CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 3 HOURS of CHILLING r/Nosleep Horror Stories to hold the demons back for like a day or something

Episode Date: August 16, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "My daughter caught a shooting star" Creepypasta►22:35 "I discovered my classmate's YouTube Channel and I think something horrible happened" Creepypasta►47:29 "Three times a year an ocean monster attacks my fishing town. It’s starting more often" Creepypasta►1:09:57 "I used to work at an NSFL video store" Creepypasta►1:34:27 "My crew was hired to refurb a derelict cruise ship. What happened will haunt me" Creepypasta►2:19:23 "We Found the Rarest Metal on Earth. Something Else was Buried With It" CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

I'm just to Amsterdam, why? For the maids'is. They're there two hours. Do you're more. Do you? To go. With Eurocity direct, though?

16 times per day from out Brussels and in two-hour. Now, from 19 euro in place of 25. Book you tickets on NMBS International.com. Betal no longer than 5.50 per ride. So, Cope new Train Plus for more four euro per month. On NMBS.combe. Mosquitoes whined by my head like old American biplanes.

I swatted them down like a little. I was King Kong. More launched into dizzying waves. Jesus, I muttered, slapping my sweat, slick skin each time I felt the tingle of a mosquito penetrating. I know how wrong that sounds. Imagine how it felt. It was an August night and northern Maine was hell.

The air was thick and ripe with humidity and the wood spewed bugs like Chernobyl's blown reactor spewed radiation. I stood in the middle. of the messy field behind the quaint Cape Cod-styled Airbnb we had rented for the weekend. The grass licked to my knees, dried, yellowed, bound on three sides by thick woods, the house at my back, trees everywhere else.

During the day it was a dull, muddy view. The trees drooping and sad, the grass twisted and dead. But at night, it went alive with fireflies. Thousands of glowing bugs went. on and off, doing whatever the hell Fireflies do. What do Fireflies do? What's their purpose, I mean? Other than leaving behind a luminescent smear when kids squash them.

I'd have to Google that later. I caught some daddy, my daughter, Eileen declared, as she waded over to me, bright with excitement over the glowing mason jar, cupped protectively to her chest. The grass rose to her neck, parting as she moved through. She was only six, small and precious, and to her those things were very important. Look at them dance, Aline exclaimed, thrusting the jar up at me. Is that what fireflies did? Dance. I made an impressed base at a jar of trapped bugs of Firefly Prison.

Was that a novel? Firefly Prison. Should be. Great title. That's great, hon. But where's Mamet? It's time to go inside. She looked around, kind of lost. I sighed. Once I find him, it's bedtime. Fine, she huffed, bouncing off to catch more lightning bugs. As I drifted off towards a tall, scragly, shadow-drenched forest in search of our dog,

I felt a shiver ripple up my spine. It was creepy, quiet and creepy. Mamet, I called, hating the way my words decayed out into the trees. David Mamet was our dog, aboard a collie still chugging on at the ripe age of 14. His muzzle grey, his eyes milky with cataracts. I had named him, and now I had apparently lost him. I had jumped when I felt something loose and oily rope up against my leg. That was how Mamet felt these days.

His fur was oddly... slimy. He stood beside me, panting, a low wind building at the back of his throat. Where do you go, buddy? I asked him. His wise and old eyes looked up at me. Before he could reply, my daughter cried out. Oh my God! I felt my neck prickle with dread. Daddy!

She squealed. I couldn't see her through the grass, so I chased her voice and found her squatting on her haunches, crouched over something on the ground. The jar of fireflies, the prison, was capsized in the grass beside her. Lidsprung. The trolled fireflies drifted out into freedom. What's wrong, honey? Are you hurt? I asked, concerned.

But when she looked up at me, I saw. She was smiling. Look, Daddy, she hefted it up. I caught a shooting star. Is it? My wife, Monica asked, puzzled. She was tall, earthly beauty, with firm features and long brown hair. Her big green eyes were fixed on the thing sitting in the middle of the dining room table.

It was a three-dimensional, five-pointed star about the size of a Fusby. The kind of thing you'd see topping a Christmas tree. Its construction was strange. It might have been quartz crystal. But no, it's too light for quartz, only weighing about as much as a hardcover book. Its collar was milky and opaque, marbled here and there with darker, earthly tones. Its emblemish surface smooth but not cold. Its tips pointed but not sharp.

Holding it, you could feel an almost deep vibration, the power resonating in its depths, leaching out. But that wasn't even the incredible part. Watch this, Mom! Aline squealed. She touched one tiny index finger. the star's centre, finding the slight incline that rose up between his five points. Without any sort of dramatics, the star lit up. A warm, reddish-brown light emanating from deep

within its core. She touched the spot again and the light extinguished. Okay, what? was all my wife could say, astonished, slightly concerned. It's a shooting star, mommy! I caught a shooting star, Aline said in one great burst. We've been seeing them all night, ratcheting through the night sky an important galactic business. That said, I didn't know what the hell this thing was, or where it had come from. My daughter claimed she had seen it hovering in the air just above the grass, said he was talking to her. Crazy, right? But she was small, and I didn't want her growing up too fast.

So, I indulged her little fantasy. "'Aileen found it in the field,' I said, "'not wanting to admit, I'd taken my eyes off her, "'if only for a moment.' "'She found it in the field?' Monica asked incredulously. "'She gave me a look. I knew all too well. "'It said, and where were you?' "'Can I keep it?'

"'Aileen begged. "'Please, please, please!' "'I remember what I said next in startling clarity. It was the three-sentence catalyst that had shredded through my life like an industrial combine, a great whirring blades of a tractor that would go chewing through my family, sparing only a clumpy red mess in his wake. Monica shot me a look that said, We are not keeping that.

And I ignored it, not wanting to disappoint my daughter. Just for the weekend, honey, I said. But when we get home, it stays here. Could be someone else left it behind. they might want it back. My daughter squealed, wrapping me in a hug, before lugging a shooting star upstairs.

Monica's face darkened, flushing with blood. She felt betrayed, like I had gone behind her back. And maybe I had. But what the hell? What was the big deal? The star was harmless. I don't want that thing in the house, she hissed in my ear. What's the harm?

I asked. I don't... She drilled off, shook her head. It gives me a funny feeling in the bottom of my stomach. I don't like it. What's wrong with it? You found it out on the field mark,

and how does it glow? There's no battery panel or little charging ports. How does it light up? My side. Could be one of those tech things you see in the back of Christmas gift catalogs. Could be nothing to it. They have wireless charging now.

She shook her head again, but I could see she would, was relenting, feeling silly. She pinched the bridge of her nose, sighed, looked up at me, tired. Where's marmot? I should take him out before bed. I hadn't seen him since I had to practically drag him inside. He'd been acting strange ever since we found the star, whining, and violently thrashing his head, like the thing emanated a high-frequency hum he didn't care for. I'm not sure. Around, when I finally did find him the next morning. curled up in the obsessed closet.

He was dead. Blood crusted over his old grey muzzle, running in trickles from his eyes and nose. We buried Mammett in the back of the field, marking his grave with an oblong rock. His death had put a dampen on the vacation, but I'd paid for the weekend, and, despite my wife's protests, wasn't keen on leaving early.

We ate dinner in silence, Eileen's star on her lap, comforting her, it seemed. After that, my wife and daughter built a pillow fort in the living room, the glow of the star silhouetted them through sheets and blankets. Then the world grew dark, and it was time for bed. I went to kiss alien goodnight when I heard a speaking in low tones. I paused outside a bedroom door and listened. Why would I do that? She was saying in a horse whisper.

I love my mom and dad. What the hell, I thought? I eased open the door and saw Eileen sitting crisscross apple sauce on the end of the bed. The star was glowing and levitating head-level with her. It instantly dropped to the ground. Eileen looked up at me, startled. Then my voice caught to my throat. I couldn't think, couldn't breathe.

The damn thing had been floating. What's wrong, Daddy? my daughter's voice came from a faraway place. My vision swam, pinned on the impotent star at the foot of a bed. I could almost feel my thoughts and feelings sucking toward it, like it was lassoing them out of my head. I fished for my voice. It wouldn't come. Then it did, clear as day.

It was the voice of lies, of falsehoods and wrongdoings. It was my voice, but it didn't come from my mouth. It was whispered right in my ear It said Stay I jumped and whirled around Behind me the upstairs hallway was empty It was empty and dark

Wrapped in shadow Then it was flooded with warm watery light from Eileen's bedroom I knew that light Starlight The air changed Moved around me charged and alive

I slowly turned Turned knowing what I'd find I turned and saw the star floating just before my eyes floating before me smooth and awful it's light warm and blinding red liquid bloomed to its surface swirling and dancing beneath the star's skin I knew instantly

it was the blood of my family the world spun around me darkness crashed in in my vision I had my daughter say stay as I crumbled down in the darkness I awoke in bed Monica dampening my forehead with a cool towel What? I started

Shh, you need to rest Eileen She's fine, she's asleep with a star I bolted up in bed Startling my wife back as to Get it away from her What? She looked surprised It's comforting

It was flying, I snarled Monica's eyes wide on with surprise not used to that tone from me. I don't think having it is such a bad thing, she said. If it helps to process mammoth's death, a cold bolt of a knee shot through my chest. Last night, she had been against letting Eileen keep it, but suddenly it was okay.

Then I had a revelation, a slimy, awful revelation. I looked at Monica in the eyes, remembering what my daughter had said. Does it talk to you? I asked. My wife's face answered for her. The colour drained away.

Her eyes darted away from mine, then instantly back. Does what talk to me? She lied. I stood up and brushed past her, storming up the hall and into my daughter's room. She was sound asleep, basked in the glow of the star, which sat harmlessly on the bedside table. I grabbed it and breezed outside without even waking her. I brushed the star centre, dousing its light, and frisbee tossed it as far away as I could. It spun off, disappearing into the field with a muffled report.

Then I went inside and crashed into the deepest sleep of my life. I awoke just before noon, a blast of late morning sunlight hammering through the windows. I groaned, my head pounding, felt like I'd polished off two six-packs last night. I stumbled downstairs into the kitchen. My daughter and wife were at the kitchen table, eating peanut butter sandwiches. Monica and I avoided eye contact. The air was loaded, heavy with the aftermath of our conversation last night. I grabbed a mug from the cupboard.

The coffee pot shouted at my feet. The mug did a second later. My wife and daughter's head snapped back up in a bit of slapstick that would have been funny under other circumstances. But there was nothing funny about the star planted an Eileen's lap. the one I'd thrown out last night. Where? I waited my lips.

Where did you get that? Where'd I get what, Daddy? She asked. Star. All I can manage. She frowned. Beside my bed? The room swam.

My breath went shallow. A cold rasp in my chest. I was going to faint again. I steadied myself on the counter. Looked to my family. in the eyes. I took a deep breath and they shot into focus. We're leaving right now. I bolted upstairs and started packing. Monica found me in a mess of clothes. Mark, what's with you? We're leaving early, I said, throwing a jacket into my suitcase, like you suggested.

I think, she hesitated. I think we should stay a while. Another week maybe. This place is where Mamet died, the dark Eileen's known all the life. She needs time to process that. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. What are you saying? She looked away before summoning the nerve to meet my gaze. I extended her stay for another few days. You did what? Just until Eileen, it's no big deal. Why didn't you talk to me about this? She frowned. We did talk about it last night. No, we didn't. I stopped.

We're mind racing. Had we talked about it, last night it was a blur, a hole in my memory. I remember tossing the star into the field. But why had I thrown it outside? I couldn't remember anything beyond that. I let her a long, uneven sigh,

slumped down on the bed, the way to the world in my shoulders. Monica's hand found my back, pulled me into a hug. It felt good, warm and good. She leaned in. whispered in my ear. Stay but once.

I remembered. I remembered last night. Remembered the hovering star. Remember the word I had heard in my own voice that wasn't my own at all. I pried loose on my wife's embrace. I looked her in the eyes and saw a dim glow flickering just behind her pupils. Starlight. A memory fought to the front of my brain.

A memory of my wife and daughter sitting in that pillow fort, bathed in the star. Star's warm, soft light. A cold, blanket of fear swallowed me. I staggered to my feet. Monica's arms tried to pull me back. I wrenched free. Stay, Mark, please.

I ignored her, rushed out into the dining room, my wife calling after me. Aline was still at the dining table. Her face pale, cheeks gaunt. She looked sick, like a kid from a children's hospital commercial. Stay, Daddy, my daughter groaned her voice horse. Can't you stay? The star was hovering beside her and spinning at incredible velocity.

It was like a hacksaw blade screaming in place. Its pointed tips, a blur of jagged angles. It was flickering, throbbing with light. Awful, harsh light. Stay, Mark, Manika's voice in my ear. Stay with me and I lean. But it wasn't Monica's voice at all. It was the star's voice.

It was the star. Stay, daddy, stay. Eileen, get away from it, I screamed. But it was too late. With a great flash of light, the stars shot forward and tore through my daughter. That moment is a blur, a fragment, and memory shattered by my tortured mind. I remember a great wet shredding sound like a damp log being fed through a woodchew. her. My daughter didn't scream. Her ruined body hid the floor with a thud, a hot splash of guts and blood

slapping the whitewashed walls as she fell. My wife brushed past me, chanting, stay, stay, stay. She stood, arms out, a gauze-splatted star hovering and twisted in the air before her. Monica looked like a worshipper, paying tribute to a lord, intoning the same word in a flat, leveled voice. stay stay stay stay then the star blasted forward I remember my wife's death more clearly a long horrible frame of violence the spinning star blew through her face

grinding through a beauty and a burst of red twists of brain blew out like shrapnel a shard of a jawbone embedded itself in my cheek just below my right eye I didn't even feel it didn't feel the soft warm rush of blood trickled down my face and onto my shirt.

I was rooted in place, my whole body, heavy, encased in lead. My wife's lifeless body pitched forward and hit the floor with a dead thump, landing beside my ruined daughter. There were tangles of bent limbs, a syrupy pool of blood expanding beneath them. And still,

I heard their voices, overlapping, chanting, a cacophony of stays in both my ears. Stay, stay, stay. The star turned on me, whirring, hovering, spinning, a blur of movement. My wife and daughter's voices were getting louder. The star, drenched in their blood, spun, waiting for me to accept my fate, waiting for me to stay. The voices in my ear louder now, deafening, burying through my brain like small brown insects.

Stay, stay, stay, stay. I scraped the bottom of my soul, channeling my anger and pain and confusion in a roar. No, I screamed with everything I had. All at once, there was silence. My wife and daughter's voices gone. The star pulsed, its light blasting out, dousing the room in crimson. Then, bam. It blew through the ceiling, disappearing into the sky.

Leaving behind two broken things, that were the loves of my lives. I collapsed over their bodies and sobbed. The next few weeks were a blur. A blur of hospital in interrogation rooms. A blur of nurses and detectives. I don't remember anything but the dull,

constant ache in the centre of my heart, my broken, twisted heart. The one moment I remember with any clarity is being charged with the murder of my family. As I write this, I'm currently standing trial for the deaths of my wife and daughter. No murder weapon was recovered, but detectives are convinced I must have hidden it in the vast, untouched forest sprawling the world beyond that field. What am I supposed to say? It flew off into the sky? My lawyers are fighting for an insanity plea.

And maybe I am insane. After everything I've seen, I can't be sure anymore. I've thought a lot about that star, where it came from, where it went. I don't know what it was, and I'm not sure I want to. I suppose this is a cautionary tale, a warning, and if I can spare one family the agony I've gone through, I'll have succeeded. If you ever find a star in the field behind your house,

or in the grass, or in the woods, leave it, and run. Forget you ever saw it. Run and whatever you do, no matter what, don't stay. I've known Darren my whole life, but never actually known him. I could blame it on him being a quiet kid, but I can't be sure that's true, as I've never spoken to him enough to know if he actually is that quiet, or if he has simply never been given the chance to speak.

I feel guilty for that now. is in every one of my elementary class photos. His name has been on the signing sheet for almost every high school class I've ever taken. He's been a constant in my life. Yet, I could hardly tell you the first thing about him. Darren was picked on in school, but he wasn't bullied in the cruel,

concerted way that people think of when they think bullied kid. Sure, occasionally, one of the meaner kids would spit some teasing off-handed remark his way, but it was what everyone else did to him, that was especially cruel. Darren was utterly ignored. Not just by mean kids pretending not to see him,

but by everyone constantly. He was practically ignored right out of existence. Maybe it was that Darren clearly came from a poor family or greasy hair and acne atop his skinny frame. Whatever the reason, Darren was a school pariah, his excommunication from the rest of us eventually to be. into more of a tradition than anything. Everyone knew not to talk to Darren,

and, at some point, he learned to stop trying to talk to us. He was never spoken to at recess in elementary school, never approached at lunch and middle school, never acknowledging the hallways of a high school. Darren didn't exist. This trend continued for as long as I knew him. Even the teachers seemed to be in on it. He was never called on to answer questions or present in front of a class.

Darren never got his name called during a group reading assignment. Sometimes I would go days without even seeing him, despite his perfect attendance. I think my mind had been trained over the years to see Darren as even less than an other, as simply empty space. All it took was the distance learning forced on us by the pandemic for my mind to have dumped all thoughts of him entirely. It was by sheer luck that I came across Darren's YouTube channel. My school was a bit late to the whole distance learning thing, but all my classes are online now, and the amount of time I'd sunken into YouTube had correspondingly skyrocketed. My parents can't tell the difference between the sound of YouTube videos and the sound of my class lectures,

so I developed a habit of spending hours each day drifting around between recommended videos and random searches, all when my parents beamed with pride over my studiousness. I'll admit I felt a bit guilty about it But not enough to stop My most recent obsession Was interviews They felt like an informative And therefore not time wasting

Way to entertain myself It started with interviews with cast members From movies I like Before I branched out to looking up all kinds of distinguished people I would never otherwise get to Meet It was fun to key in a name add the word interview and scroll search results

looking for obscure or interesting videos actors, scientists, conspiracy theorists zero killers, war veterans I loved it all a couple months ago I finally got around watching Black Swan and I've been looking for interviews with Darren Aronofsky as I scrolled to the generic Hollywood interviews

and explanations to the plot mother I noticed the channel called Dialogues with Darren I clicked without even thinking. The video I'd opened was titled Dialogues with Darren, Episode 2, Mookie. It began to play, and, after a moment of a maze disbelief, I realised the bony face filling the frame and staring back at me was Darren.

His features were lit only by the pale light of his computer screen and he was even skinnier than I remembered him, with greasy black curls that had grown to shoulder length and dark eyes that were watery and forlorn. The camera he was using was clearly low-end, but even despite the poor lighting and terrible video fidelity, I was certain it was Darren. Darren appeared to be set up in a dark, cluttered bedroom.

I could just make out an unmade bed with no sheet on it behind him, and various pizza and microwave meal boxes littered around his room. his floor and shelves. Darren was sitting on a desk chair to the left of the screen, an empty chair sat behind him to the right. Both chairs were angled towards the camera and eerily lit by the only illumination in the room, Darren's computer screen. The empty chair was one of this metal and plastic moulded chairs you see at schools, and I wondered if he had stolen it. After another quick camera adjustment, Darren rolled back in his chair so that he was flushed with a vacant one, scoched a bit off to the side, and began a stuttering introduction of himself

in a nervous, fake television host voice. As he spoke, it occurred to me that until that moment, I had no idea what Darren's voice sounded like. Uh, hi, this is Dialogues with Darren again. Today I got another interview with Mookie, who you might remember from our first episode, we don't have a ton of time, so without any more delay, let's go ahead and dive right in. Before we pick up, can you give us a quick reintroduction, Mookie? I glanced down at the video info. His channel had zero subscribers. This video had one view and no likes or comments. It appeared that I was the first person to have seen it. I glanced back at the video and grimaced in confusion. Darren appeared to be nodded to

He looked at a long to something and was looking intently towards the empty chair, as though respectfully permitting someone to speak. After a moment, he looked back towards the camera. Well, I guess I can't disagree with that. So, tell me, Muki, if you weren't an imaginary friend, what other kind of work would you want to do? Again, he looked towards the chair and nodded along to silence. But after his last comment, everything clicked. Darren had made a kind of joke channel. The product of boredom,

and maybe the hope of being recognised for once, even if just by strangers online. It looked like he was already living a small, cramped life at home. Maybe this was just how he was overcoming the same stifling listlessness felt by most people during the shutdown. As he began to ask his guest a follow-up question about aspirations for the future, I clicked out of the video and over it to his channel homepage. There were only three videos uploaded so far.

Dialogs with Darren, Mooky, Dialogs with Darren, Mooky Part 2, and Dialogs with Darren, The Watcher. All of them ranging from 4 to 6 minutes in length. None of the videos had more than one view or any comments. The channel was wholly undiscovered. Curious, I clicked on the The Watcher video. It started the same way as the last. A quick, awkward introduction in his dark, messy room, the scooching of his chair away from and to the side of the screen,

and then the one-way conversation with the empty space above the other chair. Darren, like any quality host, dove right into the questions. So, uh, I think we should start with the most obvious one. Why do you watch people? He resumed nodding at nothing in the dark of the silent room, brightened only by his computer screen. he seemed tenser than in the mooky video his features more rigid and his posture bunched up

like someone attempting to look over the edge of a cliff without falling after a moment he spoke again well sure but uh how do you decide which people silence and nodding and what happens you know if they wake up this time a longer silence and more nodding

though I felt a trickle of cold run through me as Darren's face turned convincingly fearful The imaginary friend thing had been comedic and goofy But this one creeped me out And from the worried look in his eyes Darren was doing a good job of appearing to be creeped out too After about a minute of respectfully nodding at nothing And waiting

Darren spoke once more Still in his wavering imitation of a television host Well uh That's good to know, I suppose. For our view is at home, you heard it. It's always better to just keep your eyes closed. For a moment, the screen flickered with static, and the image refocused. Maybe it was in my head, but in that moment I could have sworn the empty chair had moved.

Not much, maybe just an inch or so back. But when I stray my eyes, it looked slightly further from Darren's chair than it had been. That or his attempt at YouTube creepiness was getting to me. Amused, I chided myself and click back to his channel to hit the button to subscribe to all notifications. Darren's invisible creature interview stick was odd. But I felt that maybe tuning in and checking out his videos would, in some way, make up for the fact that I, like everyone else, had spent the last decade ignoring him into oblivion, leaving him with nobody to talk to except his imaginary friends. Two days later, I got my first notification that Dialogue with Darren has posted a new video, entitled Dialogs with Darren, Juniper Smith.

I waited until the evening and pulled out my phone in bed to watch it before going to sleep. It was the same deal as before, but more than with his other videos, I found Darren's one-way discussion fascinating as I tried to piece together what he imagined the other side of his conversation to be. Thank you so much for coming on today, Miss Smith. I hope it is okay to say, but... The dress is fantastic. So, jumping right in. I... I don't want to be rude, but I think most people would be curious.

How did you pass away? Darren said the last part with cautious politeness, as though he was asking someone terminally ill how much time they had left. Silence and respectful nodding. I'm so sorry to hear that. Was anyone able to figure out what happened? Darren seemed choked up by the silence that followed. That's...

Uh... Well, that's awful. I'm so sorry, he croaked emotionally. Well, what has happened since then? This was followed by an unusually long silence of about three minutes as Darren simply nodded towards the empty space next to him. I spent the time studying the empty chair, trying to detect even the slightest hint of something supernatural.

But I couldn't discern anything beyond Darren, occasionally muttering, uh-huh, or an I-see, to respectfully show his imaginary guest that they simply had his attention. I practically had my nose pressed my phone screen watching the shadows of Darren's bedroom when his sudden speech made me start. Well, that's great. Really?

Helping little girls like that? It can't be easy after what happened to you, but you do it, and that's so great. I smiled, wondering how he came up with these stories, and whether there was a word document somewhere on his computer that had the other side of these scripts written on it. I wanted to read them, if so. Okay, yes. Yeah, that's right.

Well, thank you for coming on, and thank you very much again for sharing your experiences, uh, Miss Smith. I think that's all our time for today, but I wish you the best. and please take care. And with that, Darren smiled meekly towards a chair next to him, turned and scooped his own chair back up towards his computer, and, as his hand reached out of frame, the video ended. YouTube's up-next loading screen came on with the rest of Moogie Part 2,

that I hadn't watched, queued up to play in a few seconds. Instead, I closed the app, laid back in bed, and thought about the interview I just watched. I decided that when school was back in regular session in my district, I was going to make a point to go and talk to Darren. I couldn't really fathom why I never had, other than because no one else did. I resolved to tell him,

hi, ask him how his pandemic went, see how he's doing. I don't think I would mention his YouTube channel, but I would at least make an attempt to give him someone to talk to, someone that could actually respond when he asked the question. Satisfied with my resolved, I turned over and drifted to sleep. That night, I dreamt I was laying in an unfamiliar bed, surrounded by an unnatural smoky darkness.

I tried to get up, but my muscles didn't have the power to move, no matter how hard I wield them. I darted my eyes around, trying to pierce the darkness, hoping to find a clue as to where I was. As I strain my eyes against the immobility of my head, I slowly became aware of a quiet, ragged wheezing coming from the right side of my bed above me. Instinctively, I closed my eyes tight,

as if somehow that would protect me from whatever was standing over me, make it go away. I was braced for the worst, but after a few tense moments, wheezing stopped. I kept my eyes scrunch closed for it felt like an eternity,

but the room stayed silent. My heart rate eased back to norm, as I calmed my mind. At last, I felt secure enough to open my eyelids and glanced with my eyes to my right. There, obscured by the blur of my peripheral vision, was a set of massive, vainy, orange eyes, inches from my face,

staring with hungry fixation. Medallion-sized pupils began to narrow and the mattress creaked as whatever the bulbous eyes belonged to began to lean closer. I heard another ragged, wet wheeze from the thing an inch away from my ear, and just as I felt a panic scream

while open my throat, I awoke. I was upright in bed, sweating, my heartbeat, racing in my ears. I scanned the room frantically, but there was nothing. Just the ordinary,

muted darkness of a suburban home at 3 a.m. After another hour of self-soothing, I went back to sleep, and by the time I rose the next morning, the whole ordeal felt as though it had never even happened. I continued to watch Darren's videos as they rolled in.

He posted unpredictably, sometimes once a day, sometimes once a week. But whenever I got the alert, I'd queued up, watched the video before bed. Like it, then await the next one.

It was by far the weirdest channel I'd found on YouTube. His interviewees came to comprise of an interesting cast of characters that included the Annette Twins, for whom he brought in a lot of, a second chair, seemingly borrowed from a dining table set, something he called the rog, that didn't appear to answer any of his questions, despite his polite prodding, and the

grey man, who, despite the sinister name, was a delightful guest who caused Darren to break his composure with gleeful laughter throughout the interview. Uh, wait, uh, so you mean that you can be anywhere? Silence, interrupted by unexpected laughter from Darren. Oh, so everything's grey? He asked, regaining himself a moment before bursting back into pitchy laughter, too contagious for even me to resist, chuckling along with. Well, I guess no one can accuse you of being without talents. He managed to get out from between his outbursts, wiping a tear from his eye.

Looking down at the video info, I realised that the grey man was the first video for someone to see that wasn't me. The view counter read, three. I smiled to myself in the dark of my bedroom. Well, shoot, Darren. Looks like you're finally getting some attention. And with that, I hit like on the video, plugged my phone in,

and went to sleep. After the Grey Man, a couple of weeks went by before Dialogs with Darren showed any more activity. Then, and around midnight on Friday, while lazily browsing Netflix, my phone screen lit up with an alert. Dialogs with Darren

is starting its first live video, tune in. Having nothing better to do and intrigued with seeing Darren do his first live act, I quietly shut my bedroom door, flopped onto bed and opened the YouTube app on my phone. The title was, Dialogues with Darren, No Name Available, Live. The video was especially grainy this time. I wasn't surprised that Darren didn't have the best internet connection, given the quality of his camera and the appearance of his cramped room in the videos

I had seen thus far. But as the pixels coalesced into something discernible, the scene largely resembled the same setup I was used to. Darren was oriented on the left side of the screen. The empty school chair was stationed on the right. Darren had already done his typical brief intro and was mid-sentence as the audio popped in. And speaking with us, uh, live today, a first for the show.

So thanks, those who have joined us, and let's get to some questions with our guest. Darren's eyes were fixated upwards, above the empty seat, as though something towered above him. He appeared to be shivering, though I couldn't tell if it was the streaming quality, or if a draft in the room was making him cold. So, uh, you're the first to reach out to, uh, to contact me first. Let's start with that. How did you hear about the show? then, for the first time in any of Darren's videos,

I heard a response. A sound like the blade of a butcher knife being scraped over steel broke the silence. The sound was pitchy and inconsistent, resonating as though it was simultaneously right in my ears and echoing from far away. I winced and attempted to turn the volume down, but the metallic tones remained just as loud as if I had done nothing. Darren appeared pained, but otherwise determined to politely carry on and continue to maintain his shaky host persona. Uh, yeah, that's certainly not what I expected, he said, leaving me wondering what the answer had been. And might I ask, how, uh... Metallic noise returned, cutting off Darren.

His face had turned from a look of pain to a look of agony. Uh, no, I'm sorry. Usually this works with me, asking the guests, uh, questions, and, uh... Again, the terrible scraping responded. I winced and tried to escape it by turning my phone to mute. But even as the no speaker icon flashed to my phone screen, while I desperately squeezed the volume button down, the noise continued, as loud as if I'd done nothing. I was just about to swipe out of the video to make it stop,

when I noticed that Darren was talking again on the live feed. I couldn't hear his voice with the volume off. He looked panic and had shifted his body to be as far from the empty chair as possible. Concerned, I hurriedly turned my volume back up. Uh, well, of course I invited you. You have to invite somebody to be on the show. How does that mean it's my fault? Darren's voice was desperate.

The harsh metallic noise resonant in response and Darren's voice somehow turned even paler with childlike despair. No, no, that's not, not true. I don't want to talk to you anymore. I want you to go away. Darren seemed to be attempting to get up from his chair, but couldn't. It looked as if someone had placed an invisible weight across his narrow shoulders, too heavy for him to stand up beneath. The lie feed began to pixelate, making it difficult to make out what was happening in the room

through the distortion. and then for the one and only time the terrible metallic scraping became words to me I felt like my ears were seeing the hidden picture in an abstract image and for just a moment I understood through the pain in my eardrums what he was saying to him

hush it's okay you'll talk with me for now for always Talk with me. I heard Darren let out a scream that started naturally before being digitally distorted by the worsening feed.

The picture pixelated further before going black. The audio cut off. And then, in an instant, everything popped back into focus again, as if nothing I'd just seen had transpired. Darren's messy, dim room was empty. Two chairs sat side by side unoccupied, lit in the white-blue glow of the computer screen. I stared in disbelief at the now silent live feed,

and then, abruptly, it ended. That was the end. I called the police at night and told them what happened, trying not to sound insane. I told them that Darren had disappeared during a live YouTube feed, that I had heard a scream, and I begged them to do a wellness check. They took down the information, but I don't think anything came of it.

I could tell from the disingenuous tone of the officer on the phone that she thought the whole thing was some prank by a couple of wannabe YouTube stars or something. It didn't help that when I went back to his YouTube page the next day, the account had been taken down. I contacted YouTube support to try and find out what had happened. But, well, you probably can guess how helpful YouTube support was. The same day, in a fit of despair, I tried to figure out how to contact Darren's family. intending to learn where he lived and visit. While googling for information, I learned from an obituary from 2020

that Darren was an only child whose mother had passed away last December during lockdown. Darren had been alone in the house all that time. The police probably thought he was just a depressed runaway, trying to go out on a bang. To tell you the truth, I feel responsible for what happened.

Darren was harmless, Just a cast out kid Left alone for too long In fact, everyone left down alone for so long that he became desperate Started talking to things that should never be talked to

Things no one should talk to And then One day Those things Started talking back I'm just to Amsterdam Why? For the maidsies They're there two hours faster

Doy! To see, now Amsterdam With Pugetam With Eurocity direct, though? 16 times per day from out Brussels and in 2-hour.

Now, from 19 euro in place of 25. Book you tickets on NMS International.com. The festival season is a broken

and that betekent Modder. And so, came Kim to come to website. On the look to

a waterdict, a comfortable lugbet, oh, so, and Luipaart print regalarze. Miao.

Now, now, Kim, he has been more to make over the modder, Just like that dancing the modder man there. Oh, wait just even.

Has he now only mudder on? Oh yeah, only mudder. Drowing? Gare for. Find what you need to have on Amazon.com. com. B.E. Other nets cast, my father shouted from just feet away.

His wrinkled hands were planted softly in the wheel of our modest trawler. The boat rocked calmly to the soft push of waves. The salty air threatened to dry my tongue out if I dared speak a word. One more to go. called. Most trawlers had an automatic way to cast nets and bait. My father stubbornly stuck to what he called the good old-fashioned way, but I'd say otherwise. I took the final cast net, cleared it off tangles, and then wrapped the white material around my arms a few times, and threw it with steady hands. The net hit the water service with a satisfying gloop and sunk

below. I joined my father at the helm as he slowly stared the boat through the water. Net fishing is a family business, and despite only being 14, my father wanted me to prepare to take over. I don't mind the sea, and there's strange freedom that comes with travelling on a boat in the sun. I like how the wind softly brushes past me at low speeds, and how little splashes of water occasionally cool me down when it's warm, and I can't wait until I get to drive. In the distance were other trawlers, but of bigger sizes, all funded by Sato Fishing Co. Their nets were mechanical and bright red, since is the first color to disappear in the ocean. Dad must have noticed me staring as he grunted out of annoyance.

Traitors, he hoffed. Robots will take everybody's job soon. It was easy enough for him to say. I've been casting all of his nets since I was ten. The sea was quiet. Between casting the nets and pulling them back up, I'd often pick up a boot or nap. It was boring. At 14, I wanted to meet friends or sleep in, not get up before dawn and sail out to sea.

I must have been there a few minutes, when the air turned cold. The sun's intensity stopped, and its assault to my closed eyelid ended. A series of panicked mutters and shuffling came from my father's direction, and I opened my eyes to dark skies. An eerie horn echoed through the area, and, accompanying it, came wild tides as the sound made the water. to dance. Dad? I shouted in worry. The fear caused my throat to crack and pitch.

Is it? I didn't dare finish my sentence. It can't be. It's earlier than last time. My father stuttered. Nets up, now, he commanded. The boat came to a halt, and my father and I rushed to pull the nets up,

and my shaky hands struggled to keep a decent grip on the handlines. Dad, is it here? I cried out. my hands burning from the rough rope. My father never sailed out when the Umabuzza was due to visit. Dad? I squeaked out as he silently lifted the mostly empty nets. Quiet, he hissed. With the nets up, my father hurried to the helm, and we headed back towards the village.

Our trawler bounced over each wave, and, with each jump, I was flung across the deck. It wasn't until I was knocked towards a bench that I could climb on top of it and straddle it. for stability. Darkened water splashed onto the boat. The liquid assaulted me from each direction and I struggled to keep my eyes open. A few fish in the nets flocked wildly or some lay still after hitting the deck harshly. The ocean ceased fire for a moment as my gaze locked on a large trawler. The boat rocked harshly to a point where I feared it would tip over. Water once again attacked me and I was forced to shut my stinging eyes. I was frightened to the point where my brain could only focus on just how scared I was.

I couldn't think of how much my eyes hurt from the salty sea. But when I finally opened them again, the fear only multiplied when I searched for the trawler from earlier. It was gone. I forced myself up on shaky feet, my knees threatened to buckle me over, and with each wave I nearly collapsed. My eyes scanned the ocean in a rush As I quickly oriented myself I checked the horizon

It was really gone I stared on in disbelief As a rounded shape poked out of the ocean And towards me I swear for a moment It looked at me The next wave knocked me back over I slipped and my knees scraped the damp wooden deck harshly

I crawled towards the helm cabin Where my father was My bloody knees leaving a trail that soon washed away by the ocean. I woke up with an ungodly scream. A noise I'd never heard escaped my mouth before, and my mother came rushing into my room, and as if by routine, she wrapped her arms around me and soothed me.

You're at home, you're okay, you're okay, she repeated softly. Her fingers ran through my short hair gently, and I found myself melting in her embrace. Moments of silence passed in a hurry, and I felt a part of lips again to speak. So, today then, I nodded at her. For the past three years, I've been able to predict the tri-yearly visit for the Yumi Buzzo. My mother calmly rose from my bed and headed to the landline, ready to alert all fleets before they went out into danger.

Not that they listened anyway. The bigger trawlers, especially the ones funded by Setako, never listened to the warnings. They paid their fishermen extra and send them off with empty barrels to confuse the Yumi Buzel. There is folklore to suggest giving it empty barrels to confuse it. Not that it's worked. It takes one trawler and its crew every three months. My village, Ina, has only the bare necessities, with only one convenience store and not much to do. It had been rare to come across any tourists until ten years ago.

A large bone jaw sat chained to a pole in the centre of our village, mere seconds from the ocean. The jaw belonged to a sea beast that ate all of the fish surrounding the town. I was only very young when this happened, but Saito Hiratami and his fleet managed to surround the creature with his nets and kill him. Hiro-tami himself dragged the dead animal to the shore with his boat and spent hours carving out his jaw to make sure that even in the afterlife it didn't take it. our fish. That's one of the reasons Sato Connets are so popular. However, even though Sato Hirotami saved a small fishing village from the fish-eating beast, it brought along another being that didn't feed on fish, but took down entire boats. I ran my hand across the bone carefully. Despite the ten years, it had been sitting out in different weather

conditions and it didn't look aged at all. It was huge too. bigger than an orca, plus it had a strange roundness to it. I couldn't pinpoint it to any of the sea creatures I knew of. I stared out to the dock. Many of the smaller boats had decided to stay today, including my dad's same old trawler he's always had. I hadn't been on it since the incident three years ago. I was relieved that most of the family-owned boats were tied up and secure.

In the distance, I could spot a lot of. The rest, I imagine, had gone past the rocky bank. My attention was captured by the mutterings in an open building nearby. It's coming sooner and sooner, a male voice complained. It's every two months now, he added. Was it? I never kept track of it. It made sense though, as it felt like I had that nightmare more often.

Is the Sugimoto kid, he must be cursed? How else does he know when the Yumi buzzer will arrive? another voice rang. This one was much more familiar. Plus, his scum father is one of the reasons the family companies won't buy my nets. It was Sato Hiratami. Maybe we should feed the son to the Yumi Boso, the first voice asked. He received a grunt of agreement from Sato.

I looked back at the bone and the date engraved on the plaque. And suddenly, it all made sense. This all started because of Sato. This creature is angry because we killed it, right? It must be its ghost. I wanted to run into the building and tell them I'm not cursed, that maybe if we put the jaw back, perhaps the Yumi Buzzo would leave us be, but I knew it would be a waste of breath.

The sky began to darken yet again, and the same horn echoed to the village. Goosebump stood tall on my skin, and my body froze in fear. I had to do it now. I rushed into my father's boat and grabbed the bolt clippers he kept in the cabin.

While everybody panicked and ran inside, I released the jaw from the metal restraints and tie the rope around it. I could fix this. I took the rope back to the boat and secured it tightly. My dad kept spare keys and a fake fish in the bait box

so that I could start the ship with ease. I'd never driven it before. but the adrenaline pushed me forward and I could get it running. The engine bubbled and soon began propelling. The boat rushed ahead. Once the rope was stretched out, I had trouble moving forward as if the jaw was too heavy. I pressed for more power and eventually the bone began scraping against the ground. It left a gash in the earth behind it.

The boat's engine growled as it struggled to pull, but ultimately the jaw hit the ocean. Now it was in the water And it was much easier to pull forward The choppy waves sent the boat further I watched as the jaw dropped down into the darkness of the ocean It's deep around here In fear of it taking the ship with it I cut the rope loose

And then I saw it In the distance A giant creature travelling through the water Towards me The shape was uniquely rounded Like something I had only seen once before I rushed back to the helm and started the boat back up, and the panic soon set in. The waves around me roughened and aggressively shoved the trawler side to side.

It made it difficult to drive, and I had a hard time trying to turn it around. Just as I'd faced the village, something shot up out of the water. A massive creature, 80 feet in size, and a perfectly circular mouth, wide enough to fit tens of my little trawlers inside. This thing wasn't a ghost. The movement of the beast sent my boat backwards and further into the ocean. I stared into the void of his humongous mouth, past the rows of sharpened teeth, and saw only blackness. I saw death.

The rotting scent of decomposition invaded my nostrils and caused my eyes to water. The creature breathed in deeply with an open mouth and then shut its jaws in a snap. The sheer force of the moving water underneath me caused me to topple over and hit my head off the wooden floor. A sharp pain travelled down my spine and I grew dizzy, too dizzy to stand up. I passed out. When I woke up, I was back home.

One of the families nearby had been able to witness the entire thing from the dock and when the creature disappeared back into the water after his encounter with me, they came out and got me. The beast took three of the set of trawlers that day But not me After that it began to attack every two weeks Many people refused to go out and fish Which meant many family companies began to suffer greatly

My father lectured me multiple times And even banned me from his boat His dreams of fishing with his son had sunk Just like the jaw One day I double-checked the bait box and found he had moved the spare key. His ship was deemed a good luck charm and companies began to ask my dad to lead them out to sea.

There were theories that our boat warded off the Yumi Buzzo. One day, Sato even offered my dad a large sum of money to go out on his boat with a few of his fleet. He agreed. I feared Sato had tried to kill my father, but when he was the only boat to come out of that alive and, after this encounter, I was surprised. After that, my dad withdrew from fishing and hid in his workhouse for days.

What was so different about our boat? I started to look into the differences, and it became a new obsession. It wasn't the shape or size or the colour of the boats. They were very similar, except the ones that were attacked were much bigger. Hamura, my friend, Yua, called out to me. I'd been zoning out in class again. Should we get some milk from the canteen? I shook my head, and you aside.

What's wrong with you? she asked. It's just these boats and the disappearances. I began. There's no difference. None of the family boats are getting attacked. It's just the big ones. It's not like they look like food. They have red nets, I huffed.

I mean, there's red fish in the ocean. You are mumbled. Kimnodai, sea breams. I'm sure there's more too. When you get to a certain depth, red disappears, though. Whatever it is, it wouldn't have been able to see from below the surface. That seems dumb, she offered. Ewer's lack of concern soothed me, and a smile temporarily set my mind at ease.

I passed the dock on the way from school. The ground was still raised and torn up from when I pulled the jaw across it. I looked towards the ocean, where the jaw was most likely sitting at the bottom. If it wasn't a ghost, then who did the jaw belong to? I would have thought it belonged to a smaller version of the creature with how rounded the appendage was. My hand slapped my mouth and I let out a gasp. Did we kill its baby? I shook my head and stared out to the horizon where the ocean met the sky.

The jaw was huge, but compared to the beast I encountered. It was tiny. I ran home faster than I ever had before and began searching up on the internet for any hint of what the creature could be. I searched up everything imaginable and looked at multiple indexes of Big Sea beasts. None of the images matched up to what I saw that day.

Everything about this creature didn't make sense from its perfectly circular mouth to its enormous size, plus the fact it was eating ships. There's no way it got any sort of nutritional. nutrition from the boats. Was it from this world? If we could believe in things like Yumi Bosos, then who's to say that other things didn't exist? I approached my father about the situation, how the creature could be acting on revenge or justice, and how it's only attacking boats with the red nets. I hadn't expected him to believe me so early, but he was making

essential calls by the morning. Sato hesitantly sent a single fleet out with regular nets and the rest with red, soon seeing results. But once they scrapped the red nets for standard nets, the beast began to act out. Rather than attack boats, the creature bit away at the ocean floor as if he was heading towards the village, and after three weeks,

he was able to reach the docks. Sato would stand at the docks, a harpoon in one hand, and a cigarette in the other. If you asked him what he was doing, he would simply proclaim, I kill the last one, I can kill this one. easy. He showed no remorse. He even cracked a joke about using his bones to make more nets,

as he did with the last beast that threatened our village. His attitude made by jaw clench. The next day, the creature sat below the dock for the entire day. Sato did nothing. He refused to look at the being and retreated to his factory for an emergency. During the night, the family boats were devoured by the beast. They were quite quite. questions on whether it had become impatient, but somebody claimed they saw Sato throwing his red nets on them. The creature disappeared for a few days. People were enraged. The lives had been eaten away in mere seconds.

They held their anger to the beast, and, despite the dark CCTV being erased, a nearby private camera caught Sato in action, throwing the red net over each of the boats. The atmosphere was tense, yet nobody dared speak up. and the silence only worsened the mood. It took one person to call out, and it took one person to say, it's Sato's doing, for the whole town to break into a riot.

Sato fled into his home and hid inside, and a crowd followed behind. He refused to answer the village. He didn't want to acknowledge his disrespect of the creature and his slaughtering of the baby beast. Sato refused to believe that he did not save the village. Instead, He endangered it.

The beast returned and sat at the dock, its mouth open at the edge. The same loud horn echoed nonstop throughout the village from the beginning, and everyone panicked to stop it. The town sacrificed food and fish. They pleaded with the creature and promised they would never do it again. But the sea beast didn't stop. The horn was deafening. I wondered if it was a battle cry or mourning its loss.

Either way, it had to stop. My father had enough. With a red net in hand, he headed to Sato's house and pushed to the crowd. Sato, he boomed, but Sato continued to hide. Come out and be a man about it. There were no movements from the inside. My father was strong. We didn't need tough doors in a small village like ours.

He kicked Sato's in in a few tries. A few of the men charged in with him, and they exited out with Sato. Sato and his young daughter, Yua. The two were tangled in a massive red rope. My father and the group of men began to push them. The two stumbled over the abundance of material and their own feet. Yua hit the floor at some point, but they kept pushing and pushing. Sato managed to pull Ywer up, and before they knew it, they were on the wooden platform

on the dock. Please, not Yua. Don't do this to my Yua, Sato sobbed. I believed him. At that moment, he was a father pleading for his daughter. She didn't do anything. She didn't know. I'm the only one that knew.

The reveal that Sato knew caused an uproar. People pushed past each other, wanting to be the one to harm Sato, but my father and his friends kept them back. I turned my attention from Sato to Yua, and she was staring at me, eyes puffed, as she was sobbing her eyes out, and a body spotted with mud and stone. I didn't say anything.

I couldn't. I just stared back until they were led further into the dock. Everybody followed behind, shouting and cheering at the two. The horn sound grew louder and louder as the two approached and we took it as a sign

that this was the right thing. Now on the edge, Sato's pleading became more erratic. Not youa, not youa! He sobbed. They both refused to face the creature. Turn around. my father demanded.

Sato didn't oblige, but Ewer turned and stared into the mouth of the creature. My dad physically turned Sato around and all the color drained from his face. Yua let out a shriek, the shock caused her to drop to her knees and her tears dropped into the abyss below.

From here, I could see the familiar black descent into nothingness and the smell of rot was far much more potent than when I encountered it. I scanned the faces of the villages around me. Nobody had dared come to the dock while he was here, and it was their first time encountering it. Sato was silent.

I stole a glance and saw him pull her up and hold under one of her hands to pray. It felt like the air was getting heavier. My head drums ached from the drone of the creature, and it felt like they were ready to burst. Then, without saying anything, my father pushed them in. I watched as they fell into the nothingness of the creature's mouth and the dark abyss consumed the two.

After ten years the beast had gotten its justice. I wiped my cheek, thinking that the sea had splashed me yet again, but I was met with an abundance of tears. The creature quietened down and its mouth snapped shot. A short push of wind brushed through the village, and then the beams were the wind. dropped into the water and disappeared. We called it snuff in my day, but I figured I'd update my language for the internet crowd. Most people are familiar with the acronym NSFW. It stands for not safe for work.

That one is usually stamped over nudity, etc. to keep you from clicking on something you're not supposed to. NSFL is one step up from that. It means not safe for life. From what I understand, it's usually tagged over images or videos of a highly upsetting nature. Take an execution video, for example. Some unlucky schmuck getting flayed alive or chains or apart while he's still screaming. Or machete hacked limb for limb by guys in black masks.

You'll see the NSFL tag before you click the video, so you know to stay away if you want to hold onto your lunch. Ever wondered who those videos are made for? Of course you have. and the answer probably sends your meat running cold and a flash of goosebumps sprouting up over your skin. They're made for teachers, parents, friends, bus drivers, politicians, bankers. They're made for people who get off on it.

People who feel a warm tingle down south at the size of a serrated knife running through an unbutated neck. The great rush of blood around the blade, the gurgle of the dying. It gets them hot and bothered. People love it. Nowadays, you can find most of it on the internet. Animals being thrown, torture live, drowned. All of that stuff is just a few clicks away.

But back in the 90s and early 2000s, it was harder to come by. Rare stuff, like a foreign movie you'd been itching to see that hadn't gotten an American release. These were foreign films to some. Exotic is maybe a better word. Either way, I didn't realize there was such a marchion. for the depraved until I took a job at Video Kingdom, a local video store on the outskirts of Seattle.

I'm hesitant to tell you exactly where. It closed down right around the time the economy imploded, but I'm fairly certain some of our old stock might be hidden away in the dungeon. That's what we called our back room. The dungeon. Some guy would come in, usually some white collar sap with a Ned Flanders haircut and three kids at home. He trundled up to the counter, looking around like there might be FBI crouched behind the VHS racks, and he'd say, I'm here to rent a rare film, the dungeon by Carl Hinton.

There'd be an exchanging of glances, and look him up and down, pretend like I was sizing the fella up, you know. He scanned the place nervously, look back at me with an almost apologetic expression that said, I swear I'm not messed up. I'd shrug and lead him through the velvet curtain into the back room. We'd navigate boxes of VHS rentals. I'd pull aside an industrial shelf that concealed a hidden doorway, leading down a flight of stairs, neon lights from a kitchie, the dungeon sign, guiding the way.

We'd hit a subterranean level, and the fellow's eyes would turn to saucers, a hard on tending his pants as he wandered into our sicko's paradise. Welcome to the dungeon. I bet you're picturing some dimly lit hellhole stashed with black, unmarked videotapes. Not this place. This was a classy establishment.

Carpeted, paneled walls, lounge chairs. Dimly lit, sure. But like a cigar lounge dimly lit. We had back rooms with TVs so the clients could taste whatever they'd chosen from a vast array of tapes. There were dozens of categories, like any regular video store,

featuring everything under the sun. We had a whole section dedicated exclusively to people being run over by steamrollers. They were scoured from all over the world, I was told. Mostly Eastern Europe, Asia. I took it as gospel. I hadn't watched any of this stuff. It should be noted that anything related to kids was forbidden. That was where we drew the line.

And if some guy came asking for that, we'd send a few heavies to his house with knuckle-dusters and order to maim. We were scrupulous. a morally inclined organisation, but everything else, fair game. I know you're probably thinking I'm some mentally-walled scumbag, drifting through life one sort of video after the next. You'd be wrong. I never watched the tapes, never joined up to sell him either.

I didn't know what I was getting myself into. I was 22 the summer I started working at Video Kingdom, and by the time Halloween rolled around, the owner of the place had me roped into his sixth scheme. By that point, I was in too deep to get out. He had me by the scruff with an ugly knife, tucked up against my jugular, metaphorically speaking. I'm going to spare you the story of how I got involved. It's long and boring, and surrounds me seeing something I shouldn't have

while smoking weed in the storage room after work. The story of how I quit is much more interesting. I'm here to rent a rare film. said, the dungeon by Carl Hinton. I could tell this guy was bad news. He looked like he was grown somewhere dark and moist, a basement dwelling fregozoid, crusty, slightly overweight, enough grease in his head to keep the McDonald's fire running for a year, big van housing-style leather overcoat, combat boots. Unlike most folks, he wasn't nervous either. He was confident, smug even. I could tell he was a veteran.

That gave me pause. I was sharing air with no run-of-the-mill freak. This guy was one step away from making his own tapes. If only I'd known, I would have said, Sorry, sir, we don't carry that. That's what we fed to unscrupulous figures. It was at the clerk's discretion. We had carte blanche to turn away anyone we wanted.

But I didn't. I gave him the up-down. He never broke eye contact. His eyes were bright, amused. They were alive, like two black pools of oil, just waiting for a spark. I swallowed. Right this way, I said. He knew his way around the dungeon.

That was odd. I never seen this guy before. And if he'd been a regular, I'd have known. There were a few other people browsing. One guy who looked like a wet muskrat, another who was at least 400 pounds. There was a woman too, a real dominatrix type, of his six feet, hard features, prim hairdo. My guy didn't spare a glance at any of them. He hurried to the vault.

That was what we called the old school vault door tucked into the back corner of the dungeon. It had a wheel handle with a combination dial in the centre. All that remained of the bank that used to live here. I'd never been through the vault door, didn't even know what was on the other side. I honestly thought he was just there for decoration, for atmosphere. In my six months as an employee of Video Kingdom, this was the first time I'd ever seen it open. The guy spun the combination,

hiding his activity behind a cupped arm, like that annoying kid in class who wouldn't let you copy of his test. I heard a heavy click. He cranked the handle, and the vault door weased open. The skeevy guy slipped inside, slamming it shut before I got a good look. Look at what stood beyond. It nagged the hell out of me, like an itch you can't scratch.

I had to know what was beyond that door, but I knew better than to ask questions in a place like this. I was the highest paid video store clerk in the world for a reason. I could have gone to Carl. Carl, as in the dungeon by Carl Hinton. Fake name, obviously, but a real enough guy. He was short, big personality, like a Danny DeVito type. I had only met him a few times, but he'd always treated me like a son, slaps on the back, musseling my hair.

Hell, he even called me, son. But I didn't go to Carl, because asking questions meant I was curious, and you don't get curious, unless you're interested in the merchandise. So, I decided to check it out on my own. Christmas Eve, slowest night of the year, I was clerk in the dungeon while my colleague ran the upstairs. It had been empty for a while, so I decided to take a peek. Had I known the guy from a few months ago would be showing up, that when I first saw enter the vault, I would have kept my ass glued to the chair.

I wouldn't have gotten curious. What was the damn combination? I tried a few random spins. 11, 12, 63, JFK's assassination, 0420, 1998, Hillers' birthday. No dice. The vault was locked down. I thought, wrecked my brain.

Then it hit me like a freight train. The Kissinger tape. That was one of our videos I'd seen. Carl made all the newcomers watch it. It was the first known snuff film. It was like the Santa Claus of the forbidden VHS community. A white whale, rare and iconic. Anyone who's familiar with it and worth their scruff

can tell you what day it was filmed on. That was easy. Thanksgiving, 1929. I remember watching it for the first time. A seabia-tone nightmare. A galaxy of grain shooting across each gory frame. I won't tell you what's on it. Well, what the hell?

It stars a family of Depression-era farmers tied up in their field. Ma, pa, grandma, grandpa, and two gangly teenage boys on the wrong end of their whole. pulled plow. Story goes that there's some beef with one of the big corporations who earned their land. That was how the man got you back then. You sold to move your land for loans to buy seats or whatever, and once you took the loans, there was no getting out from under them.

The corporations would twist and squeeze until you own nothing but the clothes on your back. Parr was clever, figured it out, started corralling up all the farmers in a union to expose the banks. Banks didn't like that So they hired some outside hands To make an example And it was made at 24 frames per second Now here I was Some 50 years later

Spinning their death date on a dial I spun to 29 And heard a satisfying click It had worked My hand was shaking Trembling a little Shot with adrenaline I gripped the vault handle

Spun the wheel thunk the vault door weised open stale air and darkness spilled out there was a bucket of flashlights on the floor

I grabbed one and clicked it on a cone of light shot ahead illuminating a bank vault metal walls crushed in pegs drilled into the walls

held various weapons it was like a screwed up toy box guns knives razor wire chainsaws hacksaws pliers scalpel everything that cuts and scrapes and plays with nerve endings was hanging from the walls.

There was a pit in my stomach, not just at the collection of tools, but at the gaping hole eating through the back wall of the vault. It had been tunneled through the flowered steel, a narrow, rocky corridor snaking off into the earth. I inch towards it, hesitant, my heart beating its fist against my eardrums. I grabbed the scalpel off the wall, tucked it into my pockets as I moved into the corridor, figuring I might need a weapon for what loomed ahead. I left the vault door cracked, listening for movement beyond. I didn't hear any. Didn't hear the basement dwelling guy from before enter the dungeon. Didn't hear him follow me into the vault. I had already found my way. Into the studio by then. The passageway was rocky and

claustrophobic, just tall enough so that I didn't have to stoop. After 20 minutes of barking my shins and elbows on the narrow, craggy walls, I hit a dead end. I exhaled, irritated, and relieved. A horse race of thoughts had been galloping through my head

as to what I might find. I was glad my worst nightmares weren't about to materialize. Then I looked closer and saw a false panel blocking off the egress. I moved the panel aside and stepped forward, finding myself. in a crowded basement space.

There was furniture, beds, set pieces stacked high. It was like a prop house that a movie studio might employ for set design. There was a concrete ramp at one end. I hesitated. Not sure I wanted to see what it led to. But of course I did. I navigated the crowded room of the concrete ramp. It fed me into a soundstage.

That was a wide warehouse like something. space with soundproofed walls and a network of dead overhead lights surrounding a number of different movie sets. There was a pink bedroom, an executive type office, an outdoor start scene in a mock forest. There were a few others I couldn't quite decipher from my vantage. It was quiet, and then it wasn't. There was a delicate sound like an animal caught in a snare, A slight whimpering laced into the silence My whole body felt empty Like it was encased in drying concrete

It was hard to move, breathe I inch toward the noise Hyper aware of every movement Every crash thud of my heart Each breath soaring through my lungs I nose toward the whimpers And saw cages resolve out of the gloom Lots of them

A dozen, maybe two Inside, like tired, broken animals, were men and women, naked, cuffed, ball-gagged, curled up in a soup of their own filth. Most were limp, unconscious. A few were bleary, nodding in and out of consciousness as whatever drugs they were own wore out. An icy bolt of dread shot through me. We weren't just the supplier of rare tapes. We weren't just a distributor. We were a producer.

Carl Hinton made our videos, most of them at least. I heard footsteps behind me, started to turn. Thud. Something hard and blunt cracked across my skull. The light ball popped behind my eyes. I crashed down into darkness. I knew my hands and legs were restrained, even before I opened my eyes. I could feel the cuffs digging into my flesh.

My eyes eased open. Lining light hammered my pupils, a violent white light from overhead, hurt my eyes, stung them. Slowly, a movie set resolved around me. It was a beige office, crowded with paperwork and boxes of VHS tapes. I recognised it immediately, a facsimile of Carl's office, an exact detail-for-detail replica. A camera locked off in one corner trained on me. I looked down at myself. I was still in my work uniform, hands and legs fettered to a bolted down chair.

I struggled, groaned, heard hushed voices. My back was to the door, so I had to fight in my seat for enough leverage to look around. The door opened. Carl Hinton entered. For an instant, I saw a past him into the area beyond the set. I saw the greasy basement dweller with a suit who was handing over her stuffed duffel bag. Then the door swung shut, and Carl took his place behind the desk. Sorry it had to be this way, son, he said sadly, but it would have ended here either way.

We don't do severance or 401k at Video Kingdom. He smiled at his little joke, like it was the funniest thing in the world. I tried to ask him what the hell was going on, but I couldn't. I was gagged. Muted syllables escaped. Carl frowned. Don't bother, kid. You're fired.

That's a segment we do from time to time when the video employees of the dungeon hit exploration. You're fired. We don't stock it at Video Kingdom for obvious reasons, but I hear it's a big hit in Japan. I struggled against my binds, fought, screamed into my gag. Carl just watched, slightly amused.

Go on, keep it up. They love it. You know they do. You're giving them what they want. I fought harder, rattling my binds until my wrists bled. Carl sighed. The guy who's going to fix you as a regular, real vanilla Joe, but he pays well. He all sore open your throat.

One and done. You won't suffer. I screamed something into my gag. He smiled, piecing together my question. Nobody will come looking, son. We're producing your paperwork, so it'll look like he got fired two weeks ago. I liked you, kid. I really did. Sorry, it had to be like this.

He got up and left. I struggled for a while, not sure how long. At some point, the guy in the suit passed to the room like a cold draft. A real plain guy. Might tell insurance, maybe real estate. Probably has a wife and a few pups back at home. Maybe a pool. He fingered the camera.

A red recording light blinked on. with a sigh that said, Sheesh, this is not the position I want to be in. He claimed a spot behind the desk, pretending to be my boss. He was practically vibrating with excitement as he started through a poorly written script about how my employment was being terminated.

I didn't hear any of it. I was focused on something else. The scalpel I tucked into my back pocket. My hands grazed the handle just out of reach. I strained harder, vaguely aware that the guy was done talking. He was now rising, producing a big Bowie knife with a serrated blade. He was walking over to me.

I could smell his after shave. Something minty. I got a scalpel between the tips of my fingers. He yanked my head back, exposed to my neck, getting ready to slice through the big net of veins pumping blood into my brain. The Bowie knife went up. The scalpel slid out, slipped, fell. I reached out and caught it in time.

The bow-knife came down. I saw a wink of light of its polished blade. I gripped the scalpel and stabbed. It was a blind stab, inhibited by my lack of wrist movement. But he was right behind me and standing crotch level within the arc of my swing. The scalpel sunk through hot flesh. I felt it burrow through skin and gristle. I felt it pop as it sunk further in.

When he screamed, the bowie knife went time. humbling. I knew I'd caught him in the balls. I fumbled the scalpel, nearly dropped it. It was greasy with blood and fluid. I got my grip on it, plunged it into the handcuff lock. It worked. Click. The handcuffs sprung, fell away. The suit was rolling around, gripping his groin. Blood roared through his fingers as he was howling. Agony. I bent down for my leg fetters as the door flew open. Carl and the basement dweller tried to rush in the same time. They got stuck in the doorway. It was a bit of slapstick, which would have been comical,

and had not been on the wrong end of a snuff movie. My leg fetters fell free. By now, Carl and the basement dwelling Van Helsing had stormed the room. My scalpel flew up, caught Van Helsing and the jugular. He flopped back, a great spray of arterial blood shooting from his neck. Carl grabbed me, shoved me back. We hit a wall. Framed pictures of the ocean hit the floor and shattered.

Carl throttled my neck, his knuckles digging in and sealing off my windpipe. I stabbed blindly. The scalpel went through his cheek with a sickening ease. I ripped up. I missed the blood sneezed out as I opened his face like a zipper. He grunted, howled, lost his grip on my neck. His hands went up to his face, trying to wrench free the scalpel embedded there. I planted my foot in Carl's stomach and killed.

kicked with everything I could muster. He flew back, toppling ass over tea kettle over his desk. I heard bones break. The room was a mess of screams and blood. I popped the VHS tape out of the camera and bolted for freedom. I was about to stuff it in my pocket, when my gaze caught the duffel bag I had seen the suit hand over. I ripped it open.

I was met with cash. Lots of it. Enough to run away on. Enough to start to know. I shoved in the VHS and grabbed the duffel, never looking back. I don't know if any of them survived, but I do know Video Kingdom remained open. It held its spot in the Seattle Yellow Pages until it closed. I would send for the local Yellow Pages each year,

have them mail it to my little corner of America, along with a newspaper, which I would pour over for articles about my old boss. I never saw any. Since then, my world is limited to a quiet cabin in the woods, and my weekly trips to town for essentials. Otherwise, I keep to myself, always looking over my shoulder, always carrying the guilt over those men and women I left behind,

guilt over the things I haven't done about what I've seen. You probably think I would have gone to the police. I didn't. I took the tape and ran. Had I forfeited the footage, I would have lost all leverage against the people who wanted me dead, That VHS is my bargaining chip. All I have left.

After I escaped the dungeon, I mailed an anonymous letter to Video Kingdom, telling them I'd made copies, which would be screening in every police precinct in Seattle, if I were ever harmed. This was a lie. There was only one copy of the tape, and it was hiding in my shoebox under my bed, along with the little cash I had left. I started this transcript because I've been seeing strange things lately

fresh faces in town SUVs with tinted windows I can't help but feel they're following me watching and sometimes if I stare at those tinted windows long enough I can see the eye of a video camera

on the other side I'm a few west of Amsterdam for the matches They're there two-hour faster. Doy! To see it direct, though? 16 times per day from out Brussels and in two-hour.

Now, from 19 euro in place of 25. Book you tickets on NMBS International.com. The festival season is Aangbroken and that beteked mudder. And so, ging Kim to Amazon.com.com. On search

to a water-dict tent, a comfortable luget, oh, so, knus. And Lupeartprint regalarze. Miao. Now, Right, like that's the modder man that, oh, wait just even, he's he now only mudder on?

Oh yeah, only muddur. DROG-blown? Goar for. Find what you need to have on Amazon.com. . Right, I said, raising my voice on deck to make sure I could be heard. There are four of us, me up front and three others lounging around on deck chairs. What have we got so far?

The anchor's bad, call answered, sitting upright to rubber hand over his shaved head. I'm not sure I'll be able to get it up. It's held out for 30 years and isn't coming easy. Well, we kind of need to get it up, I replied, especially if we're going to get this baby back to a dock. If we need to, he said, we can cut it, but I'm not sure we've got anything that can do the job. I'll speak to Kazim's men, I replied.

How's the rudder? Looking good, Gareth answered. The rudder is good. Anything else? We found a leak. Charlie said, crossing a boot to the sigh. Bottom deck is flooded, but we can't be sure where the water level is still. A leak's bad news, Gareth groaned.

It is, I said. Let's get down there. Charlie, Cole, you ready for a dive? Aye, aye, they cried. Already brought the suits up, Charlie added. Sounds good, I said. Let's get going. With that, Charlie and Cole left.

Out of all of us, they're the hardest chance. job, and from the keen looks in their eyes as they made the way below the deck, they took it seriously. I nodded approvingly at Gareth as he walked over. He handed me a coffee, and we began to carefully pick our way across the open deck where we stood. It looked like it had been a sunbathing area with a nearby bar. Now, all that furniture was just broken wreckage, left strewn across the floor. They're good guys, I said, they're taking all of this well. It does seem pretty good on paper, doesn't it? Gareth said.

We had been hired ahead of any other crew and sent to board the ship on our own. Our job was to have some kind of inventory ready to go the second the buyer's crew arrived. After that, we would organise and manage the repair effort based on our initial reports. It does, I said. I would say that.

Except... Nothing about this place feels good, Gareth asked. You have to wonder. don't you, looking at all this mess. I picked up an old handbag that had been lying on the floor. I know it's a sudden evacuation, but I'm not sure the captain went crazy like they say. You think it was something else?

Gareth asked, arching one eyebrow towards me. This place is creepy, but I've just been putting it down to nerves. I don't know, I shrugged and tossed the handbag to the floor. It'd help if it was a big story, you know. If there were articles and interviews with ticked off passengers, standing on some dock with dripping wet air, moaning about how the captain abandoned ship for no damn reason. I showed in the purse I'd taken from the handbag,

opening it up to reveal a faded driver's license. I'd just get a funny feeling when I look at stuff like this. I know it was 30 years ago, but you think there'd be something online, wouldn't you? The rescue effort must have been huge. You think conspiracy? I don't know, I said. This place just feels weird.

"'It's just the hebi-cheebies,' he replied, "'doing his best to make both of us feel better. "'Besides, I mean, well, we're here now.' "'True, I nodded. "'You're probably right. "'Just the hebi-jeebis.' "'Garath chuckled, and my use of, probably. "'I got to go,' he said.

"'This conversation isn't doing me any favours.' "'I waited for him to leave, "'shouting a final thanks for the coffee.' "'He waved goodbye, and I watched and turn a corner. Once he was gone, I opened the purse again and ruffled through the papers. Most of them were old receipts, but something caught my eye. A folded square of old paper towel, something taken from a dining table, perhaps.

It was wrapped around an old dinner knife. The tip snapped off and nowhere to be seen. I enrolled it and found a message written in old lipstick. The writing was desperate, the letters jagged and harsh. They hurt me, it read. What the hell is that supposed to mean? I whispered. Get up here, Gareth's voice sounded tinny and distant. I was alone, hearing it filtered through the radio at my waist.

What is it? I asked. You've... To come... Nuts, you won't... For goodness sake, I grumbled. All right, where are you? Top deck. It's... Zing...

Gareth, you still there? I cried before resigning myself to a short walk. This better be good. Only when I climbed all the way to the top deck, I found it empty. Deck chairs were stacked toward the aft and parasols, bleached white in the sun, laid torn and lifeless along the floor. Occasionally, a gust of wind would catch one of the shredded flaps, and it would struggle like a bird with the broken wing,

the sudden sound touching a nerve deep inside me. Most of this deck was taken up by a large swimming pool. The scum covered surface disturbed only by old-phone toys and deflated beach balls that floated eerily in the wind. Each one was a furry shape, engulfed in algae, pacing those choked waters like patient predators. Directly ahead was a water slide, a twisting multicolored tunnel of plastic that rose upwards for 30 feet. It looked faded and pale and was grown over with speckles of green algae. halfway up one of the sections turned transparent, offering a once tantalizing view of the sea. Something caught my eye up there, and to get a better view, I walked around the edge of the pool

until the acrylic caught the sun, and I could see right through it. There was a fuzzy, dark shape, something that if I squinted just right, looked like it could be big enough for a person. Suddenly, my radio flared up, and I caught the tail end of Gareth's voice. gotta help stuck damn the shape moved silently against the hard plastic

it looked like there could be someone stuck up there is that him i wondered gareth where are you up just up here it must be him i decided and i couldn't quite work out how to feel about that i sure as hell wanted to be angry

i had to assume it was him didn't i there was no one else it had to be and that meant I'd have to crawl up there and help him out and that I guess that's where my thoughts started to dribble away like candle wax because going up there was just about the scariest thing I could imagine doing

it wasn't just the thought of the danger it was that place even just walking around the pool stepping quietly o'rode swimsuits and dropped champagne flutes I felt as if any second something was going to lunge out and plait me down and I would disappear into that opaque, slimy water. The pool would be deathly still within seconds, and if anyone came looking, they'd never

known I'd been up there. They'd never even know what happened. Gareth, I cried as I reached the foot of the ladder. This is seriously a stupid thing you've done. I must be alone up here, I told myself, barring Gareth. I know I am, because nothing else makes sense. no one's aboard this thing except us and if I'm alone then I have to help

there are no two ways about it he could get seriously hurt in the time it takes me to find the others any feelings I have about those murky waters are irrational just like that old church I had to walk past as a kid it looks scary that was all

this place looks scary but it's dead lifeless nothing to be afraid of so I took my first step and immediately noticed the awful noise that rickety frame made. Every footfall on the ladder rattled all that metal and the plastic slides like an earthquake, and it took every ounce of courage to get up there.

I'm not often afraid of heights, but up there you felt like you were stood on a collapsing tower. Every gentle turn of the ship was magnified a thousandfold so that Eve and I started to feel a pang of sea sickness. Not thinking, I crawled towards the tunnel entrance and went in headfirst, hoping to get this all over and done with. The plastic was dry as a bone, and my hand gripped it easily, so that was something. I pour myself along at a good pace. I'm comfortably aware of how the claustrophobic tube was made for bodies much smaller than mine. How Gareth had probably thought it was a good idea to go down was beyond me, and I spent most of the waists wearing quietly under my breath.

The furious mutterings was a nice release, enough to keep me going until I reached the acrylic see-through tube. Somehow, the space before me was empty. I'd arrived at the midsection, only to find a scratched view of the cloudy sky. For a moment, I replayed it into my head. Had I seen what I thought I had? Or had he simply gotten free? But there was no way he could have gone down. With the way the slide was shaking, I would have noticed.

and he definitely didn't come my way. But the proof was before my eyes. He wasn't there. I was alone. Gareth, I cried. What the hell are you playing at? I don't know why I shouted anything. I hadn't wanted to hear a reply, not even from Gareth.

What I wanted, all was slowly expanding in my mind like a blooming star eclipsing every other thought, was to get the hell out. But something did reply. A thud, a loud and angry sound coming from the very bottom of the tunnel out of sight. And I didn't just hear it. I felt it. The tunnel shook. The vibrations passed up my hands.

Another thud and my whole body locked down with terror. Something is coming, I thought. My skin grew cold, my scalp tightened, and my heart started skiving every other beat. There were a few explosive thumps before they exploded into a galloping spring, the owner barreling of their slide with unseen fury. Something inside me finally broke. I began to backpedal in a crab walk, not even bothering to turn. Only now my hands gripped nothing. The once firm plastic would smooth and slick, and I couldn't get enough traction to pull myself upwards.

I lost all coordination and had to fight with everything I had just to keep myself in one place, my feet kicking black marks into the vinyl and my hand squeaking against the plastic I wanted the turn but I couldn't take my eyes off that bend in the tunnel well come around there I thought what stinking wet thing is speeding towards me I don't know if it was sweat

or just clumsiness but eventually what little grip I had had gave way the tunnel seemed steeper than it ever had before and gravity finally started to bear my weight downwards For long, agonizing seconds, the plastic was as slippery as ice, and I was helpless to start myself moving. My mind turned white hot with terror, and all my thoughts were burned away and replaced with a near hallucinatory state of despair.

I screamed the whole way down, only to land in that retrogreen water with a basy plunk, the soup-like water too thick to give off any splash. I broke the water in a state of total hysteria, gagging as I sucked in a sudden. lung falls of rotten mayasmer. That organic soup had been stewing for three decades, and if I had to guess, I was the first thing to break the surface for a long, long time. The result was near intoxicating,

enough to leave me on the cusp of unconsciousness. But I thought to stay lucid and pushed through that stringy mok, its hairy tingeals clinging to my wrists and ankles with an almost lifelike animation and heave myself over the pool's edge to collapse on the floor. There I lay panting, confused and desperate, only to hear something else come from the pool beside me.

The water looked undisturbed, but then again it would, wouldn't it? It was hardly even water, more like a tangle of weeds and slimy algae suspended in ooze. Something was in there, I knew it. It was an irrational thought, one of many I'd had in the last few minutes. But God, I was certain that there was something in that damned water. Another sound A loud screech The sound of a child riding a slide

I looked up And saw the waterside's mouth rimmed With a dozen pale hands Children's hands Their owners crouched out of sight in darkness I ran screaming from that deck Unable to wait any longer Unwilling to take the risk of seeing who

Or what would emerge from that water Gareth found me lowering bags under the deck of our yacht below, my clothes rancid and dripping wet. I jumped when he called my name, and he jogged over with concern on his face. We're leaving, I said, as soon as he was in hearing range, we're getting the hell out of dodge. Get Cole, get Charlie, let's go. I could see that Gareth was about to tell me something urgent, but then the state of my clothes caught his eye, and he stopped himself.

What happened? he asked. I don't know, I said. Did you radio me to get up on the top deck? No, he shook his head. Have you spoken to me at all this morning, after our meeting? No. So you didn't stay in contact with? What are you on about?

I haven't radioed you once. What the hell happened to you? Did you go for a swim? He asked, incredulously. Not voluntarily, I answered. And I didn't go alone. What is I supposed to me? This place is screwed, I said.

Something is aboard this ship, and he took a shot at. at me and I'm not about to give it a second chance. Get Charlie and Cole before they dive. Tell them we're leaving in the next 20 minutes. Gareth's face darkened. Cole hasn't surfaced, he said. They went down but never came back up and Charlie's down there, passed out. I didn't want to move her, but I don't know what's wrong. Did someone attack you up there? Do you know if they hurt Cole? I didn't have time to explain everything to Gareth, So I grabbed him and tried to give him the cliff notes As we hurried to where he'd left Charlie down below

He kept poking holes in my story along the way An old boy did that tick me off I had to guess he was trying to rationalise it But I felt like he was maybe missing the point We weren't alone And that was all I needed to set my ass sailing towards the horizon By the time we reached Charlie I think I'd certainly spook the guy a little bit

He looked shaken up But I'm not sure he believed my story word for word. Like he thought, I'd made me take in a tumble and knocked my head on the way down that slide. Not that it mattered. Something I was reminded of when we found Charlie changing out of a suit. She was in a mad rush. We need to go now, she cried, scrambling towards us with the things in hand. We can't leave, Gareth said.

We have to get cold. Nuh, Charlie shook her head. He's gone. Whatever was down there, it got him. We gotta go. You sure? I asked. Yes, she answered. I tried. Believe me, I tried, but...

But he's gone. Let's go, I said. For the love of God, let's just go. To our soul-crushing horror, when we reached the railing, we found nothing but grey water staring up at us. Perplexed, I reached out to give the rope a tug, almost as if to check the very truth of my senses.

Just a short while ago, I've been climbing that rope. and loading the yacht below. By definition, the yacht had to be wherever the rope was. They simply had to be together. So, how could there be one without the other? We stood there in a traumatized silence, until at last, Gareth spoke up.

What happened down there, Charlie? He asked. What the hell is going on? Give it up, I said, as Gareth tried the backup radio for what must have been the hundredth time that hour. We know Kazim's men will be here sooner or later. It's just stupid, he cried. It was working this morning.

All of them were. How the hell are going to be down now? We have a radio, a backup, a backup for the backup. Four different satellite... It's this place, Charlie said. Her legs pulled up to her chest as she took a long drag from a cigarette. It's got us where it wants us. What the hell does that even mean?

Gareth cried. You know exactly what I mean, she said. I told you, plain as day. Something took coal. One second he was there, the next he was not. You can't even say what it is, he replied. For all you know, he got stuck on something, and we could... He's dead, Gareth. I found his damn mask.

There could be an air pop... He's dead, Charlie said, slowly withdrawing back into herself. Her eyes glazed over. That leak we found was repaired. We weren't the first to come here and tried patching her up, and whatever got the last people before they could pump the water, is going to get us next. Charlie, I said, sitting beside her with deep concern,

it would help me a lot if we knew what we were dealing with. What else did you see? She shuddered and took a long, slow breath. People, she said, or bodies, lots and lots and lots of them. I'd say two, maybe three dozen. All of them were crew, those white little uniforms gone grey and rotten in the water. I saw a few officers down there, I think. They were just bones, so he looked almost like coral at first,

until I got closer. That was where I found Cole's mask, sticking out from old ribs and femurs, like it had always been there. But it was his all right. All those bones were piled up against one wall, like those people had been crawling towards it. Something had been drawn on it, maybe.

I don't know. It looked charred like fire had been taken to it. I couldn't look at it, long though. Seeing that mask, those bones, it just... We're not alone. I know you don't believe me, but I'm telling you we're not alone. I wasn't in that water alone. Things moved. The currents, you could feel them crawling across your skin and the shadows never stayed still. There was something down there, just out of sight. Always, just out of my damn sight. It had me going in circles into my damn air nearly run out.

If I'd kept going, kept trying to find it. and really lay my hands on it, I would have drowned down there too. You know the last thing Cole said to me before he went missing, before something snatched him right out from under my nose? He said, Who's that? Something about Charlie's story warmed its way right into my head. I could practically see that place with all those dead skeletons,

trying to claw the way towards God knows what. I could sense and feel the deathly silence hanging in the water. Damn, was just about all I could manage to say, muttering it under my breath. Well, what do we do now? Gareth asked. And that was when someone knocked on the door. Room service? The voice was Coles. Sir, I've been asked to bring you some room service on the house.

I couldn't quite believe my eyes. Cole was standing just outside the door, back straight and arms to his side. A trolley full of hidden silver dishes was beside him. He looked paler than he ever had in life, like a powdered corpse. He was shaking and a thin trickle of sweat rolled across his brow. His eyes fixated on some distant spot behind me. Cole? Charlie heard me say his name and she immediately rushed over and pushed me aside.

She saw it was him. really, truly him. But before she could get close, something stopped her. It was the same thing that it kept me frozen at the doorway. Cole didn't really look like Cole. It was him, sure, but he looked like he'd gone through the ringer, like he was watching his child's coffin get lowered into the ground.

He kept licking his lips like he was going to say something, only he didn't quite seem sure of what. Cole? What happened to you? Quite the spread, sir, he said, putting his hand on the trolley's handle. It's... It's on the house.

His words were wooden, like a recited script. For some reason, I imagined a hostage speaking into a phone with a gun against the head. That was exactly what he looked like. He was expecting something of us. I'm sure. But I couldn't say what. By now, Gareth,

was behind me. Every bit as confused as the rest of us. Cole smiled like he was about to burst into tears, and then he turned stiffly and walked away. We exchanged brief looks of confusion and immediately followed, calling and shouting for him to stop, but he only sped up. He moved quickly as well. Whenever we got close, he'd turn a corner, and by the time we made it around, he'd be down the corridor, only he never ran. He was always impossibly far ahead after every twist and turn. It was as if he was sprinting went out to sight and slowing to a leisurely walk whenever we got close. But why, I thought, what the hell is he playing at? The chase didn't last long. He soon disappeared from sight and we were left alone in just another one of the endless velvet corridors.

I tried to see where he might have gone, but it was useless to look for him. He could have been anywhere. In despondent silence, we returned to our room, only to suddenly remember the trolley he'd left behind. We lifted each lid and found plates covered in ranted mulch, the food so rotten we couldn't even tell what it had once been. Why would he want us to eat this? Gareth asked. was that even him? I'd like to take a look at the kitchen, I said.

I'd like to know where this came from. The food had been scooped at some rotten sacks around the back. Ancient vacuum-sealed packs of beef torn open and plopped onto cracked ceramic in hysterical rush. You could see where he dropped plates and old meat and had to start again. You could also see a half-dozen hyperdermic needles littered around the ground. And on one countertop was a plain old tool.

box filled with every type of sedative you could imagine. It was an old thing, the hinges rusted, but a grimy outline in one of the cupboards, close to the back, let me know it had always been a fixture of that kitchen. I couldn't help but think of that note I'd found in the old handbag. They hurt us. That household tried to drug us. Do you think he's gone nuts? Gareth asked. I think we have a job ahead of us, I answered.

I think we need to go back to our rooms and find us. figure out a supply situation. I also think we need to work out shifts for keeping a watch during the night. So you think he wants to hurt us? Gareth nodded towards the toolbox. I don't understand what happened to him. We've known him for years.

I don't think it's him we need to worry about, Charlie answered. It's whatever got to him. Something was hissing. I was sure of it. I was up late, watching over the others, and something in the room was letting a quiet whisper of white static.

Gareth and Charlie were both asleep and I was halfway through the midnight watch. At 4 a.m., Gareth would wake up and take over and I'd finally get some rest. But until then, it was just me and my thoughts and the deeply worrying sound of Cole occasionally shuffling around somewhere in the distance. And that hiss.

If only I could figure out where it was coming from, but I was reticent to start walking around in case I woke the others. God, we were tense enough as it was, without me worrying over some little thing. I tried to focus on the front door, hoping that whoever else was on this ship would leave us alone.

At least we had a fair amount of supplies. We brought enough to last the whole stay, something we had to Gareth's peculiarly anxious mind. He was always doing things like that, stashing away enough food for twice the journey and always bringing backups for backups. I quietly thanked him while I drank from a bottle of coke. I paused with a bottle to my lips,

hearing the carbonated bubbles hiss against my lips. I brought the bottle back down and screwed the cap on. The hiss diminished, but it didn't disappear. And when I shook the bottle, it rose to a shrill whistle. Carefully examining the lid, I noticed a tiny hole in the plastic. It was so small that when I tipped the bottle, nothing flowed out. But once upright, the pressure was high enough to force a tiny trickle of air back out. What the hell? I muttered, speaking aloud for the first time in a few hours.

Only my words sounded a little slurred, and my lips had felt a little weak. I thought of the needles in that kitchen of the sheer quantity of sedatives tucked away. I rushed over to the stack of bottles we had and began to pull them out, cursing as my arms and legs grew weak and sluggish. Every bottle had a tiny pinprick on the top. Guys, I whispered, my limbs so numb, had to crawl my way over to the two sleeping forms. Charlie! I reached out and shook her, but she did not wake.

She was sleeping so heavy, she barely looked alive. We'd all been eating and drinking from that stock. It was our own, so we'd assumed it was safe. But of course, Cole would have known about it. Damn, I cried, falling backwards and feeling the world started to swim around me. The last thing I heard was the sound of our door opening and Cole muttering quietly under his breath. He's hungry. Dave, wake up.

I had to fight to pour myself up. I've been left on the floor where I'd fallen, my neck and shoulders badly hurt. Slowly I realised I hadn't left the room, and I wondered if I was. if I dreamed the whole thing. Then Charlie spoke again, and the nightmare was renewed. He's gone, Dave, Charlie cried. He's gone. Gareth is gone.

I looked around and saw his sleeping bag was empty. He drugged us, I grunted, grabbing the nearby bottle and handing it to Charlie, injected something in the lid. Look. Damn, she screamed, hurling the bottle against the wall where he bounced harmlessly onto the floor. He must have come here when we went looking in the kitchen. We need to search for him, I said. The medical facility abroad the ship was small, but densely packed with chairs, tables and dozens of cabinets.

When the ship one sailed, there would have maybe been a few medics, or a single doctor aboard, to treat mild injuries or illnesses. But, should anything severe happen, most cruise ships simply turn around and dumped the injured passengers at a port to seek medical help on land. So why did this one have an operating theatre? I wondered. When I first saw that Gurney with leather straps and overhead light, I thought I simply had to be mistaken. But there was no denying it. The tanks full of nitrous and other gases.

The trolley full of rusted scalpels. Jesus, the drain on the floor to collect any blood. This wasn't your average professional operating theatre. The straps to restrain the table's occupant made that pretty clear. It was a small DIY space. with no real room to move or do anything, except get someone horizontal and begin cutting away with no thought to what came after.

The doorway had been hidden behind old filing cabinets that had since toppled over, and you got a powerful sense you were standing in a place that was meant to be secret. It had been Gareth screams that led us to that place. We never did find him, at least not there and then. But we'd chase those shrill cries for help from one end of the ship to the year.

other, until, at last, we tracked it to this tiny little space. Charlie said we must have been late, and I didn't have the guts to say anything else afterwards. That overhead light had been on when we first entered. The padlocked the door opened and lying on the floor, and, all along that table were little channels filled with blood that dripped slowly onto the floor, ready to circle the drain. Yes, I thought. We were too late. We didn't find much else to clue us in as to what happened to Gareth, but we did find

an old doctor's bag with paperwork stuffed inside. It didn't make much sense, but reading it. God, you got a horrible feeling you were reading the product of a twisted or broken mind. Passenger salts will be ready for collection between midnight and zero two hundred hours. Do not return later than 0400. Passenger sleeps with company. Show they are both early risers. Passenger Lauren will be ready for collection between midnight and zero 200 hours.

Passenger Lauren is a single occupancy cabin. Observations show she sleeps late due to nightly alcohol consumption. Effects of alcohol withdrawal may be used and mask effect of sedatives. Prepare her cabin appropriately upon a return. Passenger Jacobson will be ready for collection between 1200 and 1,400 hours. Passenger Jacobson will be staying with a child care facility. with a child care facility on deck 3. Crew member Phyllen will prepare

Passenger Jacobson for collection. Use of sedatives unnecessary given passengers' age. Reports of behavioural problems to be prepared for parents' return at 1800 hours. If parents seek to escalate, the matter may be brought to the medical department where appropriate documents and diagnosis

will be devised to diminish the impact of Passenger Jacobson's narrative. Passengers Morris, Athley and Sutton have been selected for further observation. In the event they are inappropriate for collection, passengers Wettle, Gibson and Gillette remain potential alternatives. Further notes, crew member Eileen Tousson has filed a report with the captain. She has expressed concern regarding safety of children aboard the ship, citing several mentions of The Hungry Man. This is the third report since you joined the crew four months ago.

Following complaints regarding kitchen and medical staff, report was intercepted. crew member Tucson was recommended for inappropriate conduct with passengers. This was only one of dozens and dozens, and if I had to guess, there was probably a place somewhere on this ship where we'd find hundreds more. They were not dated, but you got a twisted sense of chronology anyway. Passenger Donahy will be ready for collection between midnight and 0200 hours. Passenger Donahy will be undergoing his third collections in starting his journey

and is consequently stopped eating meals prepared by crew. Sedation is impossible. Prepare appropriately for resistance. Passenger Nguyen will be ready for collection between 1430 and 1,500 hours. Observations show that passenger Nguyen is rarely separated from their spouse. Complaints or official inquiries regarding passenger Nguyen's location are to be directed towards complicit members of the medical and officer staff only. Room service personnel are on hand to provide a third,

as yet unidentified candidate for collection between the hours of midnight and 0600. Further notes, the captain has escalated the situation. His capacity for disruption is significant. We are unable to direct the ship and return to port and collect new passengers.

He has reported damage to the hull that is not present and drawn significant attention from the Coast Guard. Corporate are working towards correcting the situation. Passenger population will return to normal in the coming weeks. I handed the last one to Charlie and waited for her to read it.

I don't like that corporate reference, I said. I don't like that hungry man thing, she replied. What was this place? I shook my head in confusion and picked up another. This one was considerably shorter. Crew member Phelan will be ready for collection at zero 600 hours. Crew should remain vigilant for collection opportunities

among remaining passengers. Some activity has been reported in the nursery on deck three. Surviving passengers have proven difficult to collect, children included. He gives as well as takes, they are changed. Further notes, given the meager offerings, deck one and two and three are off limits. It is unlikely he will be satisfied with current supplies. All remaining crew should be prepared for spontaneous collection. Do not resist him.

Corporate report that efforts to return. the ship to fully functioning are underway, but significant resources are being directed towards containing any information leaks after the recent evacuation. We must bear this period of scarcity with stoicism. Looks like not everyone got off, I said, handing it to Charlie without looking. Some of the crew stayed behind, some of the passengers too. I think this place had something of a cult going on. Only Charlie wasn't listening. She wandered over to a nearby counter, And, opening drawers at random, had found another sheet of paper. It was shaking so badly in her hand, I had to reach out and take it just to read the words.

She didn't even resist. She just kept looking at her empty hand, her eyes wide and glistening. Passenger Gareth Jones will be ready for collection between 0200 and 0400 hours. Observations show passengers will not sleep alone. Sedatives have been prepared for entire group. Crew member Cole must wait for sedatives to take effect. Further notes, passenger Cole Webb has joined the crew. This represents a significant increase to current staff levels.

Expects passenger Jones, Wallace and Mitchell to join the crew within the week. It has been lonely. We have given so much and so has he. His gifts hurt. We had barricaded our room as best as we could. only it didn't amount for much. This time it was not Cole or even Gareth, as I suspected he might, that came for us.

It was something else that did not pretend to be anything except a monster. A clicking, drooling, shuffling thing with broken bones and sagging skin that glistened in the moonlight like ranted meat. It silently pulled our door apart with heavy breaths that gurgled wetly in the dark. You could smell its hunger, its desperation. It did not groan or cry or roar. It only worked towards its prey like a determined predator, driven by nothing but a mindless animal instinct.

It was in the room within minutes. We could hear it tearing the supplies we brought apart. Suitcases were hurled against the wall and toolbags tipped upside down. Its breathing grew rapid and more strained as the thing continued to search for us. Meanwhile, we hid in the room two doors down, clutching ourselves in a pitch-black bathroom with our breaths held tight. Only once had I ventured to the door

to look at what was tearing our room apart and a single glimpse had been enough to nearly turn my mind to jelly. Whatever was out there looked human in this general outline, but that was where the resemblance ended. I couldn't help but think of what we'd read. Is this what happens after so many collections,

I wondered? Is this what will happen to Cole and Gareth if we leave them? Is this what will happen to me? I didn't want those kinds of gifts. Charlie eventually fell asleep, but I never could. I'd heard the thing wander off into the darkness, crying in rage and terror. It had wanted so badly to find us, and I knew on some level. It would never stop. Do you think it'll float? She asked. I'll swim the rest of the way if I have to, I said, giving the tiny lifeboat a kick. We'd thrown it together out of some old double doors and a few empty drums.

It was desperate, but so were we. Besides, we're betting on the radios and the EPI are BS, suddenly working out in the water, which I'm pretty sure they will. You think they can do that? she asked. Block our cause for help? I thought of what I'd seen in the slide. Of those little hands and the quiet plunk of something falling into the water, Yes.

We hauled the raft overboard and waited for it to settle. Charlie was clutching the orange duffel bag full of provisions, as if it was a child, and I couldn't blame her. Things had taken a desperate turn, and all our hopes were pinned on it. We were getting ready to climb down to it, when a loud, echoing bang shattered the silence. It sounded like a circuit breaker, like some great machine coming to life. Before we'd even turned, we found ourselves bathed in amber light, and the whole ship was lit up in a mockery of life. Go, Charlie cried, and we hurried to the rope ladder. She threw me the bag and I climbed over first, and for a brief moment, Charlie and I were face-to-face.

We'd spent the whole night cooped up in that little room, unable to sleep or relax, and we spent all day on this last ditch effort had escaped. You could see the stress and horror written across a face, She looked like a terrified child, lost and alone in the dark. And I couldn't even see what was behind her. I tried calling out, tried to warn her. But before I could get a word out, she was snatched from before me. Whatever it was had come out of the nearby window, shattering glass and steel like it was clay.

He moved so quickly, I barely registered his existence on my retina. But the slightest smear was enough to leave me paralyzed on the. the ladder. My muscle seized with unspeakable terror. The hungry man. She was gone in an instant and I was left with a choice. I looked down at the raft.

It was still there, bobbing away. It promised the chance to leave. A chance to get off that damn ship like I wanted to that very first day. Meanwhile the ship continued to whirr into monstrous life. And, looking up towards its moonlit silhouette, I glimpsed an

ancient, creaking body, crouched on the nearest roof and spider-like limbs contracted and ready to spring, waiting for me to return. It was like some shadow come to life. I took a deep breath and climbed down.

They went back. The Coast Guard went back and looked for them. I told them not to bother, only they did anyway, unwilling or unable to believe my story. I hoped that over a dozen crawling from room to room had a chance of being safe, although I suspected the ship

were not easily let go of fresh meat. Hearing myself say this to them, it was like hearing someone else talk. I spoke of curses and hauntings like a stark raven lunatic driven mad by exposure. I was surprised they even listened to me and tried to look for the others.

But not as surprised as when they found Gareth. They took me a little more seriously after that. He'd been found in a random passenger cabin sleeping under the covers. I dread the poor soul who first pulled back the duvet, only to find themselves face to face with a much-changed Gareth. In another time, the ship would have taken its pound of meat slowly and carefully,

distributing the load across several passengers each day, with a constant rotation of new ones getting on at each port. If I had to guess, what happened to Gareth was a pride of hungry lions tearing apart a zebra, something violent and insane. He died before they got 100 metres from the ship. I'm thankful for that little mercy, although it breaks my heart to know that Cole and Charlie will never know that peace. I thought about going back, about burning it to the ground,

or blowing a hole below the water line and letting it sink. Only, I can't go near the water. Not anymore. And the thought of seeing that ship rising on the horizon, I could no more return than I could fly to the moon. I simply cannot go back. Kazim acted like I'd done him a favour. He firmly believed me when I told him it was haunted,

and he offloaded it as quickly as he could to some poor dupe from Bangladesh. Only a little digging showed me it was just another shell corporation for a company he owned. I'm not sure he was as ignorant as he claimed. But then again, I'm not sure it even matters. In the end, I'm not sure it even matters. the end, I found an old passenger, a middle-aged woman who'd been there as a child. She seemed normal, or at least pretty normal. But when I made mention of the hungry man, she lost all semblance of calm and fell into a total

state of hysteria. A husband threatened me and forced me out, but I guess that it wasn't that that bothered me too much. It was the fact that her kids had started crying as well. and for the briefest of moments I felt a shadow pass over me and the room had grown a little darker and I saw something

something in the corner of my eye the kind of thing a mad person might even want to worship as a god his gifts hurt I remembered those words clearly whatever had happened to those passengers I think they took a little piece of it

back with them carrying it inside like a smuggled package back out into the real world. The festival season is aangroken and that betekent modder. And so, came Kim to Amazon.com.com. On look to a water-dict tent, a comfortable luch bed, oh, so, knus. And Lupeart print regalearze. Miao! Now, Kim, he has no worry more to make over the modder.

Just as he dancing the moddermann there. Oh, wait just even. Have he now only mudder on? Oh yeah, Only mudder. Drogue blithe? Gare for. Find what you need to knowdhap.

I had spent the last 27 hours changing planes and sitting in airports. I was exhausted and I could not wait to settle in for a shower and proper food in my hotel. I was an academic, you see, a professor of geology at the University of North Carolina,

to be precise. I was one of the best in my field and I was being dragged to across the planet like a graduate assistant forced to run errands. All of this was to help a favor for a close friend. He had given me scant information about what he was involved in, and frankly I was quite perturbed, but I agreed to come. I did not agree to be starved, however.

The whole thing started three days prior. I was in Venezuela. I had been hired by a major mining company to perform surveys to locate deposits of precious materials. The operation was a five-year contract, paying six figures each year with a bonus for major deposits found. I had lived the last 18 months in the lap of luxury, being wined and dined by executives who saw me as a ticket to potential trillions of dollars in profits. I don't mind, of course. Beluga caviar, the finest champains and wines, and exotic women in my villa were par for the course, and I enjoyed it to his fullest. I was fast asleep

amidst my silk sheets when I heard the buzz of my mobile phone. I grumbled and tossed it to the floor. It rang three more times from a blocked number before I finally answered. It took every ounce of energy to lift my head up from the pillow and grumble a salutation, even if it was weak. What?

My cotter mouth caused me to rasp the words out from parched lips. Jesus Christ, Mal. Is that you? He sound like hell. I instantly recognised the sound of my old roommate's voice. Tony, is that you? Hold on a minute, will you? I sat up, momentarily energized.

Regret followed that decision and I was forced to lay my head back down. The room continued to spin. I placed the foot on the cold hardwood floors to slow everything down. Malachi, it's good to hear your voice. How's Caracas? toasty warm with lots of quality scenery. I shot a glance over my shoulder at the woman who lay in the other side of the bed.

What was the name again? Veronica, Valerie? Chloe, that was it. No, no, it wasn't. Melachi, I need a favour. A big one. How tight down to that mining are you? I could hear the urgency in his voice.

Antonio Bellina Cortez was my best friend of 25 years. We had met as freshmen in UNC and stayed together all through graduate school. He was an archaeologist at one point for the Museum of History and Rally, but had been off on Diggs for years. I had no idea what he did anymore. I can get away for a week if I need to. What's this about? We found something in a rack mill, something big, groundbreaking, revolutionary,

but I need your help to confirm it. You're the only man I can trust for the job. If you can hold down a security clearance. the earnestness with which he said those words tugged at my heartstrings Listen, the Venezuelans don't particularly like Americans right now I'm on a tight leash I don't know if it would be the safest that we can pay you Half a million US for a consulting fee if you can make it by Friday Tony said flatly

I could hear the disappointment in his voice But did not have the strength to fight him about it I'll pack a bag See your Friday old friend That's how the phone conversation went What follows was an endless torrent of emails and non-disclosure agreements I was sure to violate the hell out of to the highest bidder if given enough to drink I was forced to fly economy smashed against the window by a soccer mom

who talked endlessly about a children in Spanish to someone else I didn't care to listen to I left my earbuds back home The headache however came along for the flight When we landed in Mexico City, I thought about a hotel room, but my layover didn't allow for it. A six-hour delay forced me to stay on the plane. We transferred to a larger plane and touched down in Germany that evening. I was picked up by two large men in military uniforms and roughly placed into an SUV.

I was driven to Remstein Air Base and shoved into a US Air Force cargo plane with little fanfare. Without a drink, my anxiety. overtook me on the flight, and I threw up several times before passing out from exhaustion. We landed the next morning in Iraq. I found breakfast to be utterly lacking in every way. A 40-minute drive, and I arrived at my hotel for the evening. A small military installation. I nearly fell from the cramped car as it parked on the concrete.

A tall, thin man with overly slick black hair approached in an off-the-rack navy suit with brown tie. A white smile showed perfectly straight teeth. His evening tanned and non-blomish skin contrasted with a white shirt under his jacket. His deep brown eyes lit up as he saw me. I tried to stand up straight, but my back and knees did not allow it. It was oppressively hot, but he did not seem phased in the least. Tony, you could have sent a car to get me. And what's the deal with the economy plane tickets?

Buh, complain, complain. at you. He looked like an old man, practically falling apart. He laid her a chuckle, I interpreted, as Snide. Don't we need to call the boo-boo bus for you? The rich lifestyle has made you a bit soft, Malachi. As Dr Malachi. So, what's the deal, Tony? You find Cortez's record collection in the jungle? Tony's smart faded. His eyes shifted left and right, then locked back of me. Not here, he said, as he handed me a thick packet in a manila envelope. Read this over, then get some rest.

I'll pick you up tomorrow after breakfast. Keep your wits about you, Malachi. You look like you drunk too much. I brushed them off and asked him to stay for dinner. After a moment, he declined and left in a silver pickup truck. I checked into my quarters and found my long-awaited shower. A nice dinner and cocktails from the bottles of vodka I smuggled in my bags pushed me towards a deep sleep.

Just a good night's rest. and I'll get my day started right. I set an alarm for 6am and poured a nightcap before laying across the bed in my suit. At 4.45am, I woke up in a cold sweat and threw up in the trash can. Tony greeted me out front. It was nine in the morning and it was already 100 degrees.

He laughed relentlessly in my condition and forced a bottle of water into my hand. Inquired about breakfast, but I told him I felt under the weather. I grabbed a muffin and decided to leave. As we walked outside, I saw he had been driven in an overly large black suburban. How does this suit you, Dr. Malachi, Andrew McMillan III? The sarcasm was practically palpable as he rattled off each syllable in a cartoonish enunciated tone.

I stared over the frames of my sunglasses at the car for a moment before I readjusted them. Fine, I said meekly and stepped into it. the open door. Tony didn't talk much. He kept his eyes glued to his tablet as he flicked through various screens. I drained the water and took a glance around the SUV's cabin. No booze here, Mal. It's a Muslim country. Only water. Oh, I think there's Pepsi in the compartment closest to you. Tony didn't even look up from his work. I cracked the can and took a long swallow before I placed a frigid aluminium against my temple. Tony shook his head slightly, but said nothing. A 90-minute car ride took us deep into the desert. The endless

pars of sand was somehow relaxing and poked me up a bit from my hangover. Yes if he ducked off the main road and onto the dirt path. Ah, we are here, Tony said as we passed over a wooden bridge near a long dead river. Welcome to Project Colmillo, Tony said, matter of vaguely. A huge archaeological dig sight sprawled before us, covering at least one square mile. The sand had been cleared down to the rock beneath to provide space for the heavy equipment scattered all around. Trailers and makeshift buildings were crammed against a never-in wall of dunes to the right of the entryway. On the left, the largest white tent I had ever seen was erected. It looked like the inflated dome of a football stadium, perhaps 300 feet across and 50 feet high. In the center and just behind the structures,

Her pit was dug. Orange dust climbed in pillars from the pit as crew worked deep in the earth. This... is not what I expected. What were you expecting exactly? Not a villa by the beach, but it's good enough for us regular folk.

Tony's sheepish smile made me angry for some reason. I took another swig of my Pepsi, but said nothing as we parked. The main doors of the office building opened, and the most beautiful woman I had ever seen walked out. Her Class A Air Force uniform was professional, but the tailored navy blue pants left little to the imagination.

The wards were plastered over the left side of the jacket. Tony and I exited the car, and he strode to meet her halfway across the concrete parking lot. She hugged Tony gently, and they exchanged the warm greeting before she turned to face me. I was utterly lost as I stared at her. A straightened hair was pulled tight into a bun to give the reddish-tinted black hair just off the collar. Are you okay, Dr. McMillan?

The woman's voice snapped me out of my trance as I realized she had spoken to me several times. What? She appeared irritated already. Not a good start. I said, welcome to hell, doctor. How is your flight? Oh, good. It was good.

You look very good. this whole thing is nice. That was the best I could muster. I think part of my soul died right there on the ground in the blazing heat. She stared at me, and I could almost hear her inner voice calling me a moron. Tony face-parned over his shoulder and rubbed his forehead. Right, I'm Major Jordan Broadhurst, US Air Force. Follow me, please, gentlemen.

She turned and walked back towards the facility, as Tony barely content. his laughter. Very smooth. Very smooth indeed, he whispered as he scanned his ID badge, and we walked inside the temporary office building. Breathing in ten minutes, gentlemen, main conference room, Dr. Cortez, make sure he doesn't get lost, the major said. I couldn't help but stare as she walked down the hallway and out of sight.

Tony led me to his spacious, well-furnished office. He situated himself at his desk and began to log in to his computer. Several items were spread over the desk. Why is the US military in a dig site? And what does the government need within archaeologist anyway? And why is the Air Force chick so fine? So many questions. The government always needs a good archaeologist.

I spent a week with the Ark of the Covenant, you know. You would be surprised what we find buried in the dark corners of the world. Even though he was smiling, he said it's so deadpan. I couldn't tell if he was joking or not. I gestured to the deformed lizard statue on the side of his desk and picked it up. A copper-tinged hexagon sat on his forehead. A dagger laid next to it, made from a reflective black stone. Probably obsidian, I thought, to myself.

The handle was ornately carved in the image of a serpent. It appeared to be made of bone. Your newest village trophies, I assume? A snake wrapped in bondage rope? Where did this come from? As I turned it over my hand, I noticed how warm it was. The heat seemed to radiate outwards from the inside. I thought I heard a brief whisper behind me, but my reflexes were so slow,

I barely registered it through my hangover. Recovered, not pillaged, and to be honest, I'm not entirely sure. Samarian, I think, some sort of winged serpent deity. Unique. I got it from a bedouin trader near the border in Iran. It gives off its own electromagnetic field, and it's slightly radioactive. He laughed as I quickly sat it back down. Relax, it's harmless.

Although it does make the computer go a bit crazy if it gets too close. It has a plate of corbite there on the head. It's in the handle of that knife too. The eyes of the snake are made of corbite chips. My heart practically jumped from my chest. We have only ever found 29 grams of the stuff in the entire planet. Corbinite is the most powerful conductor ever discovered. It's malleable, but incredibly heat-resistant.

Its properties are unprecedented. Why would someone put it on a flying snake statue? It's thousands of years old, Malachi. They probably didn't know what it was. The glyph carvings on the statue is also strange. Some of the symbols are cuneiform, but the others. No idea. I can't believe it.

Corbinite, it's amazing. I stared with newfound appreciation of the statue. You haven't said anything about you being the one who discovered Corbynite since I brought it up. Are you not feeling well today? I beamed a white smile at Tony. I didn't think it was my place to break about my discovery as to my best friend on his job site. First for you then. The statue does have some other odd properties.

Like what, Tony? Does it whisper to you in the dark? Free me, feed me, let me loose. I growled it in my best gollum voice. and laughed so hard my headache came back. Tony did not. Something like that, yes. Tony did not smile. He did not move.

It looked like he wasn't even breathing. He just stared at me. The coldness in his eyes was unnatural. The whole thing made me nervous. I saw he had been reviewing a photograph or what looked like an elephant tusk on his computer. I wanted to ask him about it. but his eyes bore into me and made me swallow my question.

Finally, he spoke again to break the tension. It's time for you to see while you're here. I opened another Pepsi as we entered the conference room. 18 chairs set around a wooden table with a large projector screen on a far wall. A laptop computer sat nearby, as well as a tablet on the table in front of each chair. I popped myself into a cushioned chair and drank it from the can and held a cup of ice against my forehead. as Tony talked to Major Broadhurst.

Occasionally she would glance over at me and frown before she returned to a heated conversation. I've already screwed this up, I thought to myself. I embarrassed my friend and he has caught all the flack. The door swung open and a dozen men and women in suits entered the room. I sat up and attempted to look professional. Tony pulled up the chair next to me

as the Major picked up the tablet. Good morning. and I hope everyone is rested and ready to go. Today is a big day for us. Dr. McMillan has flown in from Venezuela to be with us today. He's considered one of, if not the best geologist on the planet. Doctor, did you have a chance to read through your packet? I open my mouth and close it again without a word.

Her anger practically sliced through my entire body. She pursed her lips, kept her calm and redirected. Let's get Dr. McMillan caught up, shall we? Several months ago, an American satellite passed over the area searching for a Turkish cargo plane which crashed in the desert without a transponder. The satellite found a plane, but during the recovery, found something never seen before. The Air Force tasked my unit with using an advanced satellite to scan the area around the crash site. Further scans made us realize we needed to construct this facility to establish a permanent base of operations for study.

I am here as an American liaison to the Iraqi government. and technology expert. There, I saved you three hours. All caught up then. That wasn't so bad. I smiled weakly at my own joke and glanced around the room. No one smiled back. I adjusted my necktie and sunk an inch lower in my chair.

Major Broadhurst continued. Dr. McMillan, if you will take a look at your tablet, please. I turned the tablet on and opened the only file on the desktop. I nearly coughed up soda under the screen. As you can see in the images, the site is massive. The total building footprint measures 1,320 feet long and 1,660 feet wide in a rectangular pattern, and is 560 feet tall and a 100 foot tall substructure on top for a total of 660 feet tall. For those of you keeping score with your arithmetic, that's real damn big.

The anomalous object at the top is inside what appears to be a temple or shrine and is approximately 73 feet in diameter. We believe the anomaly to be made. This is carbonite, I exclaimed. I apologize, but the electromagnetic signature is distinct. This is incredible. You have found a deposit of the rarest metal in the solar system.

What's this around it? I pointed towards the geometric building, she described, and turn my tablet to face her. It was square with a large blot at its centre. That is the largest cigarette ever found, Dr. McMillan. Major Broadhurst's words hung in the air for a moment. That's impossible. How is this done?

Who could have done this? That's why you two are here, Doctor, to help us figure out why one of the oldest buildings ever constructed by mankind lost but God knows how many years did the desert is built around a meteor made of the rarest element known to the solar system. Tony leaned over to me. Told you not to drink last night, Mel. I walked down a small corridor next to Tony as I flipped through image after image.

Incredible, just incredible, I repeated. I could stare at these all day. Or all night, as it were. They were in your packet, Tony said. A crewf workers had been added for five months to remove the earth around the zig. The area is incredibly dangerous, and we've been hit by two sandstorms since the dig started. It's been a very slow process, but the construction is a marvel of engineering. When can I see it?

I felt like an eager schoolboy. The Corbynite, I mean. I don't care to play with your blocks. The applications are limitless. If this meteor is solid, it's worth tens of billions. Maybe more if we had bidders. Yep, money. Not the archaeological find.

Not the implications of a gigantic cigarette lost the time, built by an ancient civilization. It's money. I shot Tony an apologetic glance, and he softened his tone for me. He sighed and continued. We can go down there in a moment. I must grab something from my office. You need to change. That jacket will not suit you in the heat, my friend.

We have spared dig gear in the locker room just there. He pointed to the room directly across the hall. A pyramid explains why they dragged you away from your rocks in Turkey. Ziggaret, not pyramid. Two different things. Tony walked into his office and stepped inside. When I exited the room in my standard tan t-shirt, an old hand-me-down denim jeans,

Tony was not done yet. I could hear him murmur through the door to someone. Did he really leave me outside to make a call? After two minutes, he stepped back out, closed and locked his door. He wore a safari outfit and hat. He was visibly sweating. Uh, you're okay, bud.

You look like me after a bad night out. I said it as lightheartedly as I could. His turn was so sudden, I was worried. Fine, fine, just feeling a bit warm in the office. He adjusted his hat strap and we made our way out of the office and into the blistering heat of the Iraqi desert. We walked the short distance to the pit which had been dug into the sand.

Tony regained his composure a little as we approached. Major Broadhurst had changed from a uniform into a khaki button-down shirt and cargo pants with matching well-worn tan combat boots. Her sidearm was nestled against the right thigh and a dark brown leather drop holster which matched the large brown fedora bent to the brim. She beamed proudly with a fists on her hips

as she stood near the edge of the pit. Her biceps were flexed and a brown skin glistened from applied suntan lotion. The entire outfit vaguely reminded me of Indiana Jones. I was totally mesmerized. It's time for your nickel tour, boys.

Her enthusiasm was positively infectious. My hangover eased ever so slightly just from my energy. I peered over the side and found myself in awe. The cigarette a monstrous temple from the ancient world was nearly completely excavated.

The innate carvings and colossal pillars which lined the walls were so well preserved you would have thought it was built only recently. The whole thing is built directly on bedrock. That means the 500 plus feet of sand on top of it has moved over the ages, but there is little to no corrosion or degradation to the outer walls in art.

It's almost like the ziggaret was buried as soon as it was built. She showed us to a crempt, rickety elevator I resembled little more than a shark cage on a poly system. The ride was bumpy, and I said a hell merry on two separate occasions when I thought the whole thing was going to collapse. I hadn't said a hell merry since my grandmother died.

What was going on with me today? I gratefully stepped out into the limestone and surveyed the excavation site. Tents scatter the ground, and local workers moved sand by the wheelbarrow load. from exposed doorways and windows at the base. I spotted a large cooler and greedily consumed two bottles of water from it. Tony removed the large water bottle from his satchel and took a sip. The locals eyed me angrily.

I realised too late I had committed a faux par. Standing at the base, I was truly in awe of the sheer size of the thing. It was as if a shopping mall made of sandstone and granite were as tall as a skyscraper. How's your cardio, Mal? I'll be fine. Looks like a piece of cake. Just curious, how many steps is it to the top? Major Broadhurst answered, much to my chagrin.

Just under 3,000. The staircase winds around the cigarette of various platforms. It should take about 20 minutes to reach the top. I stared at her in object terror. We haven't finished excavating the ceremonial staircase yet. It won't be finished until Tuesday. Tuesday. Limber up dock. The Major patted me on the shoulder and started a climb. She quickly outpaced us both and waited at the first landing. We followed the superstructure of winding staircase

after winding staircase. It wrapped around into rooms and ante chambers. Cliffs and letters and languages I could not identify lined every square inch of the walls in each room we passed through. I was fascinated, but Tony and Major Broadhurst pushed on. nonchalantes can be about the epic tale chiseled into the walls before us. By the time we reached the top, I felt utterly exhausted. I wanted to vomit, but I didn't even have the liquid in my stomach to dry heave. Tony handed me his bottle of water, and I took a grateful sip. You should do more cardio.

Come on, your rock is just in here. Major Broadhurst turned, and I looked upward. The Gargantuan Temple towered 100 feet above the top of the ziggurat. Arches formed into 15-foot openings, six on each side, beckoning us forward into the inner sanctum. Paintings of gods and monsters towered over us from floor to ceiling inside. The entire room was illuminated by a soft, warm yellow glow. I could see a tentacle called Eldridge Terror, leveling cities and debarring people by the thousands. I saw warriors of all do battle with gigantic bird-like horrors.

A monstrous creature of the abyss, a leviathan of ungodly proportions, flattened a beautiful seaside village with impunity as one surviving unlocker surveyed the devastation from a hill. A mighty city, with vast temples and rings of aqueducts, was smashed to ruin by a tidal wave, brought on by the wrath of an angry ocean god. Each painting came with line upon line of text in some language long dead, and completely alien to me.

It was awe-inspiring. Still thinking about your shiny metal now, Malachi? Tony stepped up next to me and clasped my shoulder. This is the biggest archaeological find since King Tut. It was at this point that I realised the light towers and generators nearby were not on. The entire shrine was illuminated by something. The Corbinite.

It appeared to glow like it produced its own light from the inside. A certain burst of light momentarily blinded us all. Major Broadhurst answered my question before I asked it. It does that sometimes when enough people get in here. Not sure why. I looked at it for the first time in earnest. The gargantial ball of metallic ore sat at the centre of the room and dwarfed us all. It was roughly spherical with a smooth shell bearing only minor scratches and indentations.

Shell? Like an egg? Hmm? What was that, Mel? Tony asked as I came back to reality. Nothing, just thinking aloud, I guess. Looking back of the paintings, lining the stone walls, I saw one on the furthest wall which caught my eye.

I walked over to it and looked it over. The art was carved into the wall instead of painted. It appeared much older than the rest. It was crudely chiseled into the wall. wall instead of ornately painted. It sent shivers down my spine, which radiated through my arms and legs and waves. It depicted a nightmarish abomination of a creature, an indescribable mass of spikes and lines with a single slitted eye at its centre.

The thing was surrounded by other objects. They appeared simply as rings, stacked rings being devoured by this creature. The abomination was injured, leaking a green trail across the black backdrop of the art. It was not in a lush forest or coastal city depicted by the intricate paintings which surrounded it. The backdrop was simply black. It was a blank space muddled with the occasional dot of white or red or yellow. The creature was chased by its attackers until finally the painting finished with it bound in chains as insignificantly tiny humans looked on. Isn't it spectacular?

Tony's voice echoed deeply in the mammoth chain. What are these things here? These rings? Angels, Tony said. I stared him down. Angels? In their ancient depictions, angels weren't plump little babies with halos, Malachi. They were terrifying messengers and powerful warriors. They were often depicted as stacked concentric rings with eyes and fire and blades. I remember Sunday school, Tony.

This is old, very old. What's it doing with the Corbynite? It doesn't make any sense. This temple should predate any art of Judeo-Christian angels by three or four thousand years. A shadow moved across the carvings. Gentlemen, your attention, if you please. Major Broadhurst's voice had more than a hint of stress in it. Something was moving inside the Corbinite.

A deep rumble shook the shrine and dust rained upon us. A voice spoke to us from the... nowhere, and yet seemingly everywhere. It was slow, weak, and pained. Finally, I've been imprisoned here for so long, and you have brought my salvation. How? That's English, I stammered out.

The voice seemed to rattle inside my head over and over and over, until it became painful. I could only drop to my knees as a lost equilibrium. and the words practically banged against the side of my skull. I saw images flashed before my eyes, scenes of a beautiful, lush landscape on fire, and a mighty river dried out as it boiled into nothing. Clouds were drained hellfire upon everything below,

a mountain spewed forth volcanic ash and steam as the sun was smothered in a blanket of darkness. No, not a sun. It was an eye, a giant, lidless eye towered over the planet. Darkened clouds of ash drifted by the cat-like slit, paling in comparative size. I could hear the eyes speak like a malevolent God proclaiming its gospel. But I could not understand it all. The word salvation repeated over and over in my head.

I finally broke free of the fever dream and regained my senses. I looked up from my position on my knees and saw Tony, motionless. It was like he was not affected at all. Tony, Tony, can you hear it too? I hear it in Spanish, Tony said flatly. His voice was distorted, like he was in a daze. Major? Doesn't matter. The rock is talking. Time to go.

She appeared apprehensive, and a stand showed she was ready to move at a moment's notice. She was truly a woman of action. Meanwhile, I was practically crippled on the floor. The voice came again. It was soft and loving, but weak. You found me. After all this time, I shall forever be grateful to you. I felt like I could almost see a shape move inside the Corbinite.

Tony spoke up, far braver than I felt in that moment. Who is speaking to us? Do you have a name? What is a name, but something given by others. I once held many names I rattled off several each with a long, laborious breath before the next A lack hall

A sag, the lidless flame Samayel Reaper of Sorrows I was once the mighty The devourer of worlds A deep raspy laboured breath But now I am just

The hidden one A deep tremor shook the ground. Fascinating, Tony said as he took a step towards the stone. Excuse me, people. The rock said it's the devour of worlds. Why are you trying to talk to it? I'm leaving. Let's go. Please, don't leave me here.

It has been far too long. I regained my feet and retreated with Major Broadhurst as the tremors in the shrine intensified. Tony? Time to go, old boy. But he did not move. He stood there in a trance. He slowly walked towards the stone and reached into his satchel. Dr. Cortez, the Major shouted.

Tony turned to reveal the obsidian dagger in his right hand. In his left, he clutched the stone serpent statue from his office. He used the blade on the end to rip into his shirt. He tossed it aside. Rows of text were tattooed on his arms from shoulder to wrist. A green cat's eye took up most of his back, surrounded by rings of burning flames. He turned to face us, blood streaked from his eyes, his chest was a mountain of scar tissue, laceration upon laceration built into a macabre display of self-mutilation.

He slid his chest open with a dagger, and blood poured from the wound. What the hell, Tony? I tried to run to him, but Major Broadhurst forcibly dragged me away by my arm, away from him and towards the nearest open archway. Salvation, Tony said, as he held the statue to his spurt and chest wound. The blood poured over it and the cordonite gloat softly and steadily. He raised his arm and slammed the knife into... The shell, my God, I whispered slowly.

It is an egg. He shattered like glass and a vacuum sucked the air from the room. Each of us was dragged of our feet. A silent pause. Then an explosion sent tiny shards of carbonite in all directions. The sand and debris settled as I crawled in my hands and knees towards the body in front of me. Tony's lifeless corpse was mangled. His right arm was gone from the elbow down.

Both of his eyes were full of metallic shards. A three feet footpiece of shrapnel had penetrated his chest and skewered him. He was dead. But he was smiling. A small trickle of blood ran from between a gap where his teeth used to be under the stone floor. Major Borders stood over me and helped me to my feet. Visibility in the room was near zero. A voice boomed in the cavernous shrine.

It was so deafening, I could hear it over the ringing in my ears. Finally. I dared to glance back. An eye, the size of a car, stared at me from the distance. A grotesque bubbling biomass of fleshy tendrils expanded from the back of the green lidless eye. Each tendrils split and sprouted new ones, multiplying endlessly. When they each reached a large enough size, they slapped together in a brutal, bloody fusion to form larger tendrils. Gallons of green blood soaked to every wall and surface of the shrine.

The pink fles intertwined into one massive strand and slammed to the floor. the eyeball attached at the end like the face and a pale worm. The thing sprouted wings and claws and teeth. Each shape seemed to grow and mutate and merge with others of its kind, only to be absorbed back into the body to form some new horrible type of locomotion. The thin membrane skin split and tore open as muscle tissues sprouted and entwined themselves together to form a heavily muscled serpentine form. Cantrous tumours formed and burst in seconds, revealing bony armour plates.

A thunderous screech and two wings ruptured forth from the back and rapidly expanded. A gush of blood from under the eye as a tortured, grotesque jaw formed and extended. The body finally grew to match the size of the eye as it now resembled a form like a colossal wing serpent. Each wing scraped the roof of the 100-foot ceiling and smashed stone as it continued to stretch. The mouth opened like a hideous flower, four separate jaws, each line with dozens of stubby, blunt teeth. The orifice, which, I can only vaguely say, resembled the throat, spewed a froth that burned the stone as it splattered across the ground. The single eye sat on the bulbous pod at the top of the serpent's 30-foot skull, which had no skin left to cover it. The thing turned to face us, and, in my head, I could hear the voice speak again.

gain. Salvation has come at last. A strong grip on my left arm and I was yanked into daylight. The major dragged me down the stairs three at a time. I struggled mightily to keep up. The walls of the ziggaret shook as the ground roared in protest at the presence of an ancient evil awakened once more. The entire temple exploded in its rubble. A dust cloud cascaded down the sides the Ziggaret and enveloped us completely. She never stopped, though. Her iron grip on my arm, keeping me going. As we ran, I could hear the rush of air overhead

and the billowing of sand as mighty wings took flight. I truly have no idea how we survived the trip down. We should have been crushed by stone or suffocated by dust. Instead, we reached the barren earth at the bottom of the Zigret in relative safety. The workers had fled, and the dig site was abandoned. We rode the elevator back up in complete silence. We slowly crept above the dust cloud, trapped in the pit surrounding the ziggurat. As we broke free of it at 300 feet, the sun shone down upon the ruin. The temple was gone. Pillars was smashed and nearly

a quarter of the structure itself was damaged beyond recognition. Flex of corpnite shimmered in the sunlight on the ground, and all around the zigrate itself. The abomination was nowhere to be seen. When we reached our base camp, the entire building was in a frenzy. Major Broadhurst made several calls and hushed, horrid tones. She said something about radar tracking and space telemetry, phrases which I didn't understand. My brain couldn't even comprehend everything which had happened.

My best friend was dead, and that thing, it had been in my head. To this day, I have no idea where it is going. gone. I hope and pray it returned to whichever hellish world it came from. I can tell you, I quit my job with my company. I have not consumed a drop of alcohol in six months. I've been in the gym, four days per week. I don't play damsland distress well, and the major, or should I say Colonel now, reminds me of it every time we speak. I'm meeting her for coffee tomorrow, which is an upgrade on every relationship I've held for the last five years. But I don't sleep as much as I used to.

I still hear the voice in my head sometimes. I still see it in my dreams. I can hear the words the entities spoke to me in my vision, much clearer. It is I that sends the hordes. It is I who summons the plague. Death comes on swift wings. Salvation is here. The festival season is

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