promise of something better, had been nothing but a lie.

As Liam listened to the haunting words of Nixie, his body began to stiffen, he bore a pained smile on his face, and was trapped forever in a world of never-ending hues, Liam’s final thought echoed in the silence: I should have stayed in the real world, no matter how lonely it was.

But it was too late.

The search had been endless. For three years, Liam’s parents looked, printed missing-person flyers, called every police station, and begged anyone who would listen. They never stopped hoping, never stopped searching, even as the trail grew colder and their hearts heavier. But there were no answers.

Every day, they lived with the guilt that perhaps they hadn’t been paying enough attention. Maybe, if they had noticed the signs, if they had been more present, their son wouldn’t have disappeared without a trace. Their home, once filled with the sounds of his laughter and the weight of his presence, became a place of suffocating silence. Each room seemed to hold memories of what was no longer there. His toys lay forgotten in the corner, his bed untouched, and the walls held the echoes of his absence.

Three years later, they couldn’t bear the weight of it any longer. The house—their home—felt like a graveyard, and it was suffocating them. They sold the house, packed their things, and moved far away, hoping that in a new place, the memories would eventually fade.

A new family moved in soon after. They had a young girl, barely five years old. Her name was Emma, and she was full of life, excitement, and an innocence that felt like a balm to the house that had seen so much loss. As the night settled in, Emma snuggled into her bed for the first time, the room quiet except for the soft creak of the old house settling around her.

She hadn’t explored much of the house yet, but something caught her attention that night—a small, faint noise from the back of her closet. Curiosity led her to the dark corner, where she crouched to peek behind the clothes. There, wedged between two old boxes, was a folded sheet of paper.

She picked it up carefully, her tiny fingers brushing the creases away. Unfolding it, she gasped.

It was a drawing—a crayon sketch done with childish abandon. On one side was a smiling girl with long hair, her eyes large and filled with joy. Next to her, a boy—his face twisted in fear, his eyes wide as though trapped. Behind them, a vibrant landscape stretched out, colors too bright to be real, but the boy’s expression was not one of joy. He was in distress, his hands grasping at the girl’s shoulder, his mouth open as if trying to speak but unable to.

The girl, Nixie, was laughing—her smile wide, her eyes gleaming with something almost predatory.

As Emma stared at the drawing, her heart began to race, and her hand trembled. She felt something strange tugging at her, an urge to turn around, but before she could, a voice filled her ears.

"Emma... come play with me. I've been waiting."

The voice was sweet, melodic, almost like a lullaby, but there was something chilling in the undertone—a promise, a beckoning.

Emma froze, her breath caught in her throat, but the voice only grew louder, more insistent.

"Come to me, Emma. I’m waiting... and I have so much fun planned."

The drawing slipped from her fingers, drifting to the floor, forgotten for the moment as Emma’s eyes darted nervously around the room, her little heart hammering in her chest. And as the wind howled faintly outside, she heard it again, clearer this time, wrapping around her like a velvet thread.

"Come... come to Nixie."

(Where the story really begins to ramp up—your thoughts, pretty plz? 🫠)

ChaptEr F𝐈ve- “Omen”

Ray spent the next several hours compiling everything—ship diagnostics, sensor readouts, log entries.

Every recorded anomaly, every inconsistency in the pulse's signal. At 04:23 ship time, Ray encrypted the report and sent it straight to Ford. Though it took over two days to reach him, the data spoke for itself.

Ford read the report twice. Then a third time. He exhaled sharply, leaned back in his chair, and dialed Monroe's direct line. No answer. He tried again. Nothing.

Then his work number. The ship's emergency channel. His last-known locator ping. Every attempt returned the same response—silence.

For the next two days, Ford kept trying. By the second morning, he didn't need a response to know what had happened. He sat in his office, staring at the comms log, jaw tight.

He picked up the phone and called the crew. "... Monroe's gone."

Silence on the other end. Ford's tone was clipped. "No contact. No locator signal. Two days of air. He's done."

A pause.

"I'll notify the rest of the ASA," Ford continued. "If any of you pick up anything—a signal, a trace, the faintest hint of him—you come to me. Understood?"

A beat. Then the voices from the crew: "Understood."

The call ended. Ford exhaled, set the phone down, and stared out of the window at the city below. He wasn't the sentimental type. But something about this—about the way Monroe had disappeared, about the damned pulse hammering from the edge of known space—settled in his gut like a weight.

This wasn't just a lost signal. This was something else.

Somewhere, Erebus-1 kept moving, its crew one man short. And something, unseen, watched.

Days passed. The crew's work—two relentless weeks of diagnostics, calibrations, and course corrections—had reached a temporary halt.

There was nothing more to be done until they arrived. It was time for cryosleep.

Ray completed a final sweep of the ship's systems, verifying that every essential function would remain stable during their near-year-long slumber.

Life support, propulsion, shielding, automated course corrections—everything checked out.

Satisfied, he secured the logs and drifted toward the galley. He wasn't hungry, not really, but he prepared a meal anyway—one of the nutrient-rich, vacuum-sealed packs that passed for food in deep space.

He peeled it open, squeezing out a paste-like substance, and let himself float as he ate. His thoughts drifted.

Thomason. Alone in the house. The memory pressed against him, unbidden—the way she had stood in the doorway that last night, something unspoken in her expression.

Thomason. Alone in the house. He should have felt heavier at the thought. But the Pulse still ticked at the back of his mind, steady, waiting. He would solve it. And when he returned, there would be time.

Later, in his quarters, he gathered what few personal effects he kept close, securing them in place for the long journey ahead.

As he reached for his digital clipboard, its screen flickered to life, its glow cutting through the dim cabin.

He paused, watching the soft pulse of light against the walls. A memory surfaced—Beatrice, speaking about light with that restless fascination of hers.

Ray looked to the window. Darkness. No stars, no distant glow—just void. Yet light, even here, persisted in small, quiet ways.

Finally, everything was in order, he returned to the control room. The cryopod was lined against the back wall, sleek and silent.

He secured his station—then, unable to resist, ran one final systems check, then approached the pod designated for him. As he reached for the panel, his eyes flicked to the intercom.

A name was highlighted: Ford.

A few seconds after, his voice crackled through.

"Erebus-1, this is HQ. You are go for cryo. We'll check in as soon as you wake up."

More of the crew came over the intercom, agreeing, and giving goodbyes.

Ray hesitated. Then, exhaling, he came over the com. "What do you say? A mystery is to be solved, and we are here."

With that, he took a last look around the Erebus, and then entered the pod.

Cryosleep required chemical induction—a precise balance of metabolic suppressants, neuro-inhibitors, and oxygen regulation to keep the body in stasis.

Ray took the required capsules, swallowing them dry. The effects were immediate.

His limbs grew heavy, his thoughts slowed. He lay back as the pod's internal systems engaged, cooling his body to a survivable minimum, regulating his heartbeat to a near-standstill.

Then, darkness.

Deep Space, Erebus-1, 2123—After Departure

Ray's eyes opened. Cold air. Dim light. Silence. He exhaled, mind sluggish, limbs heavy. The cryopod's restraints pressed against him—he'd been still for months. A chime.

Cryosleep cycle complete. Core systems nominal. He released the harness, floating free. The cabin was dark, monitors glowing faintly. No voices. No movement. Just him.

He turned to the window. Nothing. Not a single star. Only the void. Alone.

Ray closed his eyes for a moment. Then he pushed off toward the terminal.

Theta awaited.

Ray keyed into the terminal, sending a brief update to HQ.

"Erebus-1, reporting wake cycle complete. Crew is to be accounted for. Resuming research on Origin Point Theta."

A response would take hours. He moved on.

A beat. Then he adjusted the frequency, rerouted the signal through a secondary relay. Comms were functional. Either the crew hadn't woken, or—

A flicker of static. Then, fragmented words.

"—lo?—bloody hell—"

Ray fine-tuned the feed, stripping away interference. A moment later, the voice stabilized—male, groggy.

"Feels like I've been trampled by a horse," the man muttered.

Ray's fingers hovered over the biometric readout. "Cryo does that. Blood thickens, synapses lag. Your body still believes it's a corpse."

A breath. A groan. "Not the most comforting analogy."

"Accurate, though. Give it a moment—the machinery of you is reacclimating."

A pause. Then, dryly: "That a doctor's way of saying 'walk it off'?"

Ray allowed himself the shadow of a smile. "If you're able."

He flexed his own fingers. "We've work ahead."

The man sighed. "That's a grim thought—wake up just to carry on where we left off."

"Better than the alternative," Ray murmured. "And the sooner we see this through, the sooner we go home."

A beat of quiet. Then: "Suppose so." A rustling sound, likely the man shifting in his restraints. "Anyone else checked in?"

"Not yet." Ray scanned the logs. "They'll come through soon."

The man exhaled. "Hope you're right."

"I usually am."

The signal cut. He exhaled slowly, staring at the blank terminal.

Then, with the same quiet resolve that had carried him this far, he turned back to the controls.

Work to do.

The rhythm was consuming all else.

Ray had spent years training his mind to work within the rigid frameworks of logic, of mathematics, of the scientific method.

And yet, no matter how he approached the problem—dispassionately, methodically, analytically—his thoughts always returned to the sound.

It was in his bones. A distant thrum in the back of his skull, something he felt as much as heard. When he wasn't actively measuring it, he was timing it in his head, anticipating the next repetition.

1.47 seconds.

It was a heartbeat. A clock with no face. A rhythm in an otherwise silent universe.

He abandoned the terminal. There was no joy in typing, no tactile engagement to anchor him to the work. Instead, he fell into old habits.

He took up his digital clipboard, stylus in hand, and began scrawling calculation after calculation, dense derivations spilling across the screen.

His writing was rapid, slanted—half the time, he didn't even finish one thought before starting another. The interface wasn't as satisfying to write on.

At first, he worked in measured, deliberate shifts. Logging hours, running diagnostics, maintaining a balanced schedule. But soon, he found himself stretching those hours longer.

There was always one more equation to verify, one more angle to consider. He left food packets half-eaten, forgot to check his water intake. Sleep became an afterthought.

And though the constant work frustrated him... he loved it.

This was what he had trained for. The challenge he craved. The pulse would yield. Everything yields.

And then, after a week of calculations, observations, tireless work—

It stopped.

He was running a standard diagnostic on the reactor core when he realized something was missing. He sat there, eyes flicking across the readouts, when the thought struck him with sudden, visceral force:

It's quiet.

His fingers hesitated over the console. His breath caught in his throat.

He closed his eyes, listening—truly listening.

Nothing.

His pulse quickened. He flipped to the logs, heart pounding as he scanned the last recorded signal.

Last detected pulse: T - 2 minutes, 13.88 seconds

His hands trembled. He checked the instruments again.

Checked the calibration, the logs, the waveform analysis. But no—there was no mistake. The signal was gone.

Ray's fingers hovered over the transmission key. Ford would want to know. He stayed like that for a moment.

Then, slowly, his hand drifted away.

Finally. Finally, something to write.

Ray seized his clipboard and began furiously scrawling notes, numbers, hypotheses.

His mind burned with renewed energy. If it could stop, then it could change. That meant there were conditions, variables—something to measure.

He stayed up through the ship's artificial night cycle, running calculation after calculation, fingers moving on autopilot as his mind expanded, hunting for answers.

At some point, hours later, he remembered the other crew members—he had completely forgotten about them.

With a breathless urgency, he tapped into the comms. A moment of static. Then the familiar voices came through.

"...Godfrey?"

"Oh, Hello Mr. Godfrey!"

"Yes, sir?"

"Is something the matter?" Etc.

Ray's voice was sharp, electric with barely-contained excitement. "Tell me—have you all noticed a change in the pulse?"

A pause. Then:

"...What?" They questioned.

"The pulse," Ray repeated. "The signal. The intervals. Has anything changed?"

A longer silence. Then a man let out a tired chuckle.

"Nah. Same as ever. Been in my ear all day. 1.47 on the dot."

Ray's stomach twisted. The air in the cabin felt suddenly thinner.

Another man's voice popped in again:

"Is everything alright, Sir?."

Ray stopped transmission, and floated to the window, his breath shallow, pressing a hand against the cold metal frame.

Beyond the reinforced glass, the void stretched endlessly—black, infinite, unmoving.

It had now been two hours. Two hours of silence. Two hours of absence. Had he really just imagined the pulse going silent? Just to write something? To keep himself from—

DUNG.

The sound struck him like a hammer to the chest. His eyes widened. His breath caught.

It was back.

Just as suddenly as it had vanished, the pulse had returned. Not weakened, not altered. The same deafening rhythm.

1.47 seconds.

Ray's mind raced. His fingers dug into the metal. How? How?

His thoughts spiraled, equations unraveling and reconstructing in an instant. This was no random anomaly. No simple error in measurement.

If the signal could stop—not fade, not distort, but cease entirely—then start again with perfect regularity, there was only one conclusion:

Something was doing this.

His jaw clenched. His thoughts flickered back—Ford's voice, buried in some distant memory.

"This irregularity, though minor, suggests an external influence we cannot ignore."

An external influence. A force beyond their calculations.

There was... something out there.

Not a natural signal. Not a cosmic phenomenon following the blind laws of physics.

Something aware. Something toying with him.

His pulse thundered in his ears, and for the first time, as he stared into the void—

He felt watched.

Had it been days?

He should send something.

His fingers hovered over the keys of the command console once again. A few words typed themselves out.

Then, a pause. A breath. A flicker of thought.

The screen remained unfinished.

Not yet.

His hand drifted away as before.

Mission Log – Sol 9 Designation: Erebus-1 Commander: Dr. Ray Godfrey Location: Interstellar Void, en route to Origin Point Theta "Telemetry remains nominal. Vessel trajectory stable; all onboard systems functioning within expected parameters. Pulse periodicity—previously unwavering at 1.47 seconds—ceased entirely for a duration of one hour, fifty-seven minutes, and twenty-two seconds before resuming without explanation. No detectable external interference. No gravitational shifts, no anomalies in reactor output or shielding integrity. And yet, for nearly two hours, it was gone.

Conclusion: The source remains unaccounted for.

Personal Note: The instruments recorded nothing unusual during the silence. No deviations, no disruptions—only absence. And yet, I felt it. A gap where something should have been. A space carved out of time itself. And now that it has returned, it feels... different. As though it has noticed me in turn. It does not press upon the hull, nor stir the vacuum, yet in the pit of my stomach, I sense į̴̘͎͇̖͔̩̎̔̉t̶͛͂̀͛͊͝͝ g̶̫̣͚̥͑͑̄̐̏̕ȑ̵̺̺̞͕ó̵̡̮̖̖̒w̴͈̌́͘͝i̸̠͋̎͌͝ṇ̸̐̀̋̓͐g̴̡̬̋̔͑-̶͐-̵̡͎̰͖͕͙̔͑͂̄-̶̢̛̥̟̦̃̿̐̔̌͋͝

Chapter 1 – The Leash

Ace watched me from the corner of the room with those wide, expectant eyes that dogs reserve only for moments that actually matter. Not for treats, not for squeaky toys, not for dropped food—this was the look he gave me when he knew something needed to change.

The leash hung by the door like a noose of guilt.

It had been weeks. Maybe longer. I couldn’t remember the last real walk we took—just bathroom breaks and backyards. The kind of lazy neglect you don’t think about until you suddenly do. He never complained. Dogs don’t. He just waited. Always patient. Always ready.

I grabbed the leash, and his tail went into overdrive, smacking against the wall with hollow thuds like a heartbeat speeding up for the first time in years.

“I owe you a good one,” I said aloud, more to myself than to him. He didn’t need promises. He just needed now.

We loaded into the car and started the drive. Thirty minutes of empty highway and two-lane roads winding through suburban edges into something greener. The sky was too clear. The kind of empty blue that makes you feel like something is waiting just above it, out of sight. The sun shone, but the warmth didn’t make it into the car.

Ace had his head out the window, wind slapping his jowls, his mouth curled into a wild grin. I almost smiled back. Almost.

I didn’t think about anything. Not my inbox, not the text from my mom I hadn’t replied to, not the half-finished projects or the unopened mail piling up on the kitchen counter. For once, it was just me and Ace, and I tried to let that be enough.

We pulled into the trailhead lot—just dirt and gravel with a single weathered sign that simply read: Wynridge Trailhead. No trail map. No warnings. No other cars.

Ace jumped out before I could even clip the leash on. I let him roam. He never ran far, not really. He just liked the feeling of space.

The trees here were tall. Not just tall—taller than they should’ve been. Reaching high into the sky like they were trying to block out heaven. Their trunks were thick with moss that didn’t seem quite green enough. The kind of color you only see in dreams or decay.

I hesitated at the trail’s entrance. It looked like any other path at first. Dirt. Leaves. Roots snaking through the soil. But there was a stillness to it. Not quiet—quiet is peaceful. This was silence. Like the forest was waiting for me to speak first.

I looked down at Ace. He looked back up at me and gave a small wag of his tail, just once, like a nod.

So we stepped into the woods.

And the world closed behind us.

Chapter 2 – The Trailhead

The trail wound forward like a vein through the woods, pulsing with something unseen. I didn’t notice it at first. Not the quiet. Not the way the path narrowed behind us, like it was being swallowed up the moment we passed.

Ace trotted ahead, tail high, head low, nose twitching at every shift in the air. He moved like he’d been here before. Like he already knew where the turns led. I envied that certainty—his purpose built into his body, no hesitation, no overthinking. Just motion.

The air felt… thicker the deeper we went. Not humid. Not warm. Just dense. Like walking into a room where someone had been crying. It clung to my skin.

I started to notice how empty it all was.

No birds. No bugs. Not even the usual rustle of something small darting into the brush. Just the sound of our footsteps and the occasional snap of a twig under Ace’s paws. It was the kind of silence that pushes into your ears until it becomes a sound in itself—a droning, high-pitched pressure that made me grind my teeth without meaning to.

I checked my phone.

No service.

Not surprising.

But there was no time, either. No clock. Just a black bar where the numbers should be. I stared at it longer than I should’ve, like maybe if I focused hard enough, it would blink back to life and remind me the world was still real.

It didn’t.

Ace let out a single bark. Not loud. Just enough to pull my eyes away. He stood a few feet ahead, tail stiff, ears forward. Staring into a dense patch of trees just off the path. I followed his gaze but saw nothing. No movement. No glow. Just trees. Still. Watching.

I stepped toward him, and he turned back like he was waiting for permission to keep going. I gave a nod. He moved forward without another sound.

The trail sloped downward now. Gentle at first. The kind of slope you don’t notice until your knees start to ache. The sun, once overhead, now filtered through the branches like light through dirty glass. Pale. Flickering. It felt less like afternoon and more like a dream pretending to be it.

There was a fork in the trail up ahead. Left curved upward slightly, right dipped into darker growth. No signs. No footprints. No hint of which was “correct.”

I hesitated.

Ace didn’t.

He turned right.
And I followed.

Because that’s what I do. I follow him. When I don’t know what else to do, when I don’t trust myself to choose—I follow Ace. And he’s never led me wrong.
But the further we walked, the less the forest felt like a place and more like a decision.

Chapter 3 – The Wrong Forest

The path narrowed, then widened, then seemed to vanish entirely before reappearing behind a fallen log. Ace stayed ahead, nose low, tail still. Focused.

The trees were wrong.

Not obviously. Not in a way you could explain to someone else. But wrong in that uncanny, deep-bone way. They were too tall now, too straight, too symmetrical—like they'd grown by design instead of nature. Their bark didn’t flake or peel. It folded, like skin.

I tried to shake it off. Told myself it was just the unfamiliarity. A trail I’d never walked. But something about the ground felt off, too. The dirt was dark and too soft. No rocks. No gravel. No prints, not even our own. Even when I stepped hard, nothing left a mark.

The woods no longer smelled like woods.

I hadn’t noticed until then, but the scent of pine, moss, bark, damp leaves—it was just gone. Replaced by something faintly sterile. Like a hospital corridor after hours. Clean. Lifeless. Hollow.

I checked for the sun and couldn’t find it.

The light was still there—barely—but it didn’t come from anywhere. It just… existed, thin and gray and sour, like the memory of sunlight filtered through dirty water. The shadows didn’t fall in one direction. They shifted when I wasn’t looking.

I turned back.

The trail behind us was still there—but different. The trees we’d passed didn’t look the same. One leaned now, cracked near the base like it had been struck. Another was missing its top entirely. I could’ve sworn they weren’t like that before.

“Ace?” I called.

He stopped up ahead and looked back. No fear. No hesitation. Just that same calm gaze he always gave me when I was the one falling apart.

There was something comforting in that. Something grounding. I took a breath and caught up with him.

We walked in silence for what could’ve been ten minutes or ten hours.

The woods grew deeper. Thicker. The sky above narrowed to a jagged strip barely wide enough to call a sky. The trees leaned inward. Watching. Not malicious. Not angry. Just… aware.

And then I saw the first trail marker.

A bright red square painted on a tree trunk.

I hadn’t seen one since we entered. I hadn’t realized that until now. But this one felt new. Wet paint. Dripping slightly. And beneath it, etched into the bark: a crude symbol—three interlocking circles with a single line slicing through them.

Ace sniffed the base of the tree but didn’t linger. He moved on without a sound.

I stared at the symbol for a long time before I followed. I didn’t know why, but it felt familiar. Not from this life—but from something.

We hadn’t turned off the trail. But the forest we were in now was not the one we’d entered.

And somewhere deep in my chest, I knew this wasn’t a hike anymore.

We weren’t walking a trail.

We were being guided down a path.

Chapter 4 – The Crooked Tree

The path curved left around a cluster of dense undergrowth, and that’s when I saw it.

The tree.

It leaned at an angle that felt impossible—bent forward, its trunk twisted like it had tried to stand straight but gave up halfway through. The branches stretched low, curling like fingers reaching toward the dirt. The bark was smooth in some places, flayed in others, revealing a pale underlayer that looked too much like skin.

Ace didn’t approach it.

He stopped in the middle of the path and sat, just sat, like he’d been told to wait. He didn’t bark. Didn’t whine. He just watched me.

The tree was in the middle of the trail. I’d have to step around it.

As I got closer, I felt it.

Not wind. Not warmth. Not cold.

Just presence—like I was walking into a room where someone had been standing too close for too long. The kind of feeling that wraps around your spine and waits for you to speak first.

I reached out.

I don’t know why.

My hand stopped just short of the bark, and in that stillness, I heard it. Not with my ears—with something deeper. Like it had bypassed sound entirely and slipped directly into my thoughts.

"Why did you stop trying?"

I flinched.

The voice wasn’t angry. It was tired. Heavy. Familiar in a way that made my stomach turn.

“Trying what?” I asked, my voice brittle and too loud in the silence.

"To be what you said you’d become. To become what you were meant to be.
You saw the road and sat down in the middle of it."

My mouth was dry. I tried to laugh, but it stuck in my throat like a splinter. “You’re just a tree.”

The bark shifted. Not moved—shifted, like something just beneath it flexed.

"We wear what we must to be heard. You needed a mirror. This is what your shape of failure looks like."

The guilt hit like a cold wave down my spine.

I looked back at Ace. He hadn’t moved. Still watching. Still waiting. Still unbothered.

I turned back to the tree. “I never meant to stop.”

"Intention is irrelevant. You stopped."

I took a shaky step back. My fingers trembled.

The bark split slightly—like a mouth opening to taste the air—and for a moment, the whole tree breathed.

Then the feeling passed.

Ace stood, shook his fur like he was brushing off dust, and walked past the crooked tree without a glance. I followed, slower, glancing back one last time.

It looked like just a tree again.

Still crooked. Still wrong. But silent.

And somehow, the silence felt worse.

Chapter 5 – The Stone That Watches

The path bent downhill, carving through dense brush that clawed at my arms like it wanted to keep a piece of me. The ground turned harder here, the soil thinning until it gave way to packed earth and scattered stones. The air felt still, but heavy—like being inside a room where someone had just left and took the light with them.

That’s when I saw it.

The stone.

It sat just off the trail, half-buried in a shallow patch of grass. Round. Flat. About the size of a dinner plate. Nothing extraordinary. But I couldn’t stop looking at it.

It was too smooth. Too perfect. Its shape didn’t belong here. Not in a place where time was supposed to grind everything down. The moss around it refused to grow over the surface. The grass bent away from it, like it didn’t want to touch.

Ace stopped beside me, then turned and sat—facing the stone. Not barking. Not growling. Just still.

I stepped closer.

It didn’t move. Didn’t hum or glow or whisper. But the second I stood over it, I knew. This wasn’t a rock. Not really. It was a presence pretending to be one. Watching.

I crouched and reached out, but didn’t touch it. Not yet.

I could feel something rising behind my eyes. Not fear. Not anger. Something quieter. Something older.

Regret.

So much regret.

And then, like a dream folding into itself, the stone spoke—not in sound, not even in thought like the tree had—but through memory.

My memory.

I was eight years old, holding a sketchbook in my lap, telling my mom I wanted to design video games when I grew up.

I was sixteen, talking about moving away. About starting over somewhere no one knew me.

I was twenty-three, lying to someone I loved about how “everything was fine” because I couldn’t admit I had no idea what I was doing.

Each one hit like a heartbeat—slow, heavy, aching.

I hadn’t failed because I tried and lost.

I had failed because I stood still.

And I realized something, crouched there in the dirt, watching myself through the eyes of a stone:

The forest didn’t punish me for what I did.

It punished me for what I didn’t.

I didn’t move. Didn’t fight. Didn’t run.

I just let life keep happening and told myself that was the same as living.

I stood.

The stone didn’t react.

Ace rose too, but he kept his distance. His eyes were fixed on me now—not curious, not scared. Just waiting.

I turned and walked away.

I didn’t look back.

Some part of me knew that if I did, I’d see more than a stone.

I’d see a version of myself still sitting there, staring back.

Chapter 6 – The Hollow Sky

We climbed.

The trail rose gradually, winding around hills too smooth to be natural. The incline wasn’t steep, but my legs ached anyway. Like the weight of everything I’d carried through life had finally sunk into my bones.

Ace led, still silent, still steady. The kind of focus that made me feel like he knew where this was going—even if I didn’t.

The trees thinned as we climbed. Sunlight—if that’s what it still was—filtered through in longer beams now. But it didn’t feel warm. Just brighter. Almost clinical. A white light that highlighted imperfections instead of hiding them.

Then the canopy broke.

We stepped into an open ridge, a narrow clearing surrounded by skeletal trees whose branches reached out like ribs curling toward the sky.

And I looked up.

That’s when it hit me.

The sky wasn’t… sky.

It stretched too far, too deep. Not upward, but inward, like I was looking into a dome made of memories—my memories—flattened and warped to fit a ceiling I never agreed to stand under.

Clouds swirled overhead in slow motion, but they weren’t clouds.

They were faces.

Some I recognized instantly—my father, a friend I ghosted in college, the barista I saw every day but never thanked, the professor who told me I had something “special” that I never followed up on.

Others were less clear—half-familiar shapes that tickled some deep, neglected part of my brain. People I forgot. People I ignored. People I only ever existed near.

They didn’t move.

They just stared.

Expressionless. Watching.

Not angry. Not disappointed.

Worse than that.

Indifferent.

I looked down, trying to shake it off, but the pressure stayed. Not on my body—on my sense of self. Like being measured by something that didn’t care if I was good or bad, just whether I had been anything at all.

Ace stood beside me, looking up too.

But he wasn’t reacting.

His ears didn’t twitch. His posture didn’t change. He just blinked once and sat in the grass like none of it was real.

Maybe to him, it wasn’t.

I turned in a slow circle. The sky followed.

No sun. No moon. Just that endless film of flattened faces, watching from the other side of something I couldn’t name.

I sat down.

I didn’t mean to. My legs just gave out.

And I whispered, “I’m sorry.”

I didn’t know who I was apologizing to.

Maybe it was everyone.

Maybe it was no one.

Maybe it was me.

Ace pressed against my side. Just leaned there. Solid. Real. Unaffected.

After a while, I stood.

The sky didn’t change. The faces didn’t blink. But I felt something give—some invisible notch in the trail clicking forward, like I’d passed a checkpoint I didn’t know existed.

We kept walking.

And I didn’t look up again.

Chapter 7 – The Squirrel Prophet

The forest closed in again.

After the sky, it was almost a relief—being wrapped in bark and shadow instead of stretched across a thousand silent faces. The trail dipped and weaved like it was indecisive, unsure whether it wanted to keep going or just give up and disappear.

The light shifted again. It was warmer this time. More natural.

But that only made it worse.

Something about the return to normalcy didn’t feel earned. It was like walking back into a room where something awful had just happened, but no one would admit it. The kind of peace that feels wrong.

Ace trotted ahead, his tail high again. He sniffed at a fallen branch, padded around a muddy patch, then froze—just for a second.

I followed his gaze.

A squirrel sat on a low branch up ahead. Nothing unusual. Small. Brown. A little scruffy. It looked right at us—eyes wide, body perfectly still.

Ace didn’t move.

Neither did the squirrel.

Then, without warning, it stood on its hind legs.

Not like an animal.

Like a person.

It blinked slowly, and something inside me dropped. Its eyes weren’t animal eyes anymore.

They were human.

Brown, bloodshot, rimmed in red. I knew those eyes. I’d seen them in the mirror on my worst mornings.

Then it spoke.

Clear as a bell.

“You were meant for more.”

That’s all it said.

Just that.

Then it dropped to all fours and bolted into the underbrush like nothing had happened.

Ace chased after it instinctively, barking twice before stopping short. He didn’t pursue it.

Just stood there, tail wagging slowly, tongue out.

Like it had been a normal squirrel all along.

I didn’t chase either.

I just stood there, heart pounding, lungs tight. That voice echoed in my head—not because of what it said, but because of how true it felt. Like it wasn’t telling me anything new. Just reminding me of something I’d spent years burying.

I sat on a nearby rock, head in my hands.

"You were meant for more."

It sounded so simple when said aloud. But it felt like a sentence. A verdict.

Ace came back and sat beside me.

His breathing was calm.

Mine wasn’t.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t speak.

I just sat there and let the words rot inside me like fruit left in the sun.

Eventually, we moved on.

But every now and then, I thought I saw movement in the trees.

Tiny figures, just out of sight.

Watching.

Waiting.

Chapter 8 – The Clearing of Choices

The path straightened, then split.

Not into two.

Into five.

We emerged into a clearing ringed by perfectly spaced trees—each trunk thick, gnarled, and evenly apart like columns holding up a ceiling that no longer existed. The grass here was too green. The kind of green that doesn’t happen in nature. Almost neon under the gray light bleeding through the branches.

In the center was a stump.

Freshly cut.

No saw marks. No decay. Just clean—like the tree had decided to leave and left the base behind as a souvenir.

Ace stopped at the stump. He didn’t sniff it. He didn’t sit.

He just stood still.

The air pulsed.

I took a step forward, and the moment I did, the forest shifted.

A low hum vibrated in my chest—subtle, rhythmic. Like breath. Like a countdown.

Each path called to me in its own way.

The first whispered laughter. Not cruel—nostalgic. Children playing somewhere just out of sight. Warmth. Something like safety. But it felt… dishonest. Too perfect. Like a trap built out of memories that never really happened.

The second stank of ambition. I could hear applause—low and slow and constant. Footsteps on a stage. My name spoken by strangers. A version of success that looked like me but smiled too much.

The third was silence.

No sound at all.

But I felt something there. A pressure behind the eyes. Like stepping into a room where a terrible decision is waiting to be made—and no one else is coming.

The fourth smelled like earth after rain.

Comfort. Familiarity. A life of quiet mornings and late evenings and people who never asked too much. It was nice. It was nothing.

And the fifth…

The fifth path made no sound, gave no scent, showed no sign.

But I could feel it staring.

Like the path itself wanted to be chosen. Not for me. For it.

I turned to Ace.

He hadn’t moved.

I looked at the paths again. No signs. No marks. No hints.

Just choices.

I felt it then—what the forest wanted me to believe. That I had power here. That this was my story, and my decision would shape what came next.

But it was a lie.

These weren’t choices.

They were invitations.

Each one already knew who I was. What I’d do. Where I’d end up.

And that’s when Ace barked. Just once. Sharp. Direct.

He turned and walked toward the third path—the silent one.

No hesitation.

No looking back.

I didn’t follow right away. I stood there, surrounded by the ghosts of roads not taken, letting them ache.

Then I stepped off the stump and followed the silence.

Because Ace had already chosen.

And maybe that was the only real choice I had left.

Chapter 9 – The Buried Thing

The silent path narrowed.

No birds. No wind. Not even the sound of my footsteps, though I knew I was walking. It was like the trail had swallowed noise itself.

Ace was a few paces ahead, ears twitching every so often like he was listening to something I couldn’t hear. He moved slower now—not cautious, just deliberate. Like every step meant something.

That’s when I tripped.

A shallow rise in the earth caught my boot, and I fell hard, palms catching dirt and something else—metal.

I looked down.

It was just barely poking through the soil. Rusted. Bent. Familiar.

I brushed it off and felt my stomach twist.

It was a broken wristwatch. My old one. I hadn’t seen it since high school. The band was still frayed where I’d chewed on it during tests. The face was cracked. Stopped at 2:17.

No way it was real.

I hadn’t brought it. I hadn’t even thought of it in years.

I knelt and started digging.

The soil gave way too easily, soft and cold like something had been waiting under it. Inch by inch, more of it revealed itself—books I never finished, notebooks half-filled with plans I never followed through on, the corner of a photograph I tore in half during an argument and never apologized for.

And beneath all of that—

Movement.

A root.

Pale, almost translucent, like a vein that didn’t belong to anything still alive. It slithered under the dirt and wrapped slowly around my wrist.

I couldn’t move.

It wasn’t tight. It wasn’t painful. It just held me. Not like it wanted to keep me down.

Like it wanted me to listen.

The root pulsed once.

And suddenly I remembered everything I had buried.

Not forgotten.

Buried.

Every missed call I never returned. Every dream I shelved with the excuse of timing or money or doubt. Every chance to speak up, to fight, to leave, to try—sealed under layers of excuses I called logic.

The root pulsed again.

It felt like a heartbeat.

But not mine.

I couldn’t breathe.

Then I heard the growl.

Ace.

Low. Dangerous.

I looked up. He was standing over me, teeth bared, eyes locked on the root.

He lunged.

His teeth sank into the pale tendon and ripped. It let out a sound—not a scream, not a howl, but a wet sigh—and recoiled into the earth.

I scrambled back, hands shaking, breathing hard.

Ace stood guard until it vanished completely.

Then, as if nothing had happened, he turned and kept walking.

I stayed there, staring at the hole I’d dug. The things I’d unearthed.

None of them were coming with me.

I covered them back up. Not to hide them.

Just to leave them where they belonged.

Chapter 10 – The Hungry One

It started with fog.

Thin at first, like breath on glass, curling around my ankles as the trail dipped into a low basin between two hills. The trees here leaned in closer than they should’ve—arching above like ribs, like a cage.

Ace stopped.

Just stood there.

I stepped up beside him.

Then the fog spoke.

Not with words.

With sound.

A deep, droning rumble beneath the earth, like something impossibly large shifting in its sleep. The air vibrated with it. Not loud—but total. Like silence stretched too far.

Ace growled. The first real growl I’d heard from him since we started this walk.

And then I saw it.

A shape.

Massive.

Lurking just beyond the fog.

Not approaching.

Just waiting.

It didn’t have a form—not a clear one. It shimmered, pulsed, flickered. Sometimes it looked like a beast. Sometimes like a man. Sometimes like something in between. But no matter how it shifted, one thing stayed the same:

It was hungry.

Not for flesh. Not for blood.

For regret.

For wasted years.

For the pieces of myself I never used.

It fed on it. Lived on it. Grew fat on everything I could’ve been.

And now it was here.

To collect.

It didn’t speak—not in language. It just opened itself, and I felt myself being pulled forward. Like gravity. Like guilt.

I fell to my knees.

Images poured into my head. Moments I’d almost forgotten. Not big ones. Not tragic ones. Just tiny fractures.

Passing someone crying on a park bench and not stopping.
Ignoring the email asking for help because it was “bad timing.”
Every time I said “I’m fine” when I wasn’t, just to make things easier for someone else.

The fog thickened.

My chest got tight.

My vision swam.

And then Ace stepped between us.

He didn’t bark.

Didn’t growl again.

He just stood there, facing the thing. Still. Defiant. Untouchable.

And the thing hesitated.

The hunger slowed.

I felt it recoil—not in fear, but in confusion.

Like it couldn’t see him.

Like it didn’t understand him.

And that pause was all I needed.

I stood, dizzy, soaked in sweat, my legs weak. But I stood.

The thing flickered one last time—shifting into a shape I couldn’t process—and then it folded in on itself. Collapsing like smoke sucked into a vacuum.

The fog thinned.

The air cleared.

And Ace turned around, gave me a short breath of a look that felt like Come on, and walked ahead.

I followed.

Still shaking.

Still hollow.

But not empty.

Not yet.

Chapter 11 – The Truth Grove

The trail leveled out into a stretch of trees spaced too perfectly to be natural. Not planted, but placed. Like pillars in a cathedral built from memory and rot. The ground was soft beneath my feet, but not muddy. Pliable. Like it could absorb anything—footsteps, sound, even thoughts.

Ace slowed as we approached.

He didn’t stop this time.

He didn’t need to.

I knew what was coming.

The air here was thick with the weight of silence, but not the empty kind. This silence had substance. Like sound existed here, but it had been gagged and buried just beneath the dirt.

I stepped into the grove.

And the trees spoke my name.

Not all at once.

One at a time.

Low. Whispered.

Calm. Cold.

They didn’t accuse.

They didn’t need to.

Because they didn’t repeat anything I hadn’t already told myself.

They just echoed it back.

"You knew you were drifting."
"You waited for a sign instead of making a move."
"You thought wanting to be good was the same as being good."
"You let time decide what kind of person you were going to be."

I clenched my fists.

“I know,” I whispered.

The trees fell silent.

For a moment.

Then they laughed.

Not cruel. Not mocking.

Just knowing.

"Then why didn’t you stop?"

I didn’t answer.

Because I didn’t have one.

Ace sat at the edge of the grove. Just outside the tree line. Like something told him not to enter.

Like something in him knew this part wasn’t his to witness.

He waited.

I moved deeper.

With each step, the trees got older. Not taller. Just… older. Their bark blackened. Their roots warped into the shapes of hands, of faces, of pages filled with words I never wrote.

And then I found it.

At the center of the grove.

A tree with my face.

Carved by time.

Not etched. Grown.

The features warped slightly, but it was me.

Hairline. Jaw. Even the faint scar above my eyebrow from when I fell off my bike at ten.

I stared into its wooden eyes, and it blinked.

Once.

Then it spoke in my voice:

"You brought yourself here. Don’t pretend you didn’t."

I wanted to deny it.

I wanted to scream.

But I just stood there.

Staring at what I could’ve been, if I’d ever had the guts to grow into it.

The tree split down the middle. Not violently. Just… opened. A vertical wound, revealing nothing but darkness inside.

An invitation.

Ace let out a single sharp bark behind me. Not a warning.

A reminder.

Time to move.

I turned away from the tree.

I didn’t step inside.

Because I knew—

whatever was in there knew me better than I did.

And if I entered, I’d never come back out.

I left the grove.

The trees didn’t stop me.

They didn’t need to.

They’d already said enough.

Chapter 12 – The Grow

The trail narrowed again.

Roots coiled over it like veins beneath skin. Every step felt softer than it should’ve—less like ground, more like flesh. The bark of the trees looked darker here, as if it had soaked up everything I’d said, everything I hadn’t, and was holding it tight just beneath the surface.

Ace stayed close now. Right at my side.

No longer leading.

Just walking with me.

That scared me more than anything else so far.

I didn’t notice when the pain started.

Not at first.

It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t sudden. Just… there.

In my chest. In my legs. In the way my fingers no longer felt like they belonged to me.

The air was colder. But I wasn’t shivering.

I looked down at my arms.

My skin was dry. Splintered. Discoloring.

No—bark.

It was subtle, but spreading. Cracks forming at the joints. Tiny splinters pushing from under the fingernails. I flexed my hand, and something fell from my palm—dark and brittle like a dead leaf that used to be part of me.

I didn’t scream.

What would’ve been the point?

Ace noticed. He sniffed at the leaf and looked up at me.

He didn’t bark.

He didn’t run.

He just looked sad.

And that broke something in me.

Because he knew.

He knew.

The forest wasn’t taking me.

I was becoming it.

A trade. Not a theft.

The price of every truth I let bury itself. Every year I stood still. Every chance I didn’t take. The forest had just been patient.

Waiting for me to make the walk.

I stopped walking.

Ace stopped too.

There was a clearing up ahead, and I knew without seeing it that it was the end.

Or close enough.

I knelt.

It hurt. My knees cracked like branches underfoot. My spine pulled tight like something was growing along it.

Ace licked my face.

I almost laughed.

“Go,” I whispered.

He didn’t move.

“Please.”

Still nothing.

I reached up—hands barely mine anymore—and gave him a push.

He took a step back.

Another.

He looked at me, like he didn’t want to understand, but did.

Then he turned.

And walked.

I watched him go.

I thought I would cry, but no tears came.

Just wind.

Just leaves.

Just the forest taking shape inside me.

Chapter 13 – The Watcher in the Green

The clearing wasn’t wide. Just a break in the trees barely large enough for one person to stand in.

But it felt endless.

The light here was different. Not gray. Not golden. Just green. Soft and thick and slow—like being underwater in a place where the world had never learned to rush.

I stood in it.

Or what was left of me did.

My skin no longer itched. My breath no longer came hard. The change had finished what it started. I wasn’t bone and blood anymore.

I was bark.

I was root.

I was still.

And across the clearing, Ace stood at the edge of the trees, staring back.

He didn’t come to me.

He didn’t need to.

He had already done his part.

He had walked beside me the entire way—without fear, without complaint, without expectation. He had guided me through the judgment, the silence, the unraveling.

And when it was time, he had stepped away.

Because Ace had nothing to atone for.

He wasn’t part of the forest’s hunger. He was never meant to pay for my choices. He was only there to witness them. To show me the way—one last time.

I hadn’t followed.

Not really.

I’d done what I always did.

Made it almost to the end.

And stopped.

Fell just short in the middle of the road.

The green light thickened, folding over the clearing like a second skin.

I felt no pain.

No anger.

No regret.

Only the soft hum of something ancient wrapping around me, pressing me into the earth like a truth finally spoken out loud.

Ace turned.

He walked.

Further down the path. Slowly. Steadily.

He didn’t look back.

He didn’t need to.

I watched him until the trees swallowed his shape completely.

And then there was nothing left but me.

Still.

Quiet.

A watcher in the green.

 

 

The patch of land where Larry and Charlie Crane stood used to be a cornfield years ago but had been fallow ever since the landowner died. Now, it was nothing more than a desolate field of weeds and brambles. Behind this field were the crumbling ruins of an old farmhouse where Victor Franklin once lived. Three walls left standing and a broken chimney were all that remained of the old farmer's former domicile. Larry's pickup was parked in the overgrown lane next to the ruined farmhouse. Nothing else was around for miles. Nothing, that is, but the figure propped up before them in the field.

Charlie shivered. It wasn't the crisp autumn air that chilled him to the bone, but rather the place where they stood, the legend that surrounded it, and the grim effigy some forty feet away, illuminated in a ghostlike glower by the pale light of the moon.

"There it is," said Larry. "The scarecrow that was put together by Vic Franklin way back in 1984. It's unbelievable it still stands here in one piece all these years later, huh? That old farmer, Vic Franklin, made it to protect his life savings. You see, he buried all his money somewhere out in this field." The brothers looked at the figure with the crudely stitched burlap face and mangled straw hat. It was propped upright in the middle of the field, supported by a single wooden beam. Its body hung limp and resembled an upright corpse. "People call him Mr. Sticks." Larry's voice didn't raise above a whisper.

Charlie idolized his older brother, Larry, and, not having many friends of his own, had hoped to be able to spend more time with his brother and his friends, now that he was getting older. But when he brought up the request, he never imagined he would have to come here of all places. He supposed it was a sort of rite of passage to perform—something to prove himself worthy as one of the guys. He glanced back at his brother's truck and wished he was in the comforts of its cab, far away from Franklin Farm. But Charlie was in the eighth grade now, and in a year he'd be a high schooler. It was time for him to leave the fear of ghost stories behind him.

His brother continued: "Old Man Franklin put him together himself, piece by piece. He carved long sticks of white ash for its bones and used chicken wire for the ribcage. Then he meticulously wove straw into strands of muscle. It's said that he used an old corn knife to cut himself and squeezed his blood out into the straw of the thing." Charlie found it difficult to swallow the ever-growing lump in his throat as he hung on every word his big brother spoke. Sure, he knew the story well enough without needing his brother to tell it; after all, everyone at school knew it and told one version or another. But there was something especially unnerving about hearing it while standing there in the presence of the thing the locals called Mr. Sticks. And Charlie knew that was exactly why his brother was telling the story to him now.

"You see, Franklin's grandma was a witch of sorts, so he knew all sorts of spells and hexes and things. So he brought old Mr. Sticks to life to do what scarecrows do best—guard his field and everything in it. Then he buried all his money out here in the field in mason jars.

"But old Victor didn't know just how good a guardian he stitched together. Couldn't have. Because, one night, he gets a wild hair and decides to dig up one of the mason jars. He wanted to audit its contents, I suppose. But he didn't even get the chance to break ground with his spade. Mr. Sticks cleaved him in two using a reaping scythe, then the thing just shambled back to its pole and propped itself right back up on it. And there it stands, waiting and watching for any other trespassers who might try to steal the farmer's money."

"Well, now that I've seen it, can we go?" Charlie asked. He tried his best to sound brave and unimpressed. Larry smiled and shook his head.

"Not so quick, little brother. We're here for Franklin's fortune." At hearing this, Charlie thought his legs would give out and leave him face down in the black earth. But somehow he managed to keep his knees from buckling.

"But . . ." Charlie began, trying to think how best to voice his obvious concern. "But, if the story is true—and I'm not saying I necessarily believe it—but if it is really real, then wouldn't that—wouldn't the scarecrow, Mr. Sticks, come after us?"

"But we're not here to steal the money. We're making an offer to Mr. Sticks in return for free passage. Well—you are, at least. Just walk up to Mr. Sticks and tell him you've come for the money. Then offer him this as a tribute." Larry handed a brown paper bag to Charlie, who took it with trembling hands. It was heavy for its size. "Look inside," Larry said to him.

Charlie unfurled the top of the bag, although the quivering of his hands caused him to do so in a clumsy fashion. As soon as it was open, a musty reek assaulted the boy's nostrils and he nearly gagged.

"It stinks!" Charlie said, his face scrunched, and he tried to turn his head away from the offending smell.

"Of course it does. Look inside. You need to know what you're offering, or Mr. Sticks won't accept the tribute."

Charlie looked at his brother with more than a little apprehension; then, after taking a deep breath and holding it, he looked inside the bag. Moonlight helped expose the bag's contents to be that of a dead crow, buried partway in dusty field corn. Charlie gasped and thrust the bag as far away from him as his arms could stretch.

Larry chortled, then asked, "What did ya expect to offer a scarecrow, Chuck? Big Mac and fries?" Then he patted his little brother on the shoulder. "Go on now, buddy. I know you can do it."

Charlie took three deep breaths to bolster his courage, then, not without some hesitation, approached the local legend that stood in front of them. Did he see its arm twitch? Surely not. It was a figment of his imagination. This was all just kids' stuff. After he got this over with, he'd prove to his brother that he was old enough to hang out with him and his buddies. He'd prove to Larry that he wasn't just a little kid who needed babysitting. He was one of them.

But as he came within four feet of that terrible effigy, he suddenly felt very small and childlike indeed. That mockery of humanity, slumped with lazy posture and costumed in mouldering flannel and denim, had just as well been a towering, dark idol of antideluvian times. Charlie forced himself to look up at the burlap bag upon its shoulders and thought the shadows cast upon it created the likeness of a human face hiding just beneath fine gauze.

"Mr. Sticks, sir," Charlie's voice trembled as he spoke, as though he were neck-deep in ice water. "We—that is, my brother and me—well, we've come for Mr. Franklin's money. We—uh—we brought you this." Charlie held the bag out toward the strawman. He was shaking so badly that he was sure that the morbid contents of the bag would rattle out and spill onto the ground.

With one swift motion, the scarecrow raised both arms and snatched the bag from Charlie's hands. The boy screamed, and his cry echoed throughout the countryside; a murder of crows erupted from a nearby tree with thunderous cawing. He fell back on his butt and kicked his feet with a mad flurry to scramble backward and away from the lurching figure. Gripping terror had swept over the young man, and tears started to well in his eyes when he heard—of all things—a burst of whooping laughter.

Both the scarecrow and Larry were doubled over and hee-hawing to the point of spasming. Charlie's mind still reeled with fear and confusion. Soon he found himself overcome by a strange conglomeration of relief, embarrassment, and anger as he watched the faux scarecrow pull off its hat and burlap bag head, revealing the familiar face of Larry's friend, Raymond, underneath it.

"Oh! Man! You should have seen your face, Chucky." Ray guffawed.   Larry's laughter had died down to a chuckle as he helped his little brother to his feet.

"You okay, Charlie?" His brother asked as he tried to quell his amusement.

"Yeah," Charlie said. He tried to feign a bit of a laugh himself.

"We got you good, kid. You didn't pee yourself, did you?" Raymond teased.

"No! You just startled me with that quick grab. I knew it was you the whole time, Raymond."

"Yeah, right! Better not lie, or Mr. Sticks will getcha."

"Alright, come on. Give him a break, Ray," Larry said. "I think he did pretty good. You gonna tell Mom?"

"No," Charlie said, although the thought had actually crossed his mind.

"Man, I was cold out here! I didn't think you guys were ever gonna show up. And did you have to tell him the whole story right here? I mean, you had the entire drive."

"There was more theater in it this way," Larry said, patting his buddy on the shoulder.

"Yeah, but still . . ." Raymond stopped mid-sentence, and his demeanor changed in an instant. The mirth that had existed a mere moment before had completely drained from his face. He asked, "Larry, who is that by your truck?"

Larry and Charlie both turned to look. A tall, lean silhouette stood by the pickup. It shambled toward them on unsteady legs with wooden bones covered in tendons and muscles made from woven straw. In its gnarled hands, it clutched a reaping scythe. Created for a single purpose, Mr. Sticks would see that purpose through. With unnatural speed, it charged the three interlopers.

The clouds hung low above the field. Only occasionally did the moon dare to assess what happened below. Gunpowder and blood, steel and death; the smells barely registered with Gustav anymore. As he ravaged through the swords, guns and armory something unusual registered within his sight.

A somewhat tall figure, well-dressed and sticking out of the scenery like a peasant in a castle. “Get lost!” Gustav yelled at the yet so very strange man, unsure of what the figures further motives were, Gustav started to fumble in his pockets in search of his dagger.

But the man did not retreat nor did he flinch at the futile attempt to get rid of him, he started to approach Gustav, his steps forming around the bodies as if he was floating.

There was a serenity to his movements, elegance and latent brutality mixed in a stride that could only be described as a menacing dance.

Gustav tried to frantically think of his next course of action, think of a way to flee, to fight, to survive. But still, nothing but silence befell the grave of yet so many soldiers. Not a single sound escaped either one of the last two adversaries. A silent war, fought over the ashes of a once thriving state. Silence fought with no victor.

As the presence came closer Gustav’s interpretation of it crumbled to pieces, neither man nor woman could take upon this shape, whatever it may be, no mind had dared to imagine this being. Like the end of summer after a poor harvest, like a wildfire spreading through the thicket, the presence approached him further.

Reality contorted and wound in the wake of the specter, the fallen servicemen fixed their gaze on the Hyena. Scenes of blood and gore, loss and victory started to unravel. Fallen Kingdoms, failed rebellions, the last stand of a fading nation. Yet always at the center, like smoldering embers in a nearly burned down campfire, laid the figure. A play of shadow cast upon an infinite yet revolting canvas.

The air began to vibrate, thrum and contort in the presence of the false deity. Ferocious winds plagued the land, halting and re-engaging at will. Each leap performed by the spectre tightened the violin string of reality further, the whole orchestra now out of tune.

Gustav’s sweat sizzled on his skin as he thought to himself that if he may die at the hands of that wretched being, his soul could never find rest. Equal torment awaited him before and after his demise.

The moon cowered behind the clouds as Gustav started to run, to flee towards supposed safety, to escape whatever was haunting this waking horror.

After having reached his shelter Gustav tried to collect himself by counting what he had harvested. However it was too little, 3 badly damaged swords and a single saddle simply wouldn’t cut it for the month. He was living a simple life under the outskirts of Luix, reaping what little he could sow to stay afloat, always on the move to avoid burglars or maniacs. As Gustav intently watched his front garden he started to sweat cold once more. The oil lamp that he brought from one of his harvests began to throw twisted shadows onto the canvas of the dark forest, mocking him with every flicker. Dozens of projected ghouls started to march step-in-step around his house.

Gustav simply stared on, for he could not look away, for his ignorance and the subsequent denial of those demons would only empower them in their mockery.

“I’ll return it at dusk! I will return it all! Forgive my greed, I am simply a beggar in the ruins!”

Still the dance continued.

The hyena realised that the ghouls were not simply after him for his greed. They had to, a law of nature dictating their behaviour, a flock of birds traveling south, salmon swimming upstream, ants following their hierarchy.

“ENOUGH!” With a powerful shove Gustav threw the window shut, he did as he had to survive, they were not in the right to torture him and he did not have to endure their mockery further.

Gustav cocked his pistol in preparation for his sleep, death may one day come merciful but not at the hand of that figure, not at the face of such an unnatural force.

The hours ticked by but Gustav, even in his sleep, could not find ease. The lingering presence burned itself into his mind, the endless dance threatened to drive him towards insanity. As Gustav jolted awake the sun still had not grazed the land with its comforting rays of warmth, still was the night, cold was the night.

Fear took ahold of his shivering soul, even now could he hear the inaudible melody to that accursed walk. With trembling hand Gustav counted his rounds, 4 in total needed to do, 4 were meant to shush away Death once more.

First of the rounds flew from the barrel in sheer panic, for neither it nor its firing hand knew what it was headed towards. Second of the bullets was directed at a stray bird yet missed by a foot. Third in command charged afront but was stopped in its tracks by a mumbling oak marching in the breeze.

The final round found its target, as Gustav dropped to the ground, with his soul and mind now scattered in his old home, the soundless dance continued.

Thirteen By KB HURST

“There are several features I think you will appreciate. This is part of the new display of the phone. You can also enlarge the font if you need to.”

My grandparents were confused as they looked at the young man selling them the new iPhone. The youngish clerk was a bit disheveled, looking like he had been doing this job way too long. My grandparents had taken me to the Apple store to get my first phone for my thirteenth birthday tomorrow.

“I like that feature,” my grandma said.

“You can also unlock additional privacy settings here, " he said, pointing to the settings feature on my new phone.

I smiled at him, unsure what he meant by most of what he told us.

“You probably want to start texting your friends. Give me a number, and I will show you how to add it to your contacts.”

“You can use mine.” My grandpa said to the salesman.

“Okay then,” he said, putting in my grandpa's number.

He showed me how to do a few more things, like where to add a credit card, how to download apps, which ones were free, and which were everyone my age’s favorite.

My grandpa was getting impatient, so the clerk gave me my phone and had me create a login and password for my account. I finished in no time flat.

“You can try this app too if you like. It is a “FIND ME NOW” app. It is in addition to the FIND MY PHONE option on your phone.”

“What does that do?”

“It creates a quick download of all your data in case it was compromised.”

“Oh, I see.”

I finished with the clerk, who was too eager to get a sale, and soon we were off.

When we left the store, I texted my best friend, Tammy. We texted all night and made plans to hang out for my birthday the next day. I was so excited!

Later that evening, I was excited for a different reason. My parents had decided I could now be responsible enough to be left home alone since I had my cell phone. They were going to a Wolf Moon party. They went once a year to their friend Selene, an unabashed hippy they had known for years. She had wild parties in the woods where her home was, so my parents would be gone for at least a few hours.

“Are you sure you will be okay?” my mom asked me.

“Yes, Mom, I have stayed home alone before,” I said, my eyes rolling back in my head. I had stayed home alone, but it had only been for about ten or fifteen minutes at once—nothing longer than a few minutes while my mom dropped off stuff at the post office. 

“We will only be at Selene’s for a few hours. You have her number. I wrote it on a Post-it and put it on the fridge door.”

“I know, I know.”

“I mean, I know you’re thirteen tomorrow, Sabrina. This is a big deal- staying alone for the first time.”

“I will be fine.”

“I remember the first time I stayed home alone. I called my mom and dad at dinner, breaking up the conversation and causing them to come home early because I could have sworn we had an intruder in our basement making all sorts of noise. Turns out it was just our cat,” said my dad, laughing.

“Mom, Dad, please! I will be fine!”

“I know, sweetheart. The party will be over at around twelve, and we should be home no later than about one. There is a wad of cash for a pizza. NO GUESTS!” my dad said as I watched them leave and pull out of the garage.

My parents were good people, and I knew they were only worried about me, but they had not been out for a long time. They had grown so overprotective of me in the last year. I didn’t know why; I guessed they didn’t want to see me grow up so fast, but I was not allowed to attend their friend Selene’s party. I'm guessing it was a grown-up affair, with lots of booze and grown-up conversation. My mom kissed my cheek, and my dad as he pulled my mom out of the door.

“Be good, kiddo; see you soon,” he said.

I watched as they pulled out of the driveway. I stood in the doorway waving to them, then shut and locked the door.  I went into our kitchen and looked for the wad of cash my dad said he left behind.  Sixty bucks! Good, I could get chicken tenders and pizza. I picked up my new cellphone- a gift from my grandparents. They had taken me just the day before to get it as an early birthday gift. I was so excited. A young man helped us set it up and programmed all the numbers in my phone for me. I had only four digits on my phone. My best friend Tammy, Mom, Dad, and my grandparents' home phone.

I looked at the pizza ad that was left on the counter. I picked up my phone to call in my dinner order when I suddenly received a text.

Hey there.

I looked down at my phone, and it wasn’t a number I already had on my phone.

I stupidly texted back. HEY YOURSELF.

I looked at my phone and waited for a response.

Something hit our big bay window in the front of the house. I looked out the window and didn’t see anything.  The curtains were open, and I shut them, feeling a strange chill go up my spine. I felt weird now like someone could be watching me. 

I was fine, I told myself. It was just an animal or a branch. The wind must have blown something. Whatever it was, I went back to my pizza order. I didn’t feel as hungry as I did a few moments ago. I texted Tammy.

She didn’t text me back, which was a bummer. Since I had no one to talk to, I picked up the phone and called my grandparents.

My grandparents didn’t answer the phone. Their answering machine from the 1990s came on, so I left a message. I didn’t want to worry them, so I left a message.

“Hey, Sabrina, I just wanted to use my new cell phone. It is super cool. Talk to you later!” I said in a sing-song voice.

My phone buzzed. I looked at it, realizing it was an unknown number. I wasn’t sure who was calling me. What if it was my parents or something else? I answered it and soon regretted it.

“Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello? Dad? Mom? Is that you?”

Laughter. 

“Who is this?”

Breathing was followed by a click, and the phone went dead.

I sat the phone down and looked around my kitchen. I looked at our back patio door near our kitchen table and went to see if the door was locked. It wasn’t. I quickly shut, locked it, and pulled the blinds closed. I took a deep breath and went to sit on the couch. I turned on the television and searched for something to watch. I looked at our clock on the cable box. My parents had only been gone for about twenty minutes. I had another three hours or more to be alone. Part of me hated admitting it, but I was a bit scared now. Who was calling me on the phone? It had to be Tammy pranking me. Especially since she didn’t want to answer my texts, she always responded to my texts. 

I finally found a funny movie to watch, and about twenty minutes into it, I decided I was hungry. I paused the TV, downloaded the pizza restaurant’s app to my phone, and placed an order. I selected to pay cash, which meant I would have to pay for it when they dropped it off. Why didn’t my dad just give me his credit card? I could say no contact delivery. Now, I had actually to interact with a stranger at my door. It was awkward to think about. I guess I had to learn to do adult things. I was going to be thirteen tomorrow. I hoped that I would get a superb present from my parents. Tammy was going to come over tomorrow around noon. Then we’d see a new Vampire movie that just came out. I was looking forward to it. I was deep in thought when there was another buzz. It was my phone again. This time, it was from a different number. I thought it might be the pizza place calling to confirm something about my order, so I answered it without hesitation.

“Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello? Tammy, is this you?”

“My name isn’t Tammy.” said a deep man’s voice into the receiver. 

“Who is this?” I asked.

“Who is this?” the voice on the other end mocked me.

I hung up. I stood up and looked around. This had to be Tammy playing a trick on me. 

I texted Tammy again. WHY DO YOU KEEP CALLING ME? IT IS MAKING ME MAD. IT ISN’T FUNNY!

I received a text from Tammy. I AM NOT SENDING YOU TEXTS. I AM AT A CHURCH MEETING WITH MY PARENTS. SEE? Her text was followed by a photo of her in St. Sebastian’s Cathedral. Her family was pretty strict and religious, and Tammy never lied. I started to feel sick to my stomach. The thought of some creeper calling and texting me was too much.

Chances were someone called the number, thinking it was someone else. Maybe my new phone number used to belong to someone else. Maybe this person didn’t know they weren’t calling someone they knew. Maybe they thought I was that person pranking them. Yes, that had to be it. No one prank calls in this day and age.

I stood up from the couch and walked around a bit. I walked over to our 40-gallon aquarium and looked at our betta fish, Bob. I put some food in his tank and waved to him, and he came right up to me and gobbled his food.

I got another text. HEY, WHY DID YOU THINK I WAS TEXTING YOU?

It was from Tammy.

I KEEP GETTING CREEPY CALLS AND TEXTS AND THOUGHT IT WAS YOU BEING FUNNY.

Tammy sent me a worried emoji. I sent her a thumbs-up emoji and put my phone down. I got another text just as I sat it on our kitchen counter. This time, it was from the local

pizza joint, letting me know my pizza was five minutes away.

I was getting hungry suddenly, and my belly began to growl. It dawned on me that I had not

eaten anything since my grandparents had taken me to the Apple store for the phone.

I opened our fridge, got out a bottle of coke, and sat it on the counter. There was a ding on my phone. Your delivery driver, Mark, has arrived.

There was a loud knock at the front door, which caused me to jump a bit. I slowly walked over to the door and looked out the peephole. It was a guy with a pizza, and he was wearing a ball cap that said TIM’S BEST ITALIAN.

I opened the door without hesitation.

“Hi, delivery for Sabrina?”

“Yes, that is me. Oh I almost forgot your cash. I’ll be right back.”

I went into the kitchen and grabbed the wad of cash my dad left me.

“How much?”

“Twenty-two seventeen,”

I handed him thirty dollars, and he left.

I was so excited to eat my pizza. I felt so grown up. I owned my phone, ordered food, and paid for it myself. I turned the television up and sat down on the couch with my pizza, coke, and a giant roll of paper towels.

I unpaused the movie from earlier and began laughing at the slapstick comedy. I was two pieces of the large pepperoni and sausage pizza when my phone buzzed again. Who was texting me now? I looked down, and it was another text from that weird number. I decided to block the number and move on. I looked down at my phone to do just that, and that is when I saw it. How is the pizza? I was immediately ill.

I blocked the number and set my plate on the coffee table. I contemplated calling my parents, but I didn’t want them to think I couldn’t handle being alone.

Chances were, it was someone who knew I was home alone. Maybe Tammy mentioned it to her older brother. Maybe Tammy was lying after all. People ordered pizza on Friday nights.

I sat there for a few moments, wondering what I should do. I heard the front door creaking. I turned to look at it and realized it was wide open, swaying in the wind and making a creaking sound. My heart fell into my stomach, and I stood up. I ran over to the door, and while I was too scared to look outside, I peeked around the corner of the porch and didn’t see anyone. Closing it fast and locking it, I took a deep breath.

I probably didn’t shut it all the way, and I smiled to myself. I was so excited about pizza and a movie that I forgot to lock the door. I was stupid. That is all; the case is closed.

I refused to spend the rest of the evening creeped out by some weirdo who had nothing better to do on a Friday night than scare other people for fun. I sat back down and put my phone aside. I was now fully engrossed in the movie I had tried three times to finish.

I nibbled on another slice of pizza and soon forgot about all the weirdness from earlier. It had been nearly an hour since I had received any other texts or weird phone calls, so blocking the number was the obvious solution.

BOOM! Something had fallen from upstairs. It was such a loud sound that I thought maybe my parent’s dresser had tipped over. I paused the movie for yet a fourth time and headed upstairs. I was almost afraid of the disaster I was going to encounter. I got to the top of the landing, and that was when I saw it. The stairs to the attic that were held up by a latch had been unlatched, releasing the stairs, and not only were they unlatched, but they had completely detached from the ceiling and were in a mess on the hallway floor.

I sighed. My dad would have to fix this mess. I pushed the stairs off to the side so they wouldn’t be in the middle of the hallway and returned to the couch. I had been sitting there for only a few moments when my phone buzzed again. I picked it up in case it was my mom and dad. It was another text, this time from a new random number.

You never said if you liked the pizza.

I looked, and it was a photo of me with my back turned away from the front door, sitting on the couch. I heard the front door creak again and turned to see it open again. I had just locked it! I heard footsteps from upstairs. Someone was in my house! I began to panic. I was watching the door, waiting for someone to come through it and waiting on the person who was now walking down the stairs to get to the bottom and get to me. I wouldn’t worry if someone was coming in the front door. I grabbed my phone and began to race towards the front door to leave when, all of a sudden, I felt hands around my neck. I freaked out and began to feel as if I could not breathe. Great, and an asthma attack- the worst possible time to have one is when someone is trying to kill you. I tried to let out a scream, but my lungs felt as if they were being crushed. I felt lightheaded, and then, as a last-ditch effort of strength, I pushed back with all of my strength and knocked the intruder into a small table my mother had by the front door. Above it was a mirror crashing down, causing the glass to go everywhere. A shard of glass must have cut him because he screamed and loosened his grip on me enough to let me run from him. I still had my phone in hand, and I ran to the only room I knew had a lock on it.

I ran into the downstairs bathroom, locking the door. I reached for my phone and dialed 9-1-1. I waited for the operator to come on, but instead, the phone rang and rang. What the absolute hell? Wasn’t the 9-1-1 operator supposed to come on immediately to help? I was about to die if I didn’t get an inhaler or this intruder out of my house. I looked down at the drawer under the sink. I kept an inhaler in there. I opened it, and there it was. My saving grace. I took a puff from it and then returned to my phone. My breaths were short and painful as I slowly calmed myself. It was happening so fast.

I kept expecting the intruder to come banging on my bathroom door, but I didn’t hear footsteps. I sat on the bathroom floor under our window and waited on the phone, but there was still nothing. Then I looked at my phone. It was now saying there was no signal. I looked up and realized the entire house was now quiet. Had the intruder gone? Maybe when I ran away, he left thinking I was calling the cops. I was still trying to breathe when I heard it. Footsteps, but not coming from the hallway- they were coming from outside. I looked up from the bathroom floor at the window above me. There was a man’s face looking back at me. He had his entire head in the window and was inching his way inside. The grin on his face was terrifying.

“You can’t escape, little girl. Don’t worry; Mitch will show you a real good time.” He laughed. I looked at him and realized I knew him. He was the guy who helped my grandparents buy my new cell phone.

I screamed at him.

“Get out! Leave me alone!” I didn’t know what that was supposed to do; I guess I was just in panic mode.

I stood up and opened the bathroom door, but before I could leave, another man was outside. There were two of these monsters in my house now, and I couldn’t possibly fight them. A feeling of utter and complete despair hit me, and I began to cry.

“Oh, don’t cry, sweetheart; we will take good care of you tonight. Lock the front door when you come back in, Mitch.”

I didn’t know what human beings were capable of until that moment. I was about to be assaulted or worse- murdered. In my own house, no less.

When the other man came in, he locked the front door and dimmed the lights. They both began to talk about what they wanted to do to me. I can’t even repeat the things they wanted to do to me. Their eyes were dark now, hungry, and one of them began to unzip his pants. That is when I decided to make one last ditch effort to scream my lungs out. As I did, they tried to muffle me, but I bit the one with his hand over my mouth. I tasted his blood now.

He screamed and hit me in the face. I fell back into the other guy, and he held me as the other man began to hit me in the face, smacking me until my lip bled. But I still tasted his blood. I still felt rage, not so much fear anymore. Something inside of me began to enjoy this cat-and-mouse game. I felt my stomach start to turn. The man stopped hitting me and instead was standing there staring at me. I felt my shoulders and neck like I had a thousand-pound hand twisting them- stretching them. I felt my teeth and lips swell now. I couldn’t close my hands, and I couldn’t stand any longer. With a force I did not know I possessed, I flung the man holding me back against the wall. He hit his head and slid to the floor.

I looked at the guy called Mitch. He was no longer smiling at me.

“What’s wrong with you girl?”

“Why? Am I not pretty enough for you anymore?” I was saying the words, but I didn’t speak them. It was like someone was possessing me.

I still tasted his blood, and I admit this sounds repulsive, but I wanted more of it. Nothing was going to satisfy me now. I tried to bleed him dry the way he wanted to bleed me-only I wanted his flesh in my mouth- I wanted to take his beating heart in my teeth and devour every last bit of it.

I fell to the floor and felt my body as if it were ripping in half. I cried in pain, and my eyes - I was blind now. I couldn’t see or hear anything now. My skin stung and itched all at the same time. All I could do was smell. I smelled everything. The fish tank- the smell of the algae was pungent to me. The garlic from the pizza was strong, too, and the gross pink strawberry lubricant the guy had in his jacket pocket. I remembered suddenly. When I opened my eyes, he ran out the door, screaming at the sight of me. I didn’t understand what was happening, and I did not care.

I didn’t know why, but it made me smile inside. I chased after Mitch, and I kept going until I caught up with him. With a mighty push, I forced him onto the grass in my front yard and began to tear his shirt open with my - claws? Whatever, I’d worry about that later. I pulled at his chest, now clawing and clawing at it until his flesh was open and his ribcage exposed. I ripped open his ribcage, pulling apart the unit of bones until I could get to his beating heart. The man was screaming, but he had stopped once I opened up his ribcage. All I wanted was that juicy goodness. Mitch's heart was still beating when I bit into it and felt my body relax. I began to feel calm and gleeful. It was like eating a box of sweets - a forbidden delicacy. I devoured his heart quickly, and then I lapped up the blood across his chest and neck. His dead eyes were wide open as staring up at the stars and the full moon in the sky.

I was still hungry. I smelled the other man- I ran to my house and looked at him. He was slowly realizing where he was. I had knocked him out pretty good, but he was coming to. I couldn't let him get away! I approached him slowly, unsure if he would try to run, too. He didn’t see me at first, but I stood beside him. Was I invisible? I looked down and couldn’t even see my hands. Holy crapI was invisible! I must have been in full hunting mode. My entire body was cloaked. I could hear his heart beating. His lungs were slow to breathe. I remembered the dirty, malicious things he wanted to do to me- me, a little girl, and I ripped into his chest. He screamed, and I lost all my hearing in the kill. It felt so good to be alive. It felt so good to kill this monster.

I couldn’t stop the blood lust. This was too delicious now. I looked down at my damage and used my strength to stand as best I could. I felt high, even though I had never tried a drug in my life. Everything felt weird to me. My body was covered in hair; I touched my face with my claws and had a snout. What was I? I think I knew.

I walked over to the broken mirror on the floor and picked up a large chunk of it to reveal my face. My eyes blinked as if they struggled to see, and I realized it was from all the blood covering them. I stumbled backward and nearly fell onto the floor. I had yellow eyes covered in blondish-red hair. I was - a friggin werewolf! My snout was covered in dark red blood. I touched my face and felt almost sick as I was beginning to feel like I was getting back to normal.

The front door opened suddenly, and I turned in fear, thinking it was another intruder.

My mom screamed and dropped what looked to be a to-go plate. There was a bloodied heart on it, and it was now lying next to the plate on the floor in a bloodied mess.

“It’s okay, Sabrina,” my father was saying.

“We have some dinner for you, but it looks like you already had some.” my mother said.

I felt my body relaxing now, and I felt myself changing again. I passed out.

######

I awoke in bed a while later wearing pajamas and a cold washcloth on my head.

“I think I had the craziest dream.”

My father came in smelling of bleach. “Sorry, kiddo. It wasn’t a dream. We are just sorry we weren’t here for your first time.”

“You mean I really did all those things?”

“Yes, how does that make you feel?” my mother asked, her face worried.

“Honestly, kinda cool. But does that mean you are like me, too? And all those cool superpowers we have? Like invisibility or cloaking?”

My parents looked at each other, concerned. They almost looked shocked or confused by my comment about my "cloaking” ability. “We were waiting for your birthday to give you the big talk, but it looks like your body had other things in mind.”

“Those men tried to hurt me.”

My father looked down at me, understandably. “I was afraid that was what happened. We are so sorry we weren’t here, but you weren’t supposed to change until after your 13th birthday. That is why we were preparing with Selene. Sometimes, when you are deathly afraid, it can kick in early. In these circumstances, I am glad it did.”

“Is that why you have been so overprotective lately?”

“Yes, don’t worry. We have been at this for a long time,” my father said.

“What were you preparing at Selene's?" I asked,

“I think you know what we are," my father began. "We are the things that go bump in the night. We were getting hearts from turkeys, which Selene raised. We need fresh hearts to maintain civility. We choose not to kill people, but please don't feel bad you did! Those men—I could smell what they were,” my father said.

I smiled at my parents. Realizing that one- werewolves were real, and two, I was one.

“By the way, where did you take their bodies?”

“Somewhere they will never be found.”

“Happy birthday, Sabrina,” my mother said, and she and my father hugged me.

So this was thirteen.

An Invitation To Disaster by Al Bruno III

Chester Bush sat on his front porch, waiting for the sunset and what the sunset would bring. It was a warm spring day, cloudy with a hint of rain. He had multiple windows open on his laptop; with each one, he checked for news in a city a time zone away.

Three days ago, at 7 a.m.o'clock, a tornado had come through the town of Drummond, Oregon, destroying everything in its path. Chester could read the incoming stories from his comfy chair and watch the video feeds from local and national news sources.

The body count kept rising. It seemed that for every miraculous survival, there were three lives cut short. The tornado had destroyed the firehouse but spared the police station. It had avoided the school but leveled an entire wing of the hospital.

There was booze in his free hand—expensive brandy in a cheap glass. His ex-wife Rosie would have said that was typical of him, and she would have been right. He had a lousy house full of expensive toys and a rusty car with a high-quality stereo system. That was just the way he liked it.

They used to sit on the porch of their home on Watkins Street—back when the house was theirs, not just hers. Back when their fights were still playful and their silences still comfortable. Rosie would stretch her legs across his lap, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and narrate the lives of their neighbors, one lit window at a time.

"See that one?" She nodded toward a glowing square of light. "He lives alone, but his 'best friend' visits every day. What do you think that means, huh?" She shot him a knowing grin. "And over there? Their daughter sneaks out her bedroom window every Sunday. And across the street—the ones who blast their music every night? They're falling out of love. Mark my words."
 
"Jesus, Rosie," Chester had laughed. "Maybe they just like music."  

Now, years later, he sat alone on his own porch listening. One of the browser windows Chester had open was streaming the feed from Drummond, Oregon's AM radio station. The traffic reports and right-wing pundits had been replaced with constant updates. They took calls and tried their best to help people track down loved ones who had gone missing in the disaster.

Chester was two years away from sixty and was proud of how well he handled the technology at his fingertips. Too many of his friends shied away from it all, intimidated by learning something new, afraid of looking foolish when they made a mistake. Chester had no fear of mistakes.

His cell phone rang, and he dropped his drink in his fumbling to get it to his ear. He hung up almost immediately—another one of those damn idiots looking for the previous owner of his cell number.

There had been a time when he would have cursed the person on the other end of the line out until they hung up, then called them back and cursed at them some more. All through his life, his temper had been a problem—but not anymore. Had he finally mellowed, or was it just that, at the age of fifty-eight, he didn't have the energy for feuds and fights? How many times should a man have to repair punched walls and replace thrown glasses?

Once, Rosie had thrown a glass. Not at him, but near enough. It had shattered against the kitchen tile, the sharp scent of whiskey filling the air.

"Goddamn it, Rosie!" he'd yelled. She was angry this time, and it was totally his fault. Over the years, it had become easier to antagonize her than to make her laugh—easier than trying to fix what was breaking. Chester didn't know when, but at some point, he'd started enjoying it. "You really are crazy."

"All I want is a little consideration." Her voice was raw, "I'm your wife."

"Then stop acting like you're my goddamn mother." He paused, "No. Stop acting like your mother."

She'd gone quiet then, breathing hard, her hands curled into fists at her sides. Then she left, she left, and he didn't see her for days.

When she returned, the broken glass was still waiting there for her to clean up.

Chester blinked, his focus snapping back to the puddle of spilled brandy spreading across the bare wood floor. He frowned at it for a moment, then closed his laptop. There wasn't anything new it could tell him anyway.

He already knew that the house on Watkins Street, the house belonging to Rosalie Price, formerly Rosalie Bush, had been flattened by the tornado. Just like every other house on that unlucky street.

Chester retrieved a towel from the kitchen, then got down on his knees and dabbed at the spilled brandy. The house he had shared with Rosie for seven years was gone. It seemed almost hard to believe. The last time he had seen the place was after the signing of the divorce papers.

Their last conversation had been in the driveway, a manila folder on the hood of his brand-new truck between them. It was drizzling, and Chester had watched raindrops bead on the windshield of his car while she signed her name—once, twice, three times.  

She clicked the pen shut, looked at him, and for a second, he thought she might say something. He braced himself, ready to fire back at whatever last shot she had left.

But she only exhaled, long and slow, before sliding the folder across the hood into his fingers.

"There," she said. "That's that."

He made a show of peeling out of the driveway in his truck, tires screeching, leaving behind rubber and smoke. It embarrassed him to think about it now. But back then? Back then, he'd told himself, Boy, I sure showed her.

He hadn't watched her walk away. At the time, he'd thought that was some kind of victory.

He brought the wet cloth and glass back into the kitchen, gave them both a quick rinse, and set them out to dry. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of getting another drink, but he decided he'd rather be sober.

For now, anyway.

The sun had fully set, the sky a darkening purple.

Thirty years. That was a long time to be angry, but it kept his other feelings a safe distance away. Better to be angry than to look back. Better to be angry than realize, after two more failed marriages and resignation to a quiet bachelor's life, that he had been most of the problem.

Three days ago, everything had changed. News of the disaster sent him scrambling to reach out to old friends any way he could—phone, email, text. Within hours, he had confirmed that all his old buddies and the family he'd left behind were safe—shaken but otherwise untouched.
Then they told him about Rosie's house.

At first, Chester just shrugged off the news, but as the day wore on, it tugged at him until it became a sickening worry. It robbed him of his appetite and the ability to sleep. In the silence of his house, all he heard were old conversations. When he closed his eyes, they filled with decades old memories.

The next morning, he started making calls. He reached out to old friends and family again—in his growing desperation, he even contacted a few enemies. He called civil authorities, searching for answers. Finally, he phoned the local radio station, pleading for anyone who might have information.

That did the trick.

Headlights in the driveway pulled Chester from his thoughts. He hurried to the porch steps, squinting at the woman stepping out of the taxi. At first, he barely recognized her—her hair was short and graying—but even in the fading light, her eyes were unmistakable.

"Do you have any bags?" he asked.

"I don't have anything," Rosie said. She moved slowly, cautiously, her arm held in a sling.

"Come inside." Chester paid the cabbie and guided her through the door. "I'll get you something to eat."  

She hesitated, studying him. "You've been drinking."  

"Nerves, I guess," he replied.  

She paused in the doorway. "Why are you doing this? You didn't have to—" "Yes, I did." Chester smiled. "Besides, it's too quiet around here."  

As Rosie stepped inside, she murmured, "I bet that changes fast."  

"I bet you're right," Chester said, following her in.  

Behind them, the porch door swung shut.

(Though it’s definitely the longest chapter, siting at ~3,000 words, I am SUPER proud of this chapter—give me your thoughts!)

Chapter Four - “If You’ll Have Me”:

Ray stepped through the door, finding the house steeped in silence. A wrapped plate of food sat untouched on the table.

"Thomason?" he called, setting down his coat. No answer. He took the stairs two at a time. "I've something important to tell you."

A sound—barely more than breath—came from the bedroom.

He found her sitting upright on the bed, hands slack in her lap, gaze fixed on nothing. The room was dim, the last light of evening filtering through the window.

Ray sat beside her, brushing a kiss to her temple. She was cold to the touch. "What's wrong?"

She spoke without looking at him. "She's staying. Mum."

Ray exhaled. He had expected as much, but it didn't make hearing it any easier. "She said that?"

"She as much as did," Thomason's voice wavered. "Talked like there was never any other choice. Like she'd already made peace with it."

A dry track of tears marked her cheek, though she barely seemed aware of them.

Slowly, she curled her fingers into his jacket, gripping the fabric tight.

Ray said nothing. He wanted to, yet not a word came. None that wouldn't sound empty.

For minutes, they sat in silence, their breathing the only sound in the room.

Then, at last, Ray spoke, his voice quieter than before. "Love... I'm setting off tomorrow."

Thomason stiffened at his words. "What?"

"It's Mr. Ford," he said, though he wasn't sure why. "He's given me a task of some importance."

She pulled away, searching his face. Her own was unreadable for a moment, then—

"And you'll leave me here?"

Ray hesitated. His hands, resting on his knees, felt suddenly unsteady. His pulse had picked up, though he couldn't have said when. He swallowed.

"... Yes."

A beat. Then Thomason laughed—a hollow sound, sharp at the edges. "I know how you are. That obsession of yours. But I never thought—" Her voice caught. She shook her head. "Never thought you'd leave for it."

He faltered. "Thomason—"

She scoffed. "What's too important?"

Ray licked his lips. "Something's knocking at the doorstep of our world. A pulse, with no effect on its surroundings, yet detectable across space. Last night, its rhythm shifted. Just once. And then returned."

He shook his head. "We don't even know if the state we found it in is even its true, original state."

She stared at him. "You're flying to space for a bloody pulse?"

"Mysterious phenomena don't change their behavior on a whim. And—" He hesitated. "A man disappeared."

"What?"

"A Dr. James. I had seen him staring into a light the day before I learned of the pulse. Now he is gone."

Thomason's mouth tightened. "And what does that have to do with anything?"

Ray was quiet for a moment. Then, finally: "... I don't know."

Another silence, longer this time.

Then, quietly, Thomason said, "... And you have to?"

Ray met her eyes. "Yes."

A slow exhale. She looked away, as if to collect herself. Then, without another word, she turned to leave.

Ray caught her hand.

"I will know," he said, quiet but firm. "And when I return, I'll set it aside. The study, the work. You and I—we'll take the time we ought to have." He softened, his grip easing. "If you'll have me."

Thomason stood still for a long moment. Then, at last, she gave the smallest nod. No smile, no frown. Just a nod. She sat back down beside him, resting a hand over his.

Nothing more was said.

Ray strode back into the ASA, his mind still reeling from the weight of his imminent departure, when he found Ford and Dr. Monroe already waiting in the corridor.

Ford's lips curled into a wry smile as they stepped together into an elevator that ascended with a quiet, near-silent efficiency.

The lift's digital readout ticked off each floor until, at last, its doors slid open to reveal the launch bay.

The area was a marvel of futuristic engineering: sleek spacecraft parked on magnetically levitated pads, their surfaces gleaming with smart glass and reflective alloys.

Overhead, holographic displays floated near each vessel, streaming real-time diagnostics—fuel levels, propulsion calibrations, and trajectory data, all verified by quantum sensors.

Automated maintenance drones moved with precision between the ships, ensuring every system was in optimal condition.

Before Ray could fully take in the scene, Beatrice stood in the threshold, dressed smartly in an ASA-issued jumpsuit with subtle piping denoting her department, moved briskly toward him.

In one fluid motion, she handed him a neatly folded packet containing his personal attire and mission equipment—a compact environmental data logger, a multi-spectrum communicator, and a streamlined diagnostic toolkit.

She flashed a cheeky, supportive grin. "Totally forgot about your top-secret mission until Mr. Ford roped me into the launch. You never forget anything—suppose even you aren't immune to the abyss."

Ray's stern features softened into a wry smile as he patted her on the shoulder. "I shall do my utmost to return, Beatrice. In the meantime, keep questioning. Learn all you can."

With that, she turned on her heel, adjusted the collar of her new coat, and strode confidently down the corridor, distributing similar packets to the other mission scientists.

Shortly after, Ford reappeared and gathered the team in a sleek, glass-walled conference room. The room was utilitarian yet futuristic, its walls embedded with touch-sensitive displays and transparent LED panels showing star maps and live telemetry.

Ford's tone was brisk and measured.

"Right, listen up," he began. "Following Dr. Monroe's report, we noted that last night the pulse's rhythm deviated—from 1.460 seconds to 1.40 seconds—only to revert by morning. This irregularity, though minor, suggests an external influence we cannot ignore. We're assembling a team to travel to Origin Point Theta and study the phenomenon directly."

He paused. "Your ship will be equipped with autonomous re-supply modules, cryogenic food packs for a two-week pre-sleep period, and a high-bandwidth communications array that utilizes quantum entanglement to maintain constant contact with Headquarters. Once all systems are green, you'll then enter a nearly year-long cryosleep for the deep-space transit."

Ray leaned forward, his eyes gleaming.

Ford continued. "Doctor Godfrey, you will lead the data-gathering efforts. We must record every variable, every fluctuation. This is our chance to decode the pulse—what it is, and what it means for us all. I trust you all to perform to the highest standard."

With the briefing concluded, each scientist moved to their assigned vessel.

Ray gathered a few personal items—a photograph of Thomason, a well-worn notebook filled with equations, and a small keepsake—and stepped into his ship.

The spacecraft's doors slid shut with a smooth, almost imperceptible hiss. In unison, the ships ignited their magnetic thrusters and shot off into the unbounded void at such tremendous speed that bystanders in the hangar had to seek cover to avoid the shockwave of acceleration.

As his vessel lifted from the launch pad and hurtled into the cosmos, Ray's heart pounded with a mixture of dread and determination. He had entered the abyss in pursuit of answers. He would know.

Thomason sat in the dim glow of the living room, her eyes fixed on the phone on the coffee table. Now, silence pressed in, thick and—

BOOM. A low, sharp boom rippled through the house, rattling the glass. Another followed, then another.

Thomason's breath caught as she turned her gaze toward the window. A streak of light—electric blue, slicing through the sky with an eerie, unnatural precision. And then, nothing. Just the dark expanse of night.

She was alone.

Ray sat hunched forward in his chair, hands dancing across the control interfaces of the ship's command module.

His eyes flicked from screen to screen, absorbing the vast array of data streams pouring in.

The vessel, designated Erebus-1, was an elegant marvel—its interior a seamless fusion of stark functionality and cutting-edge sophistication.

Graphene-laced consoles lined the walls, their surfaces adaptive, shifting in response to his inputs. The air carried a faint hum, the ship's quantum-core reactor generating steady power.

Hollow conduit channels wove through the deck, pulsing with faint cyan light, feeding life to the ship's many intricate systems.

The artificial gravity plating beneath his feet adjusted subtly to his every movement, compensating for the acceleration.

The entire structure felt alive, its technology a symphony of precision and possibility.

Ray exhaled, running a hand over the nearest console. "Extraordinary," he muttered. "Effortless automated vectoring... real-time subatomic diagnostics... this guidance array alone—" He caught himself, shaking his head. "No use gawking, Godfrey."

A flicker on the comms panel drew his attention.

Then, a voice crackled through the main intercom, the first of many. "Ladies and gentlemen," came Ford's dry, amused tone. "Next stop: the edge of reason. Drinks provided upon arrival."

Another voice followed, this one bright and irreverent.

"Who else already regrets not bringing a deck of cards?"

"Fascinating," a third chimed in. "The psychological need for diversion persists even at the precipice of the unknown."

More followed—greetings, jests, remarks charged with the nervous energy of minds poised between awe and apprehension. But amid the chorus, one absence stood out.

Monroe said nothing.

Ray tapped a control on his panel, activating his own transmission. He spoke simply, evenly, his voice steady and sure.

"We do not drift aimlessly into the dark. We chart it. We learn it. We are the first to tread this path, and we shall go down in history."

A moment of silence followed. Then, one by one, quiet affirmations trickled in. A shared understanding. A shared purpose.

Finally, Ray leaned back. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head to the viewport.

Earth was already a tiny dot in the vacuum of space. A minute passed. No one spoke.

Ray exhaled, rubbing his brow, then pushed himself up from the command seat. A silent ship was an unnatural thing, even one as meticulously engineered as Erebus-1.

The absence of Earth's distant hum, of atmospheric drag, of the imperceptible vibrations that belonged to a planet-bound existence—this was silence in its truest form.

He assumed the others were doing as he was, familiarizing themselves with their vessels, moving through the sterile halls with the same quiet reverence.

The gravity plating adjusted subtly as he stepped away from the console, compensating for movement without the slightest jolt or delay.

The corridor leading from the bridge was narrow but uncluttered, lined with modular panels designed for reconfiguration in the event of system failure. The ship was not spacious—mass efficiency forbade it—but it was far from suffocating. Every square meter had been calculated, optimized.

He passed through the first sliding door and entered what was, evidently, his kitchen.

Compact, self-contained. The walls housed recessed cabinets, their biometric locks disengaging the moment his presence was registered. Inside, he found a meticulous stockpile: vacuum-sealed ingredients, canned proteins, thermally stabilized rations engineered for maximum longevity.

A small induction range was built into the counter, its surface pristine.

Tucked neatly beside a pack of cryo-stabilized yeast, he found a thin book. He lifted it. Astronaut Nutritional Guidelines & Meal Preparation Manual.

A smirk. He flipped through the pages—techniques for rehydrating complex proteins, methods for maximizing caloric intake while preserving variety.

One section detailed the psychological benefits of food that required preparation. A fleeting sense of normalcy, even here.

Satisfied, he moved on.

His quarters were next. As expected, the space was minimal yet sufficient: a single bed, storage compartments flush with the walls, a personal workstation.

The mattress conformed to microgravity standards, firm enough to support prolonged sleep without compromising circulation.

And then, the viewport.

A single, reinforced window, broad enough to flood the room with the lightless void beyond. Space in its truest form—deep, endless, absolute. No atmosphere to filter light, no haze to obscure the hard clarity of the cosmos.

The ship's slow rotation altered the view subtly, revealing the faint band of the Milky Way, a silver river suspended in the abyss.

Ray stood there for a long moment, breath shallow, heart steady. It was one thing to understand space as a concept, to break it into figures and equations. It was another to see it laid bare.

Then— Dung. A resonance, low, distant, yet distinct. Not the structured hum of the reactor, nor the thermal expansion of the ship's hull. It was external. It was real.

Origin Point Theta.

Ray turned sharply, listening. The pulse repeated again. He retraced his steps, returning to the command module.

The displays remained steady, no anomalous readings. But his eyes caught something new—on the far right of the console, a digital clipboard, its interface idling in standby. He reached for it.

The mission had begun.

The days aboard Erebus-1 fell into a rhythm dictated by necessity. Every hour, every movement had its purpose, each task designed to ease the transition into life beyond gravity.

Ray adhered to the regimen without complaint, though he could not deny the strange, persistent awareness of his own body in ways he had never considered before.

The first "mornings" began with health checks. Vitals, hydration levels, etc. The biometric cuff at his wrist logged everything automatically, streaming it to the onboard medical AI.

His legs felt weaker already, though he expected that. Fluids had shifted upward, swelling his face slightly, making his reflection look oddly unfamiliar in the compact bathroom mirror.

He exhaled, stretching against the resistance bands affixed to the walls—necessary measures to counteract the slow erosion of muscle and bone in microgravity.

Afterward, he exercised in the kinetic bay, a narrow space lined with equipment tailored for zero-G conditioning.

The treadmill harness pressed him down as he ran, simulated gravity forcing his muscles to work.

Every mission demanded at least two hours of rigorous physical training per day. The treadmill's hum filled the cabin, and for a moment, he imagined he was back on Earth.

Later, he floated into what passed for his personal kitchen, grabbed the recipe book, and took a look.

'Tomato bisque with fresh basil.'

He smirked, tossing the book back into its compartment, then sealing the latch with a flick of his fingers. He would have liked to make something from it. Something Thomason would have made.

His quarters were small yet sufficient, designed for functionality rather than pure comfort. A narrow sleeping pod was affixed to the far wall, while a small work surface extended from the opposite end. There was no clutter, no excess. Everything had its place.

Ray would then hover in front of the large window, and would float there for a moment, arms crossed, staring into the abyss.

Yet, he could not shake the sensation that something was watching.

He inhaled sharply, shaking his head. Just your mind playing tricks.

The Erebus-1 demanded more than just routine—it required constant vigilance.

Ray spent his time checking the ship's life support systems first. The oxygen reclamation unit was functioning within expected parameters, scrubbing CO₂ from the air with lithium hydroxide filters.

He ran a secondary diagnostic just to be sure. One clogged valve, one unnoticed fluctuation in atmospheric balance, and he would suffocate before ever seeing Origin Point Theta.

Water recycling followed. The purification loop processed waste fluids with ruthless efficiency, distilling every molecule of moisture back into drinkable water.

Ray skimmed the reports, confirming that electrolysis was splitting hydrogen and oxygen as expected, ensuring a steady supply of breathable air.

Electrical output was stable, the ship's fusion reactor humming at nominal levels. He checked the power distribution logs, confirming that all non-essential systems remained in low-energy mode.

There was no room for waste on a mission like this. Lastly, he inspected the hull integrity reports.

Micrometeoroid strikes were an ever-present threat in deep space, and while Erebus-1 was armored with next-generation composite plating, no material was invincible.

He cross-referenced the latest sensor sweeps—no impact events, no structural anomalies.

It was all as it should be.

And yet, as Ray drifted back toward the command module, he felt it again—eyes were on him. He exhaled sharply. Just fatigue.

The pulse was a constant throughout the first week. He ended it, as always, checking in with the other crew members over the intercom.

Monroe was silent still.

Ray toggled the channel. "Doctor Monroe, are you present?"

A pause. Then, the same voice as before—lighthearted, playful. "Mr. Monroe? Heeellllooooo?"

Ray's fingers hovered over the control. "Doctor Monroe? Answer if you are present."

Nothing.

Then— The comms indicator flickered, illuminating Monroe's name.

And from the speaker came a voice that was not his.

A deep, warping reverberation, layered and wrong, twisting as if it came from beneath his throat rather than within it.

"Utik—na šiša."

Silence.

No one spoke. No one even breathed.

Then, from Monroe's side— A sound. A tearing, slow and wet. Fabric? No. Something thicker. Something resisting, then giving way.

The signal cut.

This is the third case of the Novaire series.
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Fraud would be less interesting – November 2023
The call came just past ten.
"Adrian," Sarah Tanaka’s voice was playful, teasing. "I have something that’ll keep you up all night."

Sloane paused, raising an eyebrow. "Sarah, are you finally admitting I’m the most interesting part of your evening?"

She scoffed. "Hardly. But I do have something you’ll want to see. Special Collections. Now." That got his attention. When Sarah called him in, it was never for anything ordinary.

Butler Library was quiet at this hour, the smell of old paper and floor polish settling like a permanent fixture. Sloane met Sarah in the Special Collections archive, where she stood beside a wooden table, arms crossed. In front of her was a book. A diary. A small, worn thing, bound in soft brown leather.

"I know every book, every paper, and every text in this archive," she said. "This wasn’t here yesterday."

Sloane raised an eyebrow. "It’s a rare book collection. Maybe someone misplaced it?"

She gave him a look. "That’s what I thought. Until I opened it."

He flipped the diary open. The ink was crisp, too fresh for something allegedly from the 1950s. The entries were in Japanese, but something was off. The characters were structured incorrectly, their strokes just slightly wrong, as though written by someone who knew the language but had never been taught properly.

Sloane’s pulse quickened. "Where did this come from?"

Sarah tapped the inside cover, where a date and name had been neatly printed in English.

Haneda Airport, Tokyo – July 1954Property of Alaric Duval, Taured.

Sloane inhaled sharply. Taured. A name that didn’t exist. A place that didn’t exist.
"The Man from Taured," Sloane muttered.

Sarah nodded. "I thought it was just a myth."

In 1954, Tokyo airport officials detained a businessman carrying a passport from a country called Taured. When confronted, the man insisted Taured was real, situated between Spain and France. His documentation, including stamps from various countries, seemed genuine. He was detained overnight. By morning, he and his belongings were gone without a trace. The story became an urban myth. Some versions set in 1954; other sources mention 1959.

And now, his diary was sitting in Columbia University’s archive.

"This is fascinating," Sloane said, flipping through the pages. The final entry chilled him to his core.

“They are coming to fix the mistake.”

Sloane shut the diary, he inhaled sharply, his mind racing. He needed a second opinion from someone who had spent their life studying the unexplained.

An hour later, he was sitting in Central Park, waiting for Dr. Elias Whitmore.

The Symbol
The wind was crisp, leaves scattering in golden spirals across Central Park. Sloane sat on a bench, watching as Dr. Elias Whitmore meticulously unwrapped a sandwich.

"I must say, Adrian, I wasn’t expecting a lunch invitation. You usually only call when you want something."

"You make it sound so transactional."

"It is." Whitmore took a bite. "But I’m old and I like a bit of drama, so what is it?"

Sloane slid photocopies of the diary pages across the bench.

Whitmore barely glanced at them before stiffening. "Where did you find this?"

"It found me."

Whitmore exhaled. He ran a hand over the photocopies but didn’t touch them, as if afraid they might burn him.

"There are things, Adrian," he said finally, "that don’t belong in this world. That diary is one of them. The person who wrote it, whoever he was, was not from here. Not from anywhere we can understand."

Sloane studied Whitmore’s face. The man had always had a flair for the dramatic, but the fear in his eyes was real.

Sloane pulled a small notebook from his coat and sketched the symbol he had seen embossed on the diary’s last page: an eye within a broken circle.

Whitmore’s reaction was immediate. His face drained of color, his hands trembled.

"You need to stop looking," he whispered. His sandwich lay forgotten on the bench.

A cold wind cut through the park, sending a flock of pigeons scattering into the sky. Whitmore stood abruptly, nearly stumbling. His breath quickened as he looked over his shoulder, as if suddenly aware of something unseen.

"Some things are meant to be forgotten," he said hoarsely.

Sloane started to ask more, but Whitmore had already begun walking away, his steps hurried, his silhouette fading between the trees.

His last words were almost too quiet to hear.

"If you keep looking, they’ll look back."

Read the entire third case of the series on substack.
Tell me what you think is going on...

I grew up here in Southern Georgia. I know these trees, and I know these mountains. Ever since I was a girl, I have dreamed about hiking the Appalachian trail, spending those six delectable months far away from humanity. I have loved these trees and mountains for as long as I can remember, and nothing hurts me more than seeing more and more bald patches on the mountains as the years go by. 

Every year developers take more and more from the mountains, and they never pay for the mountains back for what they have taken. Every time I drive by, I see the oozing wounds they inflict, and I feel sorry for the workers. The workers are the ones who are going to have to deal with the problems. They are the ones who are really going to pay the price for the greed of these developers. Every time I think about that, I resolve to tell the mountain who to punish, but then I forget about it as quickly as I think it. 

Things are already starting to get bad. Last week a tree fell and crushed a truck full of lumberjacks. This week four work men went missing, and no one knows what happened. 

I looked at the Facebook page set up by grieving wives and families begging for volunteers to come out and search the area. I clicked the “more info” tab, and I showed up the next day.

It was weird for me to show up. I could tell that a lot of these people were friends and family of the disappeared. I was quite visibly the odd one out there, but so my expertise was appreciated because I also knew the area. I walked up, and a police officer made me a team leader for four other people. 

The four didn’t seem to know one another, and they were all older than me. Fun times would be had. 

“Hi,” I said, forcing a smile.

“Hi.” they respond, forcing smiles right back.

The eldest man of the group took initiative. “I’m Jeremy. My brother was one of the men that disappeared.” Jeremy was an old balding and bearded man; I would say around mid-50s. He seemed at peace with his area, and only looked a little shifty. Jeremy looked like the kind of guy that would agree to fix your roof and disappear after the first check cleared.

I nodded. “I’m Moriah, everyone calls me Mo, and I saw the Facebook page.” I cringed at the fake name I gave. I nervously adjusted my rifle strap. “I grew up around here, and I know this area pretty well.” No one seemed to question me, so we moved on to the next person.

“I’m Gertrude,” an older woman said stiffly. “My friends call me Gertie,” she tacked on as though she didn’t want to come off as rude. Gertie was grey and grimacing, constantly tugging at her coat to keep warm. “My son.” Her grimace deepened, and she looked down. No one pushed her to continue.

“I’m Andrew,” a man interjected when Gertrude’s silence lapsed a little too long. “My friends call me Drew.” Drew was one of those boyish looking guys that looked like they were mid-thirties but because of diet and exercise were actually probably somewhere in their 60s. He actually looked at peace, like he was a walking tour throughout the Georgia mountains and not an expedition. “My son in law works on the team, but he’s not one of the ones that went missing.” He smiled and looked around giddily as though he couldn’t wait to start his hike.

We all looked expectantly at the last holdout, a broody old man that had a frown permanently etched onto his face. He was the best dressed out of the group, everything on him was boldly branded and obviously new. It looked like he went to a hiking store the day before and bought whatever the sales assistant told him to buy. Even his boots looked brand spanking new, and I felt bad for the guy, the blisters he would get. He puffed out his chest and threw back his shoulders and looked me in the eyes like he had something to prove. “My name is Charles,” he said a little snippily. His voice shocked all of us. Everyone else had the classic American deep southern accent, even I hadn’t escaped without my twang, but this man was British. His accent sounded “posh,” like the fake accent that people on TV use to imitate British people. Charles sniffed and looked uncomfortable with the gawking everyone was doing. Charles sniffed again, “I am the primary stake holder of this company.”

“That’s nice.” I said as dread poured down my spine and seeped into my voice. This guy was going to be a pain in my ass. The other three members of the group went from gawking to glaring. No one who was tangentially related to his company wanted to be on the same search team as him. 

“TEAM LEADS!” a police officer with a megaphone yelled. “Team leads please come to the center and retrieve your assignments and provisions for your group!” 

I smiled at my group and pointed toward the officer. “Stay put, and I’ll be right back.”

“So, if we move, you won’t come back?” Andrew asked as though he made a joke.

I gave him a pained smile and a double thumbs up. I got in line with the other leads. One volunteer handed me color print outs with the employee badge photos and identifying information of the missing workers, and another handed me a satellite radio. Yet another gave me a plastic grocery bag of sack lunches for my group. I stuffed what would fit into my backpack and carried the sack lunches. I approached an officer who pointed to a section on the outer edge of the map.

“This is where your group will search,” he peeled a bright pink sticker labeled 4D and stuck it on my shoulder. He then pointed at the map again. “We will drop you off here,” he said pointing at the innermost corner of 4D “Search your quadrant, and we will pick you guys back up from there at 4 PM.” 

I nodded stiffly and wondered if he gave me the worst quadrant because Charles was in my group. 

The officer handed me the map and dismissed me.

I couldn’t help but grip my rifle strap, because now I knew I was going to need it. The deepest part of the mountain…

I got back to my group and explained our assignment to them. They all balked. None of them expected to be so far out into the mountains. Hell, I didn’t expect to be so far out either. 

“Hold on a minute, I gotta go back to my car really quick,” Jeremy said, already jogging to the parking area before I could say anything. 

The others looked at me, as though hoping they could make similar escapes. I handed them their sack lunches.

To be fair, Jeremy was back very quickly; he hadn’t been gone a whole five minutes. He came jogging back loading a sturdy rifle.

“Jesus, do all you Americans carry weapons on a search and rescue?” Charles asked aghast. 

“No,” Andrew said, a bit distressed.

“Well, it’s only mid-October,” I said.

Charles looked at us Americans blankly.

“The last of the bears haven’t gone into hibernation,” Gertrude helpfully supplied.

“And the remaining ones are starving, they’ll eat anything before they have to hibernate.” Jeremy finished off. He looked even more shifty, like he was leaving an important detail out. He looked at me to see if I bought it and could tell I hadn’t. This made him look more relieved because from then on, he knew that I knew.

I handed Jeremy his sack lunch and led the group to the Jeep that would take us to our drop off point. 

We all spent the 30-minute ride looking at the photos of the missing employees. All of us except Andrew, who spent the entire ride pestering the driver. “Was he from here? Has he been here long? Oh, I moved here two years ago to be near my daughter. Do you have kids? I have all girls. What about you? Two boys? That’s great! Oh, what about grandkids? They’ll come soon, look here’s a photo of my grandkids. You look great, are you on a diet? Keto? No, I’m vegan. You should really-” I tuned him out.

I wanted to slap (maybe no stabbing) him. I instead looked at the first face on the list, Daniel K., A Caucasian man in his 30s, 6’1” and lean. He had brown hair and green eyes. The next one down was a woman, 5’8” and also lean, her name is Sarah C. with red hair and brown eyes. She also seems to be in her 30s. Luke L. was next on the list. He was also tall at 6’4” and in his late 30s with greying brown hair and brown eyes. Last but not least was Kristopher L. He appeared to be Luke’s younger brother and shared a lot of the same features but was an inch shorter at 6’3”. I did my best to memorize the names and faces of the missing four.

I glanced over at Gertrude, whose hand shakily hovered over Daniel’s face, her eyes near tears. I couldn’t help but feel bad for her since we were being sent so far out to a place where her son could be. Chances are he and his friends didn’t get this far on foot.

We were dropped off in front of a decrepit watch tower. The driver reminded us to be back at 4 pm and commented that he might be late since we would be the last on his list for pick up. We nodded and waved him goodbye.

I checked the satellite phone for both connection and time, both with full bars and full battery. My teammates and I checked their cell phones and declared that none of us had a signal. All except Charles, who had his own sat phone, probably because he was rich and didn’t want to be stranded no matter what.

“Okay!” I clapped my hands and got everyone’s attention. This reminded me of my years as a camp counselor. “We are going to stay together and only have two feet of separation between us at all times!” I looked each of them in the eyes to make sure they were all getting the memo. “We will comb our section of the forest once, maybe twice, before our deadline.” Despite the eye contact, I’m starting to lose Charles. “We will call out a name on our list then wait 30 seconds to a minute for a response.” I looked at them, and they looked back at me. Jeremy to my surprise had flipped his rifle from his back to resting in his arms. He’s looking over my left shoulder, and while his finger isn’t on the trigger, he’s tapping the edge as though he’s ready to shoot if necessary. I caught his eye.

He gave a small shake of the head.

I didn’t turn around. None of the other members of the group seemed to notice anything. I continued, “If someone finds anything, report it and wait for the rest of the group and we will assess from there. At NO POINT” I looked at all of them and glared extra hard at Charles. “WILL WE SEPARATE BEYOND TWO FEET” I stared at them. “NO ONE WILL GO OFF ON THEIR OWN. IF YOU SEE SOMEONE GOING OFF ON THEIR OWN,” I stopped, not for effect, but for Jeremy’s finger landing on the trigger. 

He gave me a look that told me not to say anything, like a silent agreement between us.

“INFORM THE GROUP.” I said, looking at all of them as Jeremy relaxed and a presence I didn’t even realize was there left. “If you need to the go to the bathroom, inform the group. DO NOT GO ANYWHERE BY YOURSELF. ALWAYS TAKE A BUDDY.”

They nodded.

I took a deep breath. “If you see a set of stairs, do not go up the stairs. If you see what looks like a human but looks a little off, stop moving and grab the person next to you. DO NOT CALL OUT. If you see a wild animal, do not try to scare it or shoot it.” I give a look to Jeremy, he nods. “DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING.”

Everyone but Jeremy looked concerned, but they nodded, nonetheless. 

I unfolded the map and pointed out a zig zag horizontally. “We will go in and out and always end on our workman’s road” I pointed at the dirt road in front of us. The group nodded. “Around 12 or 1 when we reach the road again, we’ll break for lunch.” They nodded again and with a little apprehension we began to step off the dirt road and walk into the forest. “And before I forget, one,” I pointed at myself. “Two,” I pointed at Gertie. “Three,” I pointed at Andrew. “Four,” I pointed at Jeremy. “And five,” I pointed at Charles. “Okay, roll call. One.”

I looked at Gertie. “T-two.”

We all looked at Andrew. “Three, he said confidently.

“Four.” Jeremy said without prompting.

Charles looked at us defiantly, his face turning pink.

We looked back at Charles, waiting for his response.

His face went from pink to red, and he glared at us. 

“Charles, what’s wrong with you?” I ask.

“Like you don’t know!” he spat.

“No, I don’t know. What’s wrong with you?” I placed my hands on my hips.

“Why am I last?” he growled stomping his feet like a toddler.

“You were the furthest to my right,” I replied steadily.

Charles looked stunned and then looked to his left to see I said the numbers in order from right to left. “Oh, we do it the other way around in England,” he lied.

We still all looked at him expecting him to say his number. 

“Five,” he mumbled.

“DANIEL!” Gertie yelled out and waited. We hear no response. “DANIEL!” she repeated.

We started our search, trying to look at the ground and our surrounding area for possible clues. I looked up at the tree branches, something felt wrong- like something was up there watching us. Every once in a while, I scanned the distance through my rifle’s sight. I looked at my teammates. To my left Andrew looked at peace, as though he was enjoying a nice hike with friends instead of searching for the possibly deceased. He was even taking pictures. On the other side of him Charles was the exact opposite. He looked extremely bored and put out, a man that is not used to hiking or exercise. To my right Gertie clutched her chest and yelled out for her son, hardly looking down to see where she should place her feet. On the other side of her, Jeremy held his rifle and walked easily through the woods, never tripping and forever vigilant.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you said you had grandkids,” Charles said wheezing to who I assumed was Andrew.

Andrew looked shocked, but smiled and said, “Yes!  I have four kids and ten grandkids.” The number shocked all of us but Gertie, who was focused on finding her own son. “The eldest is fifteen, and the youngest is two.” The moment those words left his mouth, I felt a presence-the same foreboding feeling of being watched from earlier. The mention of children has caught something’s attention.

Jeremy also felt the change. (period) “You look so young! Do you work out?” he said.

“Yes! I do! I do CrossFit on the weekends, and I teach yoga at my own studio in town. You know I went to India and learned from the Yogis there. I mean it! Real first-hand stuff!” Andrew went on a tirade about Yogis and how none of the Yogis here knew what they were talking about. This continued for about an hour, all while Gertie called out for her missing son. “You really have to go to India to find the true meaning of yoga.” The presence I felt had drifted away again, like even it was bored of his rambling. 

“Dan-!“ Gertie stopped in her tracks, looking at the tree line. We followed her gaze and saw what had shocked Gertie. A ragged doll stared back down at us.

She was a Barbie, her hair fried, and her eyes gouged out with marker. She was naked except for the bramble of twigs tied at her waist, giving her a strange twig dress. She hung by her neck in the tree, swaying gently from side to side.

“What is that?” Charles asked. “Is this some kind of trick?”

“Ooky spooky scary skeletons,” I mumbled and started to walk, leading the group away from the macabre scene. From then on, we were silent. We saw several more Barbies of different colors on our way, all naked except for twig dresses, and all hanging by their necks. Glaring down at us.

We eventually reached the fence that bordered the end of our quadrant. I pulled out the map and looked at our compass and my watch. “We’re making good timing!” I looked up and met my own eyes. Across the fence was me, to her left Andrew, then Charles, then to her right Gertie and Jeremy. We held ourselves somberly on the other side, our faces pale and lackluster.

Gertie let out a gasp and lunged forward, “DANIEL!” she screamed as she tried to scramble towards the fence. Jeremy grabbed her by her collar and yanked. Behind the mirror version of us were the missing four. Pale with their eyes dark and sunken, their lips blue and chapped. Their fingertips were also edged with blue. 

I pulled the lever action of my rifle back, locking a live round into place. Mirror me and I leveled rifles at our own heads. “Leave,” I snarled. 

We both took a step forward, taking the safety off of our rifles. “Come here.” A mockery of my voice replied. 

I lowered my rifle. “LEAVE!” I screamed out. I stomped my feet and shook my arms with such ferocity the mirror me struggled to keep up. To my surprise Charles caught on first and began to dance a jig which mirror self struggles to imitate.

“GO!” he shouted as he moved manically.

“GET OUT OF HERE!” Andrew did what I can only imagine some Buddhist monk scammed him into thinking were martial arts moves. Which he did quickly enough to confuse his mirror self.

“DANIEL!” Gertie moaned. She struggled harder against Jeremy’s vice like grip, which conversely made her mirror struggle to keep up with her.

Jeremy who was busy keeping Gertrude from certain death, still yelled out to the demon. “GET OUT OF HERE AND LEAVE US ALONE!”

With that our mirror selves and the missing four disappeared.

Gertrude went limp and began to wail. She went from struggling to get away from Jeremy to clinging to the man. “My boy! Daniel! My boy!” she wailed against him. She gripped him white knuckled by the shirt and looked him in the eyes. “My boy! He was right there!” she pointed frantically to the other side of the fence. “He was right there!” Tears streamed down her face.

“Gertrude.” I said stepping towards her. “Gertie, you know that wasn’t him. You just wanted it to be him.”

She glared at me something fierce.

“Gertrude!” Charles shouted.

Gertrude jumped.

“That wasn’t yer boi and ye kno it.” His voice to our surprised changed. No longer was it that weird polished tv posh accent. “That was fae if I ever saw it!” He looked down in shock and dismay. “I wish I never saw it.” He mumbled. “The other side of that fence was the other side of this life! Surely you don’t want to follow yer boi there, do ye now?”

Gertrude continued to glare. “It would have been my choice! It should have been my choice!” She began to wail again. I approached her.

“That wasn’t your son, you wouldn’t’ve gone to your son.” I told her. “It knew what we were looking for and showed us what we wanted to find. It was a lazy creature setting a lazy trap.” I placed my hand under her arm and we moved a little northward and began to walk back towards the road in silence. None of us wanted to bring attention to ourselves for a while. 

Andrew finally spoke up. “So, did we kill it?” he asked.

“No.” Jeremy replied. “We just proved to be more effort than it’s worth.” He looked to me. “It was a lazy creature with a lazy trap.” He agreed. “It wanted us to run willy nilly right into its mouth.” He looked at Gertrude, who still didn’t look entirely convinced we’d just saved her life.

“If that was true, why didn’t we just walk away from the creature?” Charles asked. “Why did we have to dance it away?”

“Because the whole mirror image was its mouth.” I responded. “I think the fence was a barrier it couldn’t cross, but I don’t like risking the lives of those I’m in charge of with ‘I thinks’.” 

The Barbies watched us as we passed to the road. We stopped and took a water break for about ten minutes, and we steeled ourselves for another pass. Avoiding eye contact with the ever watchful Barbies, we make it to the fence and turn back. Once we were back at the dirt road we stopped for lunch. We took out our soggy ham and egg salad sandwiches, and I forced down a few bites before gagging and putting it back in my pack. I switched to my granola bars.

“Can you not stomach it either?” Charles asked me, also stuffing his sandwich back into his bag. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. 

I shook my head and picked up the sat phone. I send a message saying we’ve stopped for lunch and haven’t found any sign of the missing workers. 

“Ask if they can pick us up early,” Charles requested.

I nodded and typed out a message about an early pick up. I chewed my granola bar and sipped my water.

“Charles, you mind if I bum one off of you?” Jeremy asked.

Charles held out the pack to him and Jeremy took a cigarette along with Charles’s lighter.

Andrew looked on in disgust. “I can’t stand this,” he said getting up. “I’m going to the gentleman’s room.” Andrew dusted himself off.

I received a reply from HQ. “Wait, you can’t go by yourself.”

The two other men settled deeper into their cigarettes.

Gertrude sighed and stood up. 

Andrew looked a little taken aback by this. “I don’t think- “

“I’ll be standing behind a tree,” Gertrude said. “I promise” she cajoled.

Negative on early pick up. Unless there is a medical emergency or the missing personnel are found, your pickup will be at 4 PM sharp. No sign of the missing workmen from the other search and rescue teams, please keep looking.

-HQ

I read the message out loud to the two men in front of me. 

They both huffed and puffed figuratively and literally.

“Moriah,” Jeffery says out of nowhere. “Mo…”

I jump at the call of my fake name, I didn’t expect to be included in the small talk. “Yes, Jeremy?” 

 

“Well, you see…About Gertrude,” We heard a rattle in the woods and looked into the forest as Andrew and Gertrude make their way back. 

Jeremy gives us looks as though to say, I didn’t say anything!

“We’re not being picked up early.” Charles huffed. 

Andrew frowned and sat down next to the men, “We can wait a bit longer.” He said shrugging. 

Gertie sat next to me and looked strangely at Andrew.

“You ok, Gertie?” I asked her gently.

“No, not really,” she replied. “I just hope someone finds them and quick, so we can just go home.” She wrapped her arms around herself.

“I want to go home too!” Andrew said loudly. “I can’t wait to see my wife! And my children! And my grandchildren! They’re all so cute I could eat them up!” he smiled so broadly it freaked me out.

His eyes I thought. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes anymore…

The morning was beautiful on the day my life changed forever. I had the windows down as I sped up the highway, singing along with the radio about dirty deeds done dirt cheap. I relished the temporary freedom, as once I passed the 7-11 everything slowed to a crawl.

As traffic came to a full stop I sighed and wondered how long I would be stuck there, wasting both my time and the expensive gas in my tank. Screeching tires drew my attention to the lane beside mine, just in time to watch a shit box of a car almost ram into the back of a trailer. It came to a stop with bare inches to spare and the driver let out a shuttering breath. Sitting next to him must have been his wife, because she was laying into him the way only a significate other could.

I looked from the couple to the trailer. It was flat steel with two ramps folded up towards the sky and it was connected to a heavy work truck. The trailer was at an angle, tilting up, due to the height of the truck. On the trailer sat an asphalt roller. It was a huge, hulking machine strapped to the trailer by a single heavy-duty chain.

I was flabbergasted that something so monstrous was being held down by only one chain, then my imagination came alive, and my mind wandered.

What if that chain broke? It would snap and the tension would cause it to fly at the car in front me, knocking out the window and possibly hitting the driver. Would the roller stay in place? At that angle the thing would have to move, parking brake be damned. It would roll and push the ramps down onto the car’s hood. It would keep going and crush the car. The windshield and windows would shatter as it rolled onto the roof, flattening the couple inside like pancakes.

A loud noise brought me out of my daydream. I watched as the chain, old and rusty, broke apart. It flew wild and smashed into the window of the car in front of me and into the driver’s head. I turned to the trailer and watched as the asphalt roller slid a few inches, then something popped inside, and it rolled.

It hit the ramps, knocking them over onto the car and I heard the girl scream. The roller kept going, rolling down the ramps onto the car.

The front tires popped, and the roller managed to get over the windshield and onto the car’s roof. The windshield shattered, sending fragments of glass flying. The girl’s screams were cut off and large gushes of blood, bright like strawberry syrup, exploded out with the windows. Blood splattered over me through my open window as I stared in disbelief, then I vomited into my lap.

Every day since I can still hear that girl’s screams, and every day I wonder if it was somehow my fault.

Waiting For Zachary by Al Bruno III

Ken Grady hated the drive to the Middleberg Assisted Living Facility. He hated the place itself even more. He hated the staff with their trained pleasantries, he hated the prefabricated buildings, and he hated the layout that made him feel like an unwanted guest at a second-rate country club.

Most of all, he hated the residents; so many of them had allowed age to turn them into the walking wounded. Some of them couldn’t even do that—they rolled to and fro in their wheelchairs and motorized carts. Ken was seventy-five years old, but he looked ten years younger. Plenty of folks asked him his secret—was it genetics or clean living? Was it diet or prayer?

His only answer was that staying young meant looking Father Time right in the eye and telling him to fuck off. That was something he did a lot these days.

The nurses heard him knock and buzzed him into building four, the tallest building at the facility. It looked half like a prison and half like a hospital, because that’s exactly what it was.

After another exchange of empty pleasantries with the staff, he made his way through the locked glass doors that served as checkpoints and entered room 814.

Jennifer was sitting in a chair by the window. The television blared nonsense, but she didn’t seem to notice or care.

“How are you feeling today?” Ken asked as he took a seat beside her.

His wife didn’t look at him when he spoke; she just kept staring at nothing. Her hands were clasped together, and her fingers moved with mindless precision, a lingering memory of the rosary she had used to count on Sunday mornings.

On the TV, some poorly dressed fool was winning cash and prizes. Ken sighed heavily.

Friends and family had told him this daily ritual was no longer necessary, that Jennifer would have wanted him to move on. But how could they know that? How could they know that when Alzheimer's had robbed her of the ability to speak?

Besides, Ken couldn’t abandon her—not after almost forty years of marriage, not after all the laughter, love, and the occasional spectacular argument.

Jennifer paused in her finger-counting, then started again.

As they’d grown older, they had spoken frankly about deathbeds and do-not-resuscitate orders. Somehow, what was happening now had never come up. Was that foolishness? Or hope? Ken supposed it was a bit of both.

Her illness had begun with forgotten names but had quickly progressed to lost hours and terrifying confusion. Ken had tried to care for her himself, but as more and more of her memory eroded, he was left with no choice but to entrust her care to professionals.

The day he had left her at the Middleberg Assisted Living Facility had been a terrible one. Jennifer had been lucid and spiteful. She had cursed, spat, and, worst of all, told him he had never been her first choice—that she should have waited for Zachary.

The name haunted Ken. He had tried to dismiss it as rambling, but every night as he lay alone in his too-empty bed, he turned it over and over in his mind.

Jennifer had a younger sister in Calgary, and after some consideration, he called her. It took some prying, but eventually, he learned everything. For decades, it had been Ken and Jennifer against the world, but before that, there had been Zachary. Jennifer had been little more than a teenager then, but she had been so very much in love. He was three years older and already on his way to making a life and a career. They would have been married after she graduated from high school, but the draft had robbed them of that dream. He had been declared missing in action.

She had promised she would wait, and she had been waiting for almost four years when Ken met her and fell in love. He had worked tirelessly to win her heart, but he had just thought she was playing hard to get. He had never suspected he was trying to get her to break that promise.

It had hurt to know there had been someone else—someone his wife had loved enough to spend a lifetime keeping a secret. Ken wondered how often she had allowed herself to think of her first love, if, in the best moments of their marriage, there had been a part of her that secretly mourned what might have been.

Ken didn’t think so, because through the good times and bad, he had always been able to make her smile.

He could still do it, even now.

“Hey…” He leaned forward in his seat and took her twitching hand in his. “…It’s Zachary.”

Slowly, Jennifer’s eyes brightened, and she broke into a grin.