CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 3+ Hours of CREEPY r/Nosleep Reddit Horror Stories to play in the background of League or something

Episode Date: July 7, 2022

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "We Were the Masked Kids" Creepypasta►20:51 "NEVER let your children watch The Adventures of Professor Egghead" Creepypasta►1:07:08 "Down beneath the sewers of the city I found a rollercoaster" Creepypasta►1:28:34 "Night Drive" Creepypasta►1:47:41 "REDLIGHT. GREENLIGHT." Creepypasta►2:12:43 "The Summer Solstice Ritual" Creepypasta►2:28:43 "An Experiment into the Temporary States of Rapture" Creepypasta►3:09:39 "I do academic research on the paranormal. But I took it too far" 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...CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►LLirik-13: https://www.deviantart.com/llirik-13/...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-

Oh, my young, that I'm in three days. I'm a moor as I'm more on think. Oh, that to seeer that morning off must. I'm all mooh as I'm just on tomorrow. Oh, van derail tournoe. Oh, I'm a moor as I'm not mad as I'm on think. Have you it mollick on upgown to come? Give you yourself then a boost.

With biocure maxhot liquid. Three op-puppending plants. Magnesium, Izer. An energy booster to immediately again to can't come out of. Bio-cure Macshot liquid. Foodings Supplement, I was a teenager at the turn of the millennium.

It's never easy being young and insecure, but in a low-income environment, it can easily get downright depressing. Most of us were adopted by well-meaning aunts, uncles or grandparents. Some were foster kids. Most of us were just unwanted, myself included. Things often got violent. You didn't dare to be different. Minnesotans can be cruel.

Our town had a boost when a large shipping company set up downtown. We got about 120 new full-time jobs and the town suddenly just came alive. With this windfall, the mayor decided to restore old buildings and repair failing infrastructure. One of those buildings down by the lake was completely rebuilt. New floors and reinforced roof, soundproof walls so it could be used as a practice room. for local bands. This new building was made open to the public as a youth club, and for a bunch of teenagers who'd been given nothing, this was as close to a gift as we'd get. We loved to that place. The Tom Scog Youth Club, TYC, was lovingly referred to as The Tick. It was special.

For one glorious summer, that place was our church. There was a basketball, caught outside, a ping pong table, a few computers for land gaming, and three couches set up around a coffee table. There were snacks, sodas, a little kitchen, and there was talk of a few volunteers setting up a sauna. We never really got that far. No one mess with the tick, no broken windows, no graffiti, no stealing. That place was ours, collectively, and you would be ostracized. if you messed with it.

There was this one 17-year-old who almost broke the ping-pong table and he literally got carried out. I wasn't there myself, but I heard he was beaten. But, in early September, as we returned to school, there was a barrage of floods.

We weren't allowed to go back to the tick, and things got bad, quick. We realized that all the repairs had an effect on the ground it was standing on, the new and improved floors and reinforced walls were weighing into the soil and over the course of a few days the building started sinking into the ground I remember walking home from school one day there were six of us following the path next of the lake we'd just gotten a tick and we'd already lost it we were disillusioned of course we couldn't have nice things and seeing a third of the front door sunken into the ground broke my heart.

They cut the power and the water was already gone. The tick and was dead. Things were starting to get back to normal. If anything, people were more destructive than usual. Our neighbourhood had their car broken into, and we all knew the kids who did it. There was no way for us to have anything for ourselves, so a few of us just resorted to taking whatever we wanted.

That is, until one night in late October. I got a text message from my friend, Byron. We were sneaking out at midnight. I didn't even question it. I could probably just walk out the front door without anyone asking questions anyway. I met him just a few minutes past midnight. He was the tallest kid in the class, the kind of 16-year-old that is born to be a linebacker. He dressed in all black and covered.

himself in a hood, looking a bit sketchier than usual. Come on, he said, we're going to the tick. What do you mean? You word me. Come on. We hurried down the street, gym shoes slapping against the cracked pavement. We took the path down by the lake, making sure to stay out of the light. It wasn't hard.

Only a handful of streetlights worked anyway. There were almost two dozen people standing outside the table. tick, some as in as 13, some as old as 20, teenagers and youngsters from all over town. At the very front, someone had dressed up in a black hood and a full white face mask. It had this strange, panicked expression. He looked homemade. He bent open one of the windows with a crowbar and no one tried to stop him. As the window cracked open, he turned to.

to us. He had these unblinking, intense eyes. This is ours, he said. At night, this is ours. No one will know we're here. This is no man's land. If you step into this place, you're a part of this. There are no laws here. Just us. He stepped inside. The rest of us just looked at each other. We just wanted the tick back, and we could keep a secret. That was the first night we were. broke into the tick. Most of the floor was covered in sediment and dirt. We couldn't play the ping pong table since the building was leaning.

There was no power and the computers were gone anyway. Still, the couches remained and they were in pretty good condition. The kid in the mask sat down in the back. I say kid, but it was impossible to tell his age. Someone brought a CD player. there were a few beers being passed around and a few of us had brought flashlights. It was the only light we had. We covered up the windows with garbage bags.

Using a few buckets from the broom closet, we moved most of the dirt into the adjacent room. We stayed up all night helping out without even questioning it. The kid in the mask just sat there in the back, looking at us. We had no idea who he was, but we were into it. We were taking back the tick. It was broken and battered. But God damn it.

It was ours. Little by little, we turned the place into a haven. Byron brought a kind of floodlight that we covered in red plastic, sheathing the room in a red glow. We put up posters, scrub the floors, wash the tables, and head out the couches. We set up a proper sound system, power. by a car battery, the sand-proof wall still worked to our advantage.

From the outside, it was hard to know what was going on unless you knew where to look. I remember walking into the tick after a week of repairs. Friday night. It had been hard work, but skipping a few hours of school every now and then went a long way. You really don't need that much sleep when you're that age. There were almost 30 people there. I could barely recognize half of them. Some had brought masks of their own, like the first kid.

Others were just new. It was past 1 a.m. when a fight broke out. Two of the seniors got into an argument. It was the first time the kid who started this whole thing got up from the couch, and everyone just sort of fell in line. He picked up a tray of empty glasses and walked over to them. The music stopped. We still had no idea who this kid was, and he was still just completely unopposed.

Maybe it was those intense, unblinking eyes. We all had a suspicions about his identity, but nothing had been confirmed. He threw the glasses on the floor, breaking half of them. Settle it, he said, pointing at the shards of glass. First blood. You're insane, one of them protested. No way. Then get out.

You don't get to. This is no man's land. The masquid interrupted. Law ends at the door. I'm not cutting anyone. Then you're out. It got dead quiet. The two seniors looked at one another.

The guy who protested, an ordinary Johnny nobody named Kenneth just stood there. The other guy, on the other hand, picked up a palm-sized shot of glass. The two of them looked at one another. Settle this, said the masquid. Oh, get out. I'm not cutting anyone.

The senior with a glass shard stepped over to Kenneth, put an arm around him and pricked him on the shoulder. A drop of blood. They had a nervous laugh about it. See? Look, done. We're good, right? There was a drop of blood. Just a drop.

You're in this, the masquid warned him. Laws won't protect you in here. A growing trend started that night. More and more people started hiding behind masks. They started going by nicknames, and many of them completely changed their personalities. Even if you kind of recognise their voices, it was hard to know who you were talking to. Even Byron, who I'd been friends with for years, was hard to pick out of a crowd. It became taboo talking about your mask.

it was against the law of the tick. Arguments were to be settled with either a knife fight or banishment. Most people chose neither, instead settling and pricking themselves with a blade to show their dedication. It became a sort of ritual, and some started doing it like an absurd greeting. People were bringing gifts as tribute, and the tick started getting synonymous with the masquid who first took initiative to reopen it. He was the tick. Bringing something to the tick was basically just giving it to him.

After about a month of the tick reopening under a new management, you wouldn't recognise the place. Red lights glowing the dark graffiti on the walls, more chairs, a few sofas, a mini-fridge, a few coolers. The ping-pong table had been repurposed into a sort of snack buffet. And the guests? Well, by now, everyone had a mask, myself included.

It was this bug-like full head mask thing that I'd bought from a going-out-of-business sale. It smelled like death and the eyes had a dark mesh that made me practically blind. But it was high quality for the price. But first and foremost, it was cool. Kids with cool masks had higher status. Down at the tick, I was no longer just me. I was bug. As bug, I had a goddamn blast.

I was more outgoing, more brazen. I hit on girls, I drank my first shot of vodka, and I didn't back down from a challenge. It felt good. I had an extra life without any expectations of who I was supposed to be, and I could really just let it all go for a while. I got swept up in the moment. I made out with a girl called Headache.

I danced like an idiot to rob zombie, and I brought my own tribute to the tick, a bottle of shoplifted whiskey. And the tick? That first kid with a mask? Not a word. Just those intense, unblinking eyes. School got different.

People were making their own masks, practicing writing their nickname in fancy letters. I was no different. I wrote bug like it was made of maggots. I never figured out who the headache girl was, but I suspected she might have been older than me, maybe even in the twenties. Sometimes I even see kids walking around at night

with their masks outside of the tick. Even parents started taking notice. There was this unsettling feeling that someone was doing something and people started making nervous calls. One kid in my class had a deadbolt installed on their bedroom door to prevent them from leaving. He just started climbing out the window instead, but just not coming home from school at all. I remember walking home one day, only to see a gang of four mass kids down by the lake.

It was broad daylight and they were just hanging out. One of them openly wielded a knife. Another was drinking flavored vodka straight from the bottle. As I passed by them, they blocked my path. I wasn't bug then and there. I was just me. And me, I was getting uncomfortable. I'm, uh, I'm with you, I said.

I'm from no man's land. Prove it. A girl with a crow mask handed me a knife. My adrenaline was racing as I pricked my thumb and showed it to them. They nodded in unison, chuckling to themselves. Yeah, I was one of them. I'm in it, I said, giving back the knife. We're meeting by the lake tonight, they said.

Bring tribute. I considered not going. I thought about staying home and watching a movie with my parents. I felt like Bug was dragging me along to a life I didn't want. And at the very least, it was getting dangerous. My thumbs delayed. As night rolled around, I took a long look at the bug mask. I started to hate it.

I walked downstairs, only to find my parents half asleep on the couch, having had a few glasses too many. There would be no movie tonight or any other night. I didn't even care. I put on the bug mask, walked right up to them, and took 20 bucks out of my dad's wallet. Put it back, he murmured. I didn't even respond I just walked out the door

crumpling my $20 tribute into a ball A lot of us were already out on the street There were sirens going off in the distance And I had a feeling that tick Had something to do with it We were spreading Growing bolder

Angrier By the time I got to the path circling the lake There were six of us I was pretty sure one of the them, a big guy in a boar mask was Byron. We just never talked about it. It didn't seem right.

We followed the path in silence until we heard something in the distance. Right there, down by the lake, the tick had moved outside of the soundproof walls. There was a bonfire, three masked teenagers drumming and empty paint cans. The mask kid was sitting barefoot down by the lake. At least 30 masks illuminated by the fire. Some singing, some chanting, some laughing as they twirled their sharpened blades with bleeding thumbs. I barely had time to sit down before the music stopped. We gathered by the beach as the mask it stood up to speak.

The mask looked different somehow. Karma. But those eyes were the same as always. Not a blink. Everywhere we walk is no man's land, he yelled, and every face we wear is our own. There was something strange about his voice. It had an echo to it. A life can be more than born, he continued.

It can be made, and we can make our own as we please. We yelled, we cheered. It made sense in some way. We were all just so angry. We can't keep wearing these, these fakes, he spat. We can't stay slaves to a life we never chose. We must make that choice ourselves, no matter the cost. A strange smell, the cheers stopped.

It took me a few seconds to even notice the pain. The plastic melting into my skin. The edges of the mask growing hotter and hotter by the second. I grabbed the mask, trying to rip it off. I had trouble breathing. My mouth and nose filled up with a taste of burning rubber. I tried to scream, but drawing breath was impossible.

It made me rich. Through the dark mesh in the eyes, I could see others around me tearing at their masks, screaming. Someone had torn off a big chunk of their hair. I fell to my knees, clawing at the mask. I finally managed to loosen the edge. It took strips of skin along with it, but the fresh air made it all worth it. I didn't even realize how close I'd been to choking as I ripped it off and threw it to the ground.

One guy was sitting on a log, trying to hold part of his cheek together, another was trying not to scalp themselves. A girl down by the water had a loose lip. But among all the screams, all the bleeding faces, there was one sound that pierced through it all. Laughter. There were six of them, people who were just given up and let their masks burn onto their faces. It was the strangest sight, as if the masks had fused their skin.

They could make faces, they could smile. Hell, in the right light, even their eyes and teeth look different. They looked more real, more solid. I looked down on the bug mask. He was moving, mandibles chewing, eyes blinking. It lived, down by the edge of the lake. The mask had waited. His mask was smiling, looking out at the apocalyptic bloodshed.

It took me a second to realize that it wasn't a mask anymore. That was just his face now. Someone grabbed my arm, screaming at me to get this off. A few steps away, someone was trying to cut their mask off with a knife, only to stab themselves in the face. The laughter seemed to come from all over. There had been six of them, but now I counted twelve. They were laughing at us. One young woman in a bird mask was coring, loudly, like a screeching crow.

Were those talons on her hands? As I looked into the mask kids unblinking eyes, the white face twisted into a grin. You forgot your mask, he said. His mouth are moving. Don't forget your mask, bug. I wiped the blood from my forehead and ran stepping on my mask on the way. I ran as fast as I could. I had to call for help.

I had to do something. Then I heard this awful sound, a squeal like a wounded pig. As I turned around, I saw Byron. Only it wasn't Byron anymore. more. The boar mask had fused to his head. It moved like a real boar. His hair had turned into a rough mane. He'd grown tusks and a wet snout. He was being dragged back to the lake, but he was still reaching out to me. He tried screaming at me for help, but all I heard was squealing, a scared animal, desperately trying to get away. I turned my back on him and didn't stop running until I hit the freeway.

I'm not proud of it. Bug would have stayed. Later, they said it was a party gone wrong, that we were damaged by toxic fumes and drugs. It didn't help that they found a lot of narcotics on site. A few of us were never found, so it was said they ran away from home,

Byron included. The next day was probably the first time in years that my parents actually listened to me. All it took was some police officers barging into our living room, asking uncomfortable questions. Is it weird that it felt like a comfort, seeing them worry about me? Even now, almost 20 years later, I think that's the moment where I finally decided to leave bug behind once and for all. I have no idea what happened to Byron, but that squealing still haunts me.

to see that big frame being helplessly pulled back. There was no hero glass stand, just screaming, crying and pain. No one came back to the tick after that night. I think it was demolished. Some scars literally never healed, though. The people who follow that kid, who just embrace their new faces. Well, I haven't seen or heard from them since. As far as I know, no one has.

Then again, who's looking? Who cares? I've been telling this story on and off for a few years. Not a lot of people believe me, but I still have scars along the back of my ears from the burning plastic to prove it. But the freakest thing is that this is still going on. I'm sure of it.

The same mask that the kid used to wear can be found on goddamn Amazon. Eyewitnesses describe him in detail from a nightclub fire in 2007. He was also seen several times during the clown craze of 2016. I found several people online who've seen him. If you're one of them, no, you're not alone. I don't know what this will turn out to be in the end. Just another thing in a long list of things that people. Pray invulnerable people.

But that thing did something to us. Something real. Do you recognise Professor Egghead? He's made his way onto this channel before. If you'll want to see more of his crazy adventures, click the video in the description or top comment, at your own risk. And of course, don't ever refer to him as Mr. Egghead.

Watching someone lose their mind is an indescribably painful experience. You know a person, you care enough about them to commit a good chunk of your sanity to their well-being, and then, little by little, they start to slip. What starts off as a quirk soon turns into concern. Day by day, the person you thought you knew drifts away, and all that is left is a husk reminding you of better times. More after than not, that husk is dangerous. When I was young, my father snapped.

A mental breakdown, early onset dementia, some clinical curse. We don't know what it was, but he snapped. It took him less than a month to go from slightly paranoid to nearly burning down the house. They took him to a hospital upstate and kept him heavily sedated. Sometimes my mother and sister would go visit him, but I could never bring myself to join them. Whenever I thought about the man, I could smell gas. I love my son. I only get to see him every second weekend, but I love him. I love my son, and I am in indescribable pain. It's difficult to balance life and work in my industry. This weekend was meant to be stuck on a 30-minute Zoom call that I was certain would stretch out to a couple hours.

My ex-wife refused to reschedule. She insisted the kid could only occupy himself with his iPad. When my five-hour call with Corbett was finished I came downstairs to finally spend some quality time with my son But Kenny was gone All that was left of him was the iPad on the coffee table Lads when I smelled gasoline I found him sat on the floor of the garage His little hands were filthy with viscous brown goo

He was covered in flour and the pack of mince beef I had bought for dinner Lay open by his side By his feet There was a bowl containing a strange mush of ingredients It smelled like gasoline Standing there

In that garage I couldn't help but see Kenny's ancestry My son looked just like the black and white photographs Of my father I begged him for an explanation For some inkling of reason For why he was playing with gasoline For science

That was all he managed to say That was all the explanation he could provide. When I scolded him for raiding the fridge and playing with things that children shouldn't play with, his apology was equally eloquent. Sorry, Daddy. We ate our delivery Chinese food in complete silence.

I tried to let things go, to chalk up my son's strange behaviour to him being ate rather than some arson gene that skips generations. But I couldn't. After dinner, I tucked Kenny into bed, and did my best read him some Harry Potter like I usually do when he's visiting.

Around the fourth book, The Goblet of Fire. I didn't make it past two chapters, but luckily, neither did Kenny. Once he was asleep, I went down to the garage and made sure that the two jericans I own are on the highest shelf possible.

To make up for me being busy with work on Saturday, we were meant to drive out to an amusement park on Sunday. I tried to go to bed so that I would be fresh for an early start, but there were far too many thoughts in my head to go to sleep. After tossing and turning for what felt like a decade, I made my way downstairs for a nightcap and a cigarette. As I poured myself my second drink,

I noticed my son's iPad on the coffee table. The plastic cover of the tablet was filled with colourful safari animals. The cartoon creatures looked innocent and friendly, but in the back of my mind I could see those lions and hippos killing all I could think about was my father he shared a bloodline like my kid the word arson is still burning a hole in the back of my brain but then as I picked up the expensive piece of plastic another thought occurred to me a much calmer thought

perhaps my son's unsettling behavior wasn't the result of a genetic predisposition towards arson, perhaps the kid was just copying something he saw online. The idea was a breath of fresh air. After I filled at my glass, I grabbed the iPad and checked what my son had been watching. The results of my search were clear immediately. He had been watching something unsettling. Right past the lock screen, I was taken to a website I didn't recognize. www.

Rarefilms. The red chilefront thread The whole page was filled with pixelated clip art That seemed straight from the early 2000s And the recommended videos tab had thumbnails Of what looked like snuff films It was somewhat discomforting to see that my wife Hadn't installed any parental restrictions on the iPad

But the video my son was watching Was significantly more unnerving The Adventures of Professor Egghead in search of companionship The video had the quality of a bad VHS recording of a 90s sitcom The colours were way off And the screen seemed to drift off to the side

But through the grainy image I could make out an office A woman in a pantsuit Was sitting behind a blocky computer monitor Claire Martin Adoption Services Read a small plaque on a table She was typing away

had a keyboard but her attention seemed to be anywhere but on a computer screen her eyes kept on drifting towards the camera The woman was terrified No woman will have me

So I ever sorted to adoption There's a horrible smash on the door But the woman seems to have been expecting it She just gently flinched She knew what was coming With one more deafening slam the door came down.

He lumbered into the room to a glorious applause from the studio audience. Even as the creature struggled to climb into the chair, the clapping didn't cease. The audience was going insane at the sight of the strange being. Sir, do you have an appointment? The lady behind the desk said when the crowd finally quieted down.

The quiver in a voice made it very clear that she was terrified of the being sitting in front of her. I am Professor Egghead, the greatest scientific mind ever to have existed. The creature screamed, bringing thunderous laughter out of the studio audience. I have no time for making appointments. I have no time for queues. It was not human.

That much was clear. The creature that sat before Claire Martin's desk was not human. He was shaped like an egg, but had the face. of a man. His legs impatiently dangled off the chair and his voice was filled with boundless energy but his eyes were bloodshot

and drooping. Professor Egghead looked like the manifestation of an exhausted nightmare on methamphetamines. I'm sorry Mr. Egghead but you do need to have an appointment to speak to me. If you just Claire's voice trailed off. The audience

found this very funny. I am a professor and I demand to be addressed as such. The air creature screeched. I have attended as many universities as there are grains of sand on the beach. You will address me with the honour that I've earned in the field of science.

The professor swiped his stubby arms across the desk, sending the plaque and the glass of water clattering to the floor. I demand you go to the back room and bring me the most intelligent orphan you have. His brain must be as powerful as a nuclear reactor and he must have the willpower of an ox. The egg creature was already shaking in the chair with neurotic energy.

The woman behind the desk spoke softly, as to not excite Professor Egghead further. The audience found this very funny. I'm sorry, Professor Egghead, she said. I'm happy to see you right now, but the whole adoption process will take at least up to a year. You'll have to go through an evaluation and get certified before we can even... I do not have a year. I need his child right this instant. There is research to be done, and as powerful as my mind is, I cannot do it all alone.

I demand you bring me your brightest infant so that I may raise him as my own. I'm sorry, sir, she said. I cannot help you. The egg-shaped nightmare stared at the woman for far too long. Just as I was going to skip the video forward, however, Professor Egghead started to shout again. Once again, I am left to solve my own problems, a classic scientific dilemma which no one will help me with.

But I promise you this, you bureaucratic jackal, I will no longer be alone. Through my inventive personality, I'll bring a lab assistant to this world. To another rapturous round of applause, the monstrosity dragged itself down to the floor and made for the exit to the office. as he was about to waddle through the broken door frame, however. Professor Egghead stopped. I also promise you this, you fascist paperbusher, when the day of the final experiment comes,

when all the science has run out. I will remember you, Claire Martin. I will remember you and how you have attempted to halt my research. The camera focused in on the poor woman's face. Whatever cryptic threat Professor Egghead delivered had real implications for her. Claire wept and the studio audience found that hilarious. I watched the video as I smoked out on the front porch.

By the time the lengthy crying scene came on, my cigarette was long gone. I wanted to understand what madness my son had been watching, but the strange show was starting to get the better of me. I was ready to turn off the iPad, but then the crying woman's face disappeared from the screen. Welcome to my laboratory. This is where all of my scientific data is consummated. The walking nightmare was now looking straight into the camera. Let me show you how you can create your own lab assistant to aid you in your scientific pursuits.

What Professor Egghead referred to as a laboratory was clearly just a hallway in some broken down Eastern European housing project. Graffiti covered the walls and the floors were creased in splotches, that looked like mould. In the centre of the hallway there was a plastic bucket catching water from a leaking ceiling. The horrid egg man stood in front of the bucket as if it were an altar. To create our artificial companion, we need ingredients of the highest purity. For the base of our being, we all need the finest of crushed wheat and mangled flesh.

He poured flour into the bucket and then topped it off with browning mints from a plastic bag. I now present to you, the creature sang as he reached into his lab coat. The humble egg, this holy symbol of life, will force a soul into the body we are about to create. With some effort, the creature crushed the egg in his stubby fingers. A mess of egg shell and yolk dripped down into the bucket. Professor Egghead got to mixing the ingredients, all while keeping direct eye contact with the camera. The video was beyond disturbing, but I understood why Kenny had followed the crazed scientist's instructions. As bloody as those eyes were, as insane as the instructions sounded, there was something eerily convincing behind the egg man's gaze.

But what is life without fuel, my young scientist friends? The professor screamed once the eggshells were mixed into the pink goo. Life without fuel is entropy. Anyone who could read knows that. Our little lab assistant will need sustenance if he's to commit his life to the world of research. A distalate made of plant matter from when the planet was still young. Yes, this is the fuel that would drive the scientific mind.

Make sure to preheat your oven as you sculpt your new companion into existence. For a moment, I watched the grotesque mix gasoline into the bucket. But I'd found what I was looking for. My son playing with gasoline was in some form of generational curse. Kenny was simply copying what he had seen on the iPad. I shut off the horrible video. The thought that he managed to stumble upon that weird rare films website was discomforting, but my mind kept on drifting from parental concerns to the video itself.

Something was patently wrong with the video, and it was stealing sleep away from me. That horrible egg-shaped body, those exhausted bloody eyes. As I rolled in my bed, my mind was occupied with the image of the mad professor. I didn't want to think about him. I didn't want to think about the gasoline or my father or the sanity of my son. All I wanted to do was sleep. After struggling for my thoughts for a solid hour, I reached into my bedstand and got some additional sleeping aids.

The pills knocked me out quickly, but they didn't clear my mind. I dreamt feverish dreams of science and gasoline. I was in the strange abandoned hallway. I was in my garage. I was listening to my father, empty cherry cans onto the carpet in the living room, the professor's screeching, the tears of the adoption woman, the stench of benzene. There was no escaping it. The disturbing footage I had witnessed had clung to my brain and refused to relent.

I kept on drifting in and out of consciousness. The fever and the pills were keeping me down, but whenever the egghead appeared in my dreams, my body reflexively dragged me back into reality. It was during one of these half-baked moments of awareness that he decided to go out for a cigarette. It felt like pulling in steam through a thick layer of wall. I could see the smoke coming out of my mouth, but any semblance of nicotine felt a thousand miles away. Everything felt distant. Even though the night was cold and I was standing outside in my

boxes, I couldn't register the slightest bit of shiver in my limbs. Even my thoughts felt as if they were completely detached from me. Somewhere at my core, there was a whisper telling me to go back to bed, but it felt dull and wordless. The streetlights outside lit up the neighbourhood, but the inside of my house was completely dark. I was aiming to make my way up the stairs to my bedroom. But somehow, I found myself standing in the kitchen.

In the pitch blackness, my perception of the world shifted to other senses. I could feel something squishing in my ponds. I could hear the crunching of eggshells. I could smell. Blind and panic, I struck the light switch. My first instinct

was the scream, but when I realized I had a lit cigarette between my lips, I gripped my teeth and quickly backed up. On my kitchen counter there was a bowl. Inside of that bowl there was a sculpted creature of terror. Flower, minced beef, eggs and gasoline. In my feverish state, I'd followed the instructions of Professor Egghead to a tea. The oven beneath the counter was burning red. I was about to burn down the house.

Because of the garbage that had made it onto my son's iPad, I was about to turn into a more successful version of my father. Without thinking, I grabbed the tablet and smashed it against the coffee table. Somewhere in the depths of my being, I believed that if I could destroy the iPad, I could push away what I had seen on its screen. I slammed the tablet against the table until it was nothing but a shattered screen. I would have kept going if it wasn't for the cracked iPad cover that lay on the first. floor. A shattered piece of plastic with a friendly hippo brought me out of my panicked rage. Once the terror passed, I cleaned up both of the messes. I scrubbed through every inch of the counter and wasted untold amounts of cleaning suppliers, but the whole house still smells

like gasoline. All I could smell are the memories of my father, and all I can hear is that horrible screeching voice. The sun is almost up. I don't know how I'll explain any of this to Kenny. I don't know how I can even come back from this. All I can do is give you some advice. Never let your children watch the adventures of Professor Egghead. I clamber down the rusted metal ladder, my shoes echoing around the cavern walls,

and with a grunt, I jumped down from the lowermost rung to the part of trash and scrap beneath. my flashlight passing over the steaming, humid heaps in the darkness. Yes, I'm a madman. I get my kicks exploring my city's sewer networks. It's gotten to the point now that I know the waterway system like the back of my hand. I'm not in any danger, and I'm not going to get suddenly flooded out and washed away like in the cartoons. That being said, however, I've gone a little deeper than normal this time.

I just couldn't help myself. I mean, come on, a secret door took away in the shadows of an underground alcove, way out by the far edge of the city's sewers. I just had to go down. The first time I tried, I opened the door and saw the ladder, and chickened out. The same story with attempt number two. But here I am. Third attempt, and a week later, down at the bottom of the ladder in question.

lower than I thought it was possible to go in this secretive underground cavern. Batman, you down here? I called out into the gloom and my voice warbles and echoes through the darkness bouncing off the rock walls and the cracked remains of the concrete beams. A poor attempt at a joke.

I swallow, listening as my echo reverberates further and further away. Water leaks and drips from little rivulets in the ceiling, which is to say the rocky roof of this enormous cabin. I think I can hear it streaming somewhere nearby as well. I can't see it though. I see nothing but ruin. Mountains and valleys of flood-streaked scrap metal. Of a black, tarry, sludge-like substance.

I see broken segments of pipes, old tires, all torn up and damaged. And I see other stuff too. splashes of colour here and there smashed up segments of all carnival rides a piece of a carousel a section of what might once have been a roller coaster track hell there's all kinds of mad junk down here

I snap a few pictures oh this place I murmured to no one casting the light of my beam through the darkness far away through the cavern is a heap of junk adorned with little lights flashing blinking red

and blues. In the shadows, it looks like some kind of massive, shadowy skeleton, and my curiosity bids me head on over. I climb across the piles of junk, careful to take the surest and flattest paths possible to minimize risk, crossing over girders and bridges of rusted metal panels. I passed by a series of tanks, all faded and old, and, burned by the looks of them. Not sure how a fire could break out in a place as dang as this, but they're burned all right, charred and blackened by smoke and flames. I scan the flashlight beam across the ground and half submerged in gunk. A pale, faceless corpse stares back up at me. I shout out in alarm and fright, but I laugh it off as best I can when I realize that the corpse is nothing more than a dummy,

a mannequin or whatever they're called. Jeez, I mutter into the gloom, raising the flashlight a little. The dummy is one of many. Several lie sinking in the gloop at the base of the mountain of debris. Others are buried within it. I take a few pictures, do my best to calm the beating of my heart, and I continue on along my way through the dark towards the subtly glittering mountain. Step by cautious step

Over and between the desolation I clamber up a little hill of scrap metal Coming to a sudden rapid stop As I realised that the floor doesn't go any further Instead giving way to a steep drop And a black silent lake below This lake acts as a kind of moat Preventing me from getting any closer to the mountain

With the surviving LEDs I clenched my jaw And raise the beam of my flashlight across the mountain. The LEDs glow from within a series of dark, interlocked gears and wires, monstrous metal panels, jumbled cogs and pistons, scattered broken pipes arranged almost in the shape of a massive rib cage, given a section of the mountain that skeleton-like appearance I noticed earlier, and in amongst it all, I squint. In the center of the mountain is a massive rectangle of metal, and faded blue, rusted and scratched and scarred and burned.

The hell is that, I mutter, stepping right up to the edge of the hill of scrap. There's a word emblazing across the side of this metal blue box. The letters are scoffed, but I can still just about read them. I think they say, Tommy, I whisper, and louder. Tommy, what you got for me, Tommy? I don't know what I was expecting with this question to tell the truth, but what I was not expecting was an answer. A deep, low-grown rises up from the mountain of metal before me. Cogs and gears begin to whir and the LEDs flash from red and blue to yellow,

one by one, like little fireflies in the darkness. Madison, rumbles a voice from the mountain. Cold fear stabs into me like a blade, slicing its way up my spine, and I stagger backwards in abject horror, unable to speak or scream as I crash down onto my elbows. My phone lost from my hand to the darkness. Something begins to emerge from the mountain. At first I see only its silhouette, rising up, pushing aside the scrap and the wreckage with grinding and clattering shards and pistons. The massive metal blue box, it groans and it twists around.

Tommy? I whisper, my throat dry and cracked. Madison, says the voice. Madison, is that you? The massive blue box is the machine's body. It cracks and spreads out. It raises itself unsteadily up onto a normal clanking metal legs.

Eight, spindly iron legs, like a spider. It sends out a rumble through the shadows, blinking yellow LEDs, shivering into life across its monstrous form. I may have lost my phone for now, but I still have my flashlight. I stumble for it in the dark, grab a hold,

and flick it back on in a shaking hand. The beam lands on the monster's face, a protruding circle of grey, juts out from the front of the machine. A grin has been carved and painted into what looks like hard, chipped plastic, a nose too carved into this material. But the eyes...

The eyes are gone. There are only two hollow tunnels of darkness stuffed with wires and blinking LEDs. Madison, where are you? Murmurs the machine. It's grin unmoving. It rocks from side to side, adjusting the position of one of its many legs, as the last shards and clumps of ruin and wreck tumble from its side and down the mountain.

Some of the pieces clatter all the way to the base and splash in the water below us. It looks like a train, this monster. Perhaps it was once designed with an appeal to kids in mind. Now it's nothing more than a nightmare come to life. What the hell are you? I croak out, frozen to the spot. The face of the great train wheels round to stare at me with his empty eyes. Are you, Madison?

The train asks. His voice is high-pitched and feminine, like a child's with a deep, rumbling metallic undertone. It reverberates through the gloom of the cavern, echoing away down the darkness in all directions. No, I stutter in reply. My name is Peter. Peter, warbles the voice of the great train, both high and low in its tones. Do you want to play in the train, Peter? Madison loves to play in the train.

A chill shivers across my skin. I find the nerve to rise unsteadly to my feet. Play, I repeat. The train? What happened? to you. Tommy is it? What are you? Tommy, the train creaks, lifting its face up towards the ceiling. Yes, that sounds right, I think. I am Tommy. Tommy will save. Tommy will save. Tommy, it's okay. I'm just a visitor. I'd like to explore. I shake violently, but hold my ground, trying now to avoid

any sudden movements. What happened to you? I... It's hard to remember, Peter, sighs Tommy the train. I remember being sad. I remember wanting to play. I was supposed to drive children around the tracks.

It's fun. It would be fun, they said. Tommy was going to save them. I don't remember. The make. memories are all mixed. There is a deep, resonant misery in the creature's voice. It tugs at my heart and simultaneously turns my stomach.

There was... A fire. There were flames, darkness, and then I was down here. I've been down here for a long time, Peter. A long, long time. I made the tracks for you, for the children, for maddeness. Listen, I'm not a kid anymore, Tommy, I say gently. I don't think I'd get the same fun out of the train ride that the kids would do.

I cast my eyes over the train's terrible legs. One of them twitches. Three of them move. The train inches a little higher up in the mountain, clambering just a little closer. Its body grinds and creaks and whers. Maybe I could go and... Get some kids' view?

I'll go find them. I'll leave, but I'll be right back. I inch backwards, taking a retreating step. My foot knocks into an old spring, and it tumbles down the hill behind me, landing in a pool of gunk with a sickly splash. The train twitches and judders forwards, and I suck some damp, stale air in through my teeth.

No, he says simply, then louder. No, that's what he said, what the man said. He left and never came back. Who, Tommy? I whisper. Who said that to you? You can't leave me. Ride the tracks. You have to play, Peter. You have to play. Yellow light flashes in the ruins of the train's eye sockets,

and it holds itself up to full height. In a motion of surprising and sickening speed, it leans far forwards, way out towards me. using six of its legs to anchor itself on the mountainside. There isn't even time for me to scream. Tommy reaches out one of its legs and roughly shoves the metal panels upon which I stand. They ascend tumbling out before me and down into the water, and I now knocked violently backwards,

falling, crashing down with a thud and a sharp jab of pain into some kind of rudimentary cart. Like a mine cart. I clamber up to the side and peer over the edge. There's barely even enough space for one person inside. The cart is on some kind of track. The wheels attached are all of different makes. I watch, dumbfounded, as Tommy uses his leg to clear away the debris on the tracks.

Tommy? I shout out. Wait, please. But the train does not. A circle of lights flash in the mechanisms of his cracked and broken bar. and the same circle of lights appear from the mechanisms of the cart. What? No, wait! I tried to clamber out, but I'm too late.

Tommy pulls back, retreating to the top of his mountain of junk, a black silhouette in the darkness as the cart is lurched into life. Lurched forwards down the side of the hill towards the water below. I scream out, one hand on my flashlight, the other gripped with white. knuckles to the rim of the cart. The air rushes past my face, and I shield my eyes with the flashlight as the cart hits the water, and it splashes up and out in all directions. The cart does not sink, however.

It is carried hastily and chaotically along the river on submerged tracks, heading to a dark, grim tunnel through the wreckage. No, I shout out, Tommy, wait! But the cart is going too fast. I spin around to look behind me. and I catch a final glimpse of a silhouette, a broken, twisted train on eight spindly metal legs, a dark shadow, glowing yellow from the eyes, before I am hurled around the corner, and Tommy is lost from sight. I swear and curse an alarm as the cart is violently carried around on those chaotic rails,

up and out of the water with a splash of dark spray, through the rock and the concrete to caverns unknown, whistling and whirring to the darkness, my hair blown back from my forehead. Jesus, Jesus, I mutter again and again, casting the beam of the flashlight this way and that, getting only the briefest of glances at my surroundings as we tear through them, the cart and I. There is nothing I can do now, but hold on tight and hope for the best. We passed through a room stacked high with speakers, all kinds from the 90s and 2000s. Massive, great things with wires spilled from the sides, all horns and megaphones. I duck as a leaning pole swings by overhead.

I cry out loud and alarm. The speakers and wires in here, they've been twisted and reshaped, twisted into the shapes of... Of bushes, of trees, flowers, different coloured wires for different coloured petals. A voice carried out through the darkness. A man's voice A voice I do not recognize The children love the train He says his words like the wind

Madison loves the train Allow me to help her Madison Something ethereal echoes and rumbles Through the darkness And I feel the hairs in my arms All rise in unison The cart takes us through an arch in the rock

To a room much wider And larger than the previous The voice cries out behind me. I can save her, Tommy can save her, Tommy! But the words are lost as the rails carry us upwards, upwards through the dark, and leaving the ruin and wreckage on the ground far below. I reel in fright as colourful lights dance and drift across my field of vision. The beam of the flashlight reveals they are connected to various intricate mobiles,

spinning and whirring and shulting with grinding gears and sparking cogs near the ceiling and in great shambolic towers striking upwards from below what the hell is this place i cry out screaming and gripping tight to the rim of the cart for all i'm worth as it tips over an edge and speeds down down like a roller coaster before being carried way back up my stomach lurches in dismay The children love the train, Peter, whispers a voice from the shadows. Tommy, I shout out.

Is that you? Please, please let me off. No, roars the voice. It's mechanical edge grinding with sudden fury. You have to play. And so the cart is carried onwards through the dark. Over to my left, a sudden flash of light catches my eye. I look over, squinting through the blast.

of the stale, putrid air, and a massive torn projector screen flashes into life. It depicts upon it some security footage. Seems like it comes from a camera in the corner of a room. A lab, I think. There's equipment, strange machines. There's a man in there too, talking to a couple who both seem distressed. The picture quality glitches little, then refocuses. There's a little girl in the room too, though she isn't with the others. She's looking out the window. She's watching the train chuntabai outside, filled with kids her age, all laughing. What can we do? the woman asks, bearing her face in her hands, sobbing.

Her partner reaches around her shoulder. She doesn't have much time. Is there anything we can do? Anything at all? The man across from them scratches his chin He has white hair and he stands tall There might be something he says Something temporary He is interrupted by the woman Suddenly shouting out at a daughter

As the girl is clambering up onto the window sill For a better view outside Madison she shouts Get down from there Madison I shout out Tommy are you seeing this, it's her, it's her! But Tommy does not reply.

I don't know if you can see or even hear me now. The cart is hauled around a steep corner and my view of the projector screen is lost. We pass low between hills of scrap and my eyes widened in horror

at what I see. Disturbing, half-formed, broken children. Or at least, models of children. life size, prepared with intricate precision. And yet, it's like the creator couldn't quite remember what a child actually looks like. Comprised of scrap, gears and little lights, pieces of metal, shards of plastic,

a sickly, semi-translucent wax-like substance for their skin. They stand still and silent all around. I watched them pass as the cart whizzes between them. They've all been arranged into careful positions to make it look like they're playing presumably, but many of them don't look like they're playing anymore. I pass by a pair of distorted children, where I imagine they were once both stood side by side. One of them has fallen down into the wet gunk below. The expression on the child still standing is,

is not an emotion I can understand. It's difficult. I suppose to convey expression and emotion with faces of metal and wax. Did you build these, Tommy? I murmur as the cart speeds along through the darkness. I swear I catch a glimpse of one of these accursed children turning to look at me, twitching its head ever so slightly as we go by. I flinch and fumble with the flashlight,

but by the time the beam is ready, we've rounded a corner and the child has vanished. The children love the train, whispers the voice of Tommy through the shadows. Madison loved the train. She wanted to ride. She wanted to play with the others. A shadow creaks and scuttles through the gloom overhead. I cast the beam up into the vast darkness of the cavern, but it lands on nothing but rail and ruin.

The cart passes through a tunnel in the side of the mountain of rubble. The air is thicker in here. The little lights flash. and flicker in blue. I cannot save a certain if anything is likely to hit my head, but I dock all the same. The visibility, as it is everywhere, is dangerously low. Greater lights flash and flicker into life over to my right. I turn to them and far away appears another projector screen, a massive one.

Occasionally my view of the screen is blocked by a speeding column of rubble or a pile of debris, I can, for the most part, see what it depicts. Another scene from that same lab. Wait, no. This one is different. This one is larger. There are beds, tables, cables and wires. I see the same four people as last time, though.

The man with a white hair, the couple, and the girl, Madison. Are you doing this, Tommy? I murmur, into the speeding shadows. Did you prepare these or not? Am I the first person to ever ride this rail? The rush of the wind blows through my hair, but there is otherwise no reply. On screen, Madison looks unwell.

Really, really unwell. The picture quality is poor, but her face appears sunken. Her movements are sluggish and slow. She just wants to play, the mother subs. That's all she wants to play. once? Please, why can't you make it better? One day, the white-haired man frets, pacing up and down. One day, I will, I will, that's what you said before, and the time before that, the father shouts. She doesn't have long left, it's really a case of now or never. So, what are you going to do?

She's your goddaughter, for Christ's sake. Enough, the white head man cuts through with an outstretched palm. Leave her with me. I'll be here all night. I'll think of something. I promise. Both the father and mother try to protest, but the white-haired man shouts them down. Go, he snaps. I need peace. I need to think.

And so, reluctantly, they go, with a promise to return even before sunrise on the next morning. The projector falters. For a second, the image is displayed upside down, and then it vanishes. The screen disappears into darkness. The cart is rocketed from the end of the tunnel and across a rickety bridge comprise primarily of the rail itself.

I make the mistake of peering over the edge. Beneath is a drop unlike anything I've seen so far. It goes far deeper down than I even thought possible. I see black water, I think, behind layers of mist and fumes. My heart leaps quickly up to my mouth and back as the cart goes over a bump. a violent judder passing through me. I redouble my grip on the flashlight and crouch a little lower, bringing down the center of weight.

Something massive creeps through the shadows directly above me. I shot a look upwards and see the silhouette of Tommy vanish behind an outcrop of stone. I raise the flashlight but catch only a flicker of faded blue before he is lost to the darkness. Looking ahead reveals that the dark. the rail is about to drop right down, a sudden slope, imminent. The anticipation is almost worse than the drop itself. Almost. The voice of the white-ed man plays violently through a hidden speaker.

Madison, he screams in desperation, Madison! And I grit my teeth as the vehicle tips forward, shooting downwards through the dark. The shouts are lost and we are hauled round a steep, tight corner, then another and another. We pass close to the water. I can feel its heat. The steam distorts my vision. I swear I catch sight of something,

something massive disturbing the surface, slithering through the gloom beneath. But before I can turn my head or angle the flashlight, I am sent blasting through a tunnel and into another new room. a room piled high with the corpses are children not real corpses

I quickly realize they are more of those models the fakes these are the rejects presumably the ones not even good enough by the creator's standards they are worse than the ones I saw

positioned earlier even less accurate miss shaping faces hollow eyes jaws that don't connect limbs with incorrect bends unnatural proportions, and these corpses, they number in the hundreds, all piled high, rotting away. One of them sparks, a little light flashes behind its eyes, and then it just goes

dark like all the rest. The cart is carried upwards, in shaking clumsy jumps at first, but then we are caught onto a chain of some kind, and at a dame. dangerous angle, the cart is gradually carried upwards. Slow and steady, up past the piles of broken children. It's slow enough now that I could jump out, if I wanted, I could jump out and land on the remains of these failed models. But what good would that do to me? I'd never be able to follow the rail back.

It would be impossible, and I have no idea where I am. My best bet now is the hope that the rail is lute, and that it will take me back to the beginning. I deliberate mentally if this is definitely the correct course of action. But to tell the truth, I feel safer in this ridiculous cart than I'd feel down there, amongst the bodies. Even if they're not real bodies as such, just lumps of wax and metal. It would be all too easy to get lost amongst them. to become just another misshapen wreck. So, I stay where I am as the cart travels up and up.

I look a corpse in the face as we steadily pass by it, as it sinks down below us. It looks back at me with a single painted glass eye. The other socket is empty, waxy, with shadow gears visibly behind. I turn away. The cart is carried high. and higher through the cavern, until once again we are off from the watered ground below.

It picks up speed, shooting through gap after gap in the rock. We pass through stone, through concrete, through a room stuffed with metal, and wires, through a room hooked up with unfamiliar equipment, blackened and burned. It's all a blur, really, one thing after the next. when once again the cart finally slows, I am greeted by the sight of nothing. There's nothing to see now. Even with the flashlight, I cannot see a single thing above me, below me or around me, just the rail, the cart and myself, adrift in the void.

We chunter quietly along the tracks, the mismatch wheels rumble and creak, and a flash of activity up ahead draws my gaze. Way off in the distance are two pale circles of yellow, sparking and flickering in the darkness. Small for now, but growing steadily larger as we approach. Before long, however, they are lost to sight as the enormous screen of a projector appears before them, blocking them from my view.

I hear the voice of the white-haired man before the picture appears on the screen. Gravely. It glitches out from the speakers, unseen in the dark. Do you like it, Madison? The voice asks, a dry whisper. It's a train. Images appear on the projector screen

as the cart quietly rumbles. It shows Tommy, back as he was before, I suppose. No terrible spindly legs, just wheels. The blue of his paint is shiny and proud. His grin is friendly, not demented, and he has his eyes. They are smiling.

He sits on a section of track. Flood lights clank into life on screen and more of the track, and of Tommy surroundings are revealed. There are no windows. Tommy is connected to a series of machines with wires. He is still, motionless. Not alive, just a train, a train waiting dutifully on the tracks. Do you like it, Madison?

The whited man asks to the girl he holds against his shoulder. It's a train. I build it myself. I call him Tommy. Madison murmurs weekly, and I'm unable to make out what she says. You like the train, Madison. He says, remember? Madison loves the train.

and this one is just like the one outside. He carefully places a down on a table and he heads to the side of the room washing his hands. The man is shaking, his face keeps twitching into grins that do not hold. Erratic, manic almost. Well, he continues, not exactly like the one outside. Not quite, but close, close enough. I haven't finished the track yet, but I will. We'll have plenty of time.

He dries himself, and I watch, squinting, as he takes hold of a surgical knife in one hand and a batch of curious wires in the other. He positions himself over Madison, blocking her from the camera's line of sight, and he sets to work. I grimace in horror. I designed him to be surprised him to be seen. smart, the man mumbles, mostly to himself, I should think, as he begins connecting Madison to all manner of monstrous looking machines. He isn't finished. No, none of it's finished,

but he can look after you. He can look after you until I'm ready to save you. He'll keep you safe. He'll take care of you while I fix your body. You could ride the rails while you wait. You've always loved the train. The cart hits a bump, but I scarcely notice. My attention is held with full force by the images flashing and playing on the projector screen. Madison barely moves. She twitches but says nothing. The white-ed man wipes a sheen of sweat from his forehead.

He flips some switches and sits down at a desk, typing some unseen instructions into an ancient, blocking. looking computer. He'll keep you safe, and one day I'll be able to bring you back. I promise. He mutters, over and over, I promise. He looks at the girl.

My knuckles whiten on the rim of the cart. He looks to the camera, directly at me, the viewer. I need to disconnect your nervous system now, Madison. He whispers, No, I shout. for reasons not quite known to me. Pure instinct, I suppose.

And of course, he cannot hear me. The man presses a button and the lights dim. Something flashes off screen and the lights cut out entirely. The picture is plunged into darkness. And when it returns, there is smoke and flittering sparks. A siren sounds. At first it plays only on the screen, but it becomes quickly apparent that it plays from everywhere now.

I can hear it below me, behind me, blaring, loud, angry. Fire licks at the edges of Tommy's body, at the machinery. It spreads quicker and quicker. The man tries and fails to put it out. Panels fall from the ceiling. He starts the panic and his hand is wiped through something wet and flammable. He screams and tries to put out the flames that leap from his fingers. The man whimpers and turns to medicine.

He tries to unhook her from the machines, tearing the wires out of her with reckless abandon. He tries to drag her away. But she's still connected. And the smoke fills the screen. It burns and ripples with shades of orange, of yellow and of black. All vision is, essentially lost. The man cries out in anguish.

I cannot see him, but I can hear him. And urgently he says, I'm going to leave now, his voice wavers. I'll leave, but I'll be right back. I'll be right back, I promise. The flames and the fire grow larger and larger, and the picture cuts out. The projector screen fades the black

and becomes as it was before, translucent. Directly behind it, I can see the silhouette of Tommy the train, waiting, yellow eye sockets gleaming down at me. He lied, Tommy whispers, his voice as it has always been. High-pitched, feminine. He did not come back. Tommy, I began, sweat pouring down my back. Peter, the train replies, cocked. its head. I cannot see. Where is Madison? We regard each other in cold silence, and after a long,

terrible beat, the cart drops. The rail takes a sharp, sudden downward spike, and away through the darkness I go, screaming as I'm hauled from side to side through sudden, jumping, roaring flames all around. I feel their heat against my skin. in as I plummet down the rail, as I'm carried through gap after gap in the stone, as the forces build against my being. I can hear cries and shouts and further screams, playing to me through speakers, but I could not say to whom they belong. The heat intensifies. I scrunched my eyes tight closed and huddled up in the cart, waiting, praying, until at last when I feel I can bear no more, the flames all vanish as quickly as they appeared. We lead them far behind.

The intensity of the flames replaced by the bitter mercy of the stale but cold cavern air, flowing like a healing water across my skin. The cart slows, and this is the final time that it does so. This deceleration will not be reversed. It trundles around corner after corner through an arch in the caverns. until I recognised the place where it began, from a different angle of course, but it's the same cavern as the one we started in, the one I wandered into after descending the ladder. We pass by the glittering mountain of wreckage, sparkling with LEDs of blue and of red. We pass over the dark moat that borders it and a return to the central landmass, if you will, the great island of rubble. and trash and charred slabs of machinery, upon which I first spoke to Tommy.

The cart is slow now, and since I know where I am, I haul myself over the edge, stumbling and crashing to my knees in the trash as the cart continues on along its way. I follow it with my eyes. It looks like it's going to do a wide loop, possibly passing beneath a further arch before returning to the exact place in which I fell in. I take a second to catch my breath, slow, deep inhales and exhales of air. I turned to look behind me, back at the mountain of wreckage. And right there, directly behind me and tearing above, is Tommy, distorted and humulous grin locked in place.

The air catches in my throat as Tommy steadily clambers right over the top of me, silently almost scuttling along after the cart, following the sound of its trundling on the rails. I watch him go, frozen in place, watching the blue abomination beneath the ground. Tommy or... Madison, I whisper, barely audible. The train does not hear. It simply follows the cart at a reasonable distance. I watch as it scuttles a...

up the side of the cavern wall and round a corner out of sight. And I take this chance. I don't mess around and I try to look for my phone. I just go. As quickly but as quietly as possible I go. One foot in front of the other, retracing my steps, back through the jungle of debris and away from the lights. Step, step, step. A warbled, furious cry of anguish sounds out from somewhere in the darkness. Peter, roars the train. Where did you go?

You were supposed to ride the train, Peter. Come back, come back. I break into a run. The flashlight beam reflecting chaotically off all manner of junk as I sprint to the shadows and back towards a sight of that rusted old ladder. I'm sorry,

I mutter, but there is nothing I can do for you now. The light catches on the ladder, way off in the distance. and I redouble my speed as I hear the train scuttled madly through the desolation somewhere off behind me. Peter, it screams. Please don't leave me down here in the dark. Tears streamed down my face as I reached the ladder, throwing myself up towards it.

The muscles in my arms aching as I pull myself up wrong by wrong, until I can use my legs. I hear an expulsion of steam somewhere nearby. I hear that mechanical frenzied whirring, sobbing almost, I hear rage in those gears. And I leave the hell of the cavern below me, scrambling up the ladder wrung by wrong until I return to that door in the side of the sewers. I haul it open and run the entire way back, legs burning. I don't stop running until I have left that twisted world far, far behind. But all I can see as I run,

Even once I return to the neon and rain of the city above, are the faces that were shown to me down there in the dark. I see the face of Madison, the girl who just wanted to ride the train. I see the face of the white-haired man, panicked and mad. I see the face of Tommy, smiling and hopeful, as he was when he was created. And I see what became of that face, broken and hollow. My feet splash in the light-soaked puddles, and I hear the voice in my head, playing over and over, like a chuntering on the rails. Do you want to play in the train, Peter?

Madison loves to play in the train. My partner and I have barely been sleeping these past few weeks. It happens late at night after we drift off into unconsciousness. A loud scream echoes from down the hallway. We awake. Both of us grogly decide on whose turn it is to get up and take care of our baby. Every night our baby girl would cry her little heart out to us. Sometimes it'll be a couple of times, and other moments it seems like she'd never sleep again.

One night, it was my turn to take care of her. I checked my phone to see that it was just before 1 a.m. My eyes felt puffy, my back was aching. and my head throbbed as I entered the nursery. I lifted her up from the crib. My light shushes were easily drowned out by her cries. I cradled her and lightly bounced her. My knees and shoulders began to burn after a few long minutes.

I set her down for a moment to prepare a bottle of formula for her, but she began to cry even harder. I could hear my partner from the other room asking me if things were okay. I assured them that things were just fine as I made a mess of the water and formula powder. I rushed back to the nursery and of course she wouldn't take the bottle. You sure you're okay?

My partner called out to me. I'm fine. I started to respond until I dropped the bottle onto my foot. I held back a groan and I composed myself. We're fine, just... I try to help out with a baby as much as I can, but I work as my partner takes the brunt of parental duties by staying home.

I wanted them to rest as much as possible, so I try my best to do the very least to make sure that the baby gets back to sleep. I checked my phone to see the time. 1.17 a.m. At this rate, I doubt anyone would get any rest, so I decided to pack her into a car seat and go on a quick drive in hopes that it would put her to sleep. I placed the car seat into the spot behind the driver's seat and hopped into my Ford Focus. The baby's cries had shifted to light whimpers and I was sure that I made the right choice.

I turned the engine on and pulled out to the driveway of our little home. I connected my phone to the Bluetooth of my car and played light nursery songs. I aimlessly drove around as the lights throwing from behind me. began to cease. We live just on the outside of the city. For miles there's nothing but trees, trees and more trees. I travel around these roads every day, but with barely any light aside for my car's headlights, the current path made me feel a bit uneasy. I looked at my car's clock and saw that it was 148 a.m. I've been driving for about 15 minutes or so. I hadn't heard of people. I hadn't heard of people,

from the baby in a while, so I decided it was safe to turn around and return home. It was a long stretch of road, and I had been travelling straight this whole time, so I simply slowed down to make a U-turn to go back home. I turned the steering wheel to the left, and the sound of the ties on the pavement cracked underneath me. I thought I could make it easily, but my car ended up going off the road a bit. I heard a thud followed by a loud snap. I must have hit something. I cursed under my breath.

I pressed on the brakes and shifted my car to park to see what I had hit. I got out and walked around to see that I had simply struck a few twigs. I was thankful that it was just some scraps of wood and no damage was done. I stood outside for a second. It's the beginning of summer, but the night there felt cold on my skin. The road was silent, aside the light beeping from my car, alerting me that the door was left ajar. I was surprised the baby didn't wake up with all the noise, but I let that thought slip away as I got back into the car. I pulled back, embarrassed at my poor

driving skills. Glancing back at my rearview mirror, I saw my real lights illuminated, a figure in dark red. In the reflection, I swore I saw a person right behind my car. I slammed onto the brakes and yelled, Damn! My body jerked a bit, causing me to lose visual at what was behind me. I turned around completely to see... Nothing.

Just the woods and the faint red light of my car. The baby began to stir, and sure enough, she started to cry. I pinched the bridge of my nose and rubbed my eyes. I was sure the lack of sleep was getting to me. I continued to back up and finally completed my failed U-turn, all while shushing my daughter. My heart was racing a bit. I was sure that I had seen something, rather someone behind me for a moment.

My daughter's cries began to get louder and my ears started to ring. Sh-sh, it's okay, baby, just fall back to sleep, please, I pleaded to her. Of course, this was a foolish thing to ask. I turned up the volume to the white noise I had been playing. I don't know what I was hoping for, that the sound would actually lull her to sleep or to drown out the show cries. Taking a deep breath, I continued my drive, thinking that the baby would fall back at sleep on the way. I kept going with the baby's cries seeing as infinite as the road ahead of me. Like of sleep was starting to get to me.

My eyelids felt like they were weighed down with cinder blocks. I opened my mouth wide to let out a yawn, but I heard something that caused me to choke it down. Shsh in my back seat, a light shushing could be heard. It sounded high-pitched like a child. I thought at first it was simply something pleasant. playing on my phone, until I heard a childlike humming of Rockabai Baby alongside the white noise from my car stereo, and I could clearly hear the humming coming from behind me.

I glanced in the rearview mirror, but I couldn't see anything aside from the road behind me. I thought I was hallucinating the noise, even turning off the car stereo, but the humming of the lullaby was loud and clear. I whipped my head around to look towards the backseat, afraid to take my eyes off the road, but even more afraid of what was behind me. I turned my head and locked eyes with what looked like a young boy. He looked like he was probably five years old with short black hair. And he was staring back at me with wide, milky white eyes.

He was wearing what looked like tattered red pyjamas and his skin was pale with gashes all over. I was about to let her a scream until I felt something cold grabbed my head and forcibly twist my gaze back towards the road I slammed my foot onto the brake the car screeching to a halt all I could see was the road ahead

but in the corner of my vision I could see long, thin fingers a woman's voice whispered into my ear my baby my baby give me back my baby my baby. The words sent chills down my neck and froze my spine. The fingers lifted off from my face and the child's humming stopped abruptly. I just sat there with my foot on the brake like a lead

weight. It was silent for a moment until I led out a shaky breath. I couldn't comprehend what had just happened until it finally hit me. The car was eerily quiet, so quiet despite all that had happened. I rushed out of the car and opened the door to the back seat. My heart dropped to unfathomable depths at the sight of an empty car seat.

I pulled out the baby's car seat and frantically lifted the blanket I placed with her. The car seat was empty and my daughter was gone. I went through every knuck and cranny of my car like a crazed person. I was undoubtedly

alone. I felt waves of fear and anxiety slam into my chest. I snatched my phone out of my pocket and quickly call my partner. The phone rang and rang and rang and rang until they finally picked up. The groggy voice called out, Babe, what? I cut them off and shouted into the phone. They're gone.

I don't know what happened, but they're gone. The tired tone shifted to alertness, and they are. asked, what do you mean? Who are you talking about? Where's the baby? Tears began to burst out of my eyes and I cried, I'm sorry, I don't know what happened. They took her. My partner shouted at me, what are you talking about? Before I could say another word, I heard the childlike shushing again. My partner's voice kept calling out to me, but I dropped my arm to my sides and turned towards the sound of the shushing. In front of the car, illuminated by the headlights, with a little boy, and beside him was a woman with long brunette hair.

The woman was wearing a white nightgown that was splattered with crimson. Her legs were bent in an awkward stance, and a brunette hair flowed down to her chest. Her head was turned down to something cradled in her arms. Her hair draped over it like a curtain. I heard the light whimpering of my baby in the woman's arms, and cautiously I stepped towards them. The woman was whispering something, and as I got closer, I could make out what she was saying. My baby, my baby, I finally have my baby. When I got close, the boy snapped his head towards me and opened his mouth.

Dark red began to pour out and tears streamed down his white eyes. The boy began to step towards me, blood splattering all over the road and onto his torn red pajamas. He outstreet his hands towards me and I fearfully took a step back. Please, that's my baby. She's not yours. Give her back, I pleaded. My daughter began to cry in the woman's arms. Her screams echoing all around us. I turned back towards the woman and begged for my baby back. No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

She's mine, the woman hissed. She lifted her head up to face me, and I let out a yelp to what I saw. Underneath the woman's hair was nothing. She had no face. All that was left was a concave, bloody mess. It was as if something had smashed the facing completely. But despite that, I could hear her cries loud and clear. My baby, my baby!

My daughter was crying in her arms and I felt helpless. I mustered of the courage to move forward, but the boy latched onto my leg. His grip was tight on me and I could feel a burning cold emanating from him. I felt my body crash hard onto the pavement. I weakly lifted my head up to see the woman, looking down at me. Please, she's not yours. That's my daughter, I yelled out with all of my might.

We stared at each other for a long moment, and the woman looked back towards my baby. After a few seconds, she started to walk away from me. I panicked and picked my body up to turn around. Again, I was left all alone. Where the hell are you? I could hear my partner's voice from my cell phone. I slowly lifting myself up,

and picked up my phone. I was filled with fear, confusion and regret about what had just happened. I was prepared to tell my partner that our baby was definitely gone until I heard a giggle from the back seat of my car. I rushed over to see that my daughter was safe and sound in a car seat. I'll tell you when I get back, I told my partner over the phone and quickly got the head. hell out of there.

After the long drive, I finally got home. My daughter and I back in one piece. I explained what had happened to my partner, and they tried to chalk it up to a lack of sleep or something. But after that night, I couldn't let the memory of the events fade away. On my way to work, I would go down that road, that road that I traveled up and down countless times. The memory of that infinitely dark road. The images of the blooded boy and the woman were just surreal thoughts, I suppose. I was driving to work one morning when I saw a young woman

in the 20s parked at the side of the road. I slowed down a bit to see what she was doing, and I saw that she was sitting up some pieces of wood. Something clicked in my brain and I parked my car next to hers. Hey, having some issues, I called out to her. She looked up at me with sad green eyes beneath the long brown hair. Oh, it's fine, just some ass I'll knock this down. I looked at her feet to see she was setting up a wooden cross on the side of the road. What's all this? I asked.

The woman didn't look back at me and continued setting up the wooden cross. just something for my mom and brother. She proceeded to tell me that a mom and dad had issues when she was pregnant with her. The dad had skipped out on them, so when the time came and her mom's water broke, she rushed herself to the hospital with a son in tow. They got into an accident and crashed onto the side of the road. Miraculously, the baby had survived, and here she was. The woman finished the cross and nowed a picture in the same.

center of it. She didn't say another word as she got back into a car and drove away. I stepped towards the cross to see the smiling face of a young boy with red pyjamas and his pregnant mother. They both were so excited to meet their baby girl and they wanted to be with her so badly. I sat in my car for a moment and cried. I will never forget that drive. I remember the the excitement, hurrying forward, little steps at a time, not knowing when my playground friend would turn around. The light was green, but at any moment he could turn on me and throw me out of the game. This time, I was pushed just a bit too far.

When he finally turned around yelling, red light, I was still moving from the momentum. I was done, tagged and out. But that one particular game, my mom was watching. and she was furious. Richard, she yelled. Richard, what are you doing? Playing, I responded. My mother lumbered forward and grabbed my arm,

almost lifting me off the ground. What are you doing? She repeated. I'm, we're just, you're out, Richard. He got you. The way she said it opened a pit in my stomach. I'm blinking, she was on the breaking point. Please, Richard.

please, you must take this seriously. Can you do that for me? Okay, I nodded. She held me close, ruffled my hair and kissed my forehead. As she stepped back, her smile faded. Again, she said, taking a deep breath, try to do better. For years on end, that was my spare time. While other kids played basketball or soccer, I played red-light green light. Sometimes it would start out of nowhere.

My mom would turn to me suddenly, making a scary face and yell, Red Light. If I reacted, she'd turn me to my room or take away my toys. It was as if the game never really ended. In the checkout line at the supermarket, at the movies during dinner, all the time. It was so common that it didn't even sound like words anymore. Green light and red light were just these big, barking noises that made me stand at attention.

That's why when I write red light without the spaces, it just doesn't sound like words to me. Dad participated sometimes, but he was never enthusiastic. If anything, it annoyed him. He thought it was stressful, and it always put him in this strange mood. I remember once when we were driving through Missouri,

when Mom started going, Red light, I just sat up straight, staring ahead, like a statue. I learned not to blink, not to breathe, not an inch. If there was ever a championship in this game, I would be a world-class contender. But Dad just pulled over and stopped the car. He covered his face with his hands and just cried. I'd never seen anything like it before. Please, can we just, just one day? Please honey, I beg you, he cried.

We have to be prepared, she sighed. You know that. You think it matters if it ever comes to that. We have to try. He has to try. Just not now, honey. Please. Mom leaned back in a seat with a sigh.

She looked at me through the rearview mirror and noticed I was still holding my breath. Green light, she smiled. You're going to do great, Richard. I hope this doesn't make it seem like they were bad parents. They really weren't. They were kind, caring and worked themselves to the bone so I could have the comforts I wished for. I was their only child and they did their best. The one weird thing was their obsession without one game and I just couldn't understand it.

Not a single day would go by without my mom trying to get me with a sudden red light. But as time passed, we played it less and less. As I grew into a teenager, I often refused to play along. I'd be out of the house for long periods of time, sometimes spending an entire day or two with my friends. Still, as soon as I was in the same room as my mom, I knew she'd go, red light at any moment. It wasn't even a source of tension. It was just something. And sure, I could resist and be mean, but that would just cause trouble.

In the end, it was easier to just play along for a few seconds. The light would always turn green again after all. It was just strange, and I mocked them both behind their backs. Still, it turned into a pretty neat party trick. When my bodies learned they could make me freeze up by shouting red light, it became sort of a thing. It even became my internet nickname, Red Light. so it wasn't all bad.

The year I went to college, my parents died in a car accident, a five-car pile up. My parents ended up in the middle, and there was no way for EMTs to get to them in time. I don't want to go into detail, but there was a fire. It wasn't peaceful. I dropped out of college first semester. The inheritance, along with her life insurance, was substantial. Everyone was telling me to sell the house and start over somewhere new, but I just couldn't process it. If it hadn't been for my aunt, I don't know what I would have done.

She arranged a funeral, she helped me move, and she called me every day to check in on me. She's a saint. That's how I ended up in this small Minnesota town, in the middle of nowhere. I got a cheap house and a job at the local warehouse, courtesy of my aunt's. husband. I didn't mind living in a small community. That suited me just fine. I lived there for a few years. Once things calmed down and I got into a comfortable routine, I thought about going back to my studies. I didn't mind my job at the warehouse, but I always wanted to work with electronics. I thought about taking a class at a local community college, but I was terribly shy. Still, my aunt pushed me to try it

at least once. So, I did. I went to an evening class in basic electronics. There were eight other students, and we got to try out shortening a cable. We opened it, cut the copper, and put it back together, and the teacher made sure it all worked. It was basic stuff, and we got a thorough explanation as we went along, but it felt great making something with my hands. At the end of class, I stayed a while to talk to my classmates. Jonah, an unemployed man, my own age. Paula, a young woman that wanted to apply for an apprenticeship with a local electrician.

Two men, Will and Gary, who worked at the local community theatre. I ended up in the middle of a lengthy conversation. Just small-scale stuff, smart will, adding little lights to backdrops, that kind of thing. I just need an excuse to get out of the apartment every now and then, laughed Jonah. Feels good to keep busy, you know. What about you, Richard? asked Paula. What are you hoping to get out of this?

Well, I... I hesitated. My eyes shifted from one person to the next, and there was something off about them. It took me a few heartbeats to realize they weren't moving. They were completely, absolutely. still. Not a breath, not a single blinking eye. They looked like statues. My instincts kicked in.

Red light. Richard, are you okay? I felt Paula's hand on my shoulder. I realized I'd been holding my breath. I'd no idea how long I'd zoned out. So I just shook my head and smiled. Sorry, I juggled. It's been a long. day. Anyone up for a coffee? They were, they all were. Later that night, as I got back home, my pulse was hammering. I didn't even know why, but that moment at the community college just sent a shock through me that just wouldn't lie down. I hadn't thought about that game for a long time, and I hadn't played it for years. Still, it was such a primitive, instinctive reaction.

As I laid down to sleep, I could audibly count my heartbeats. I could see them in my fingers as they curled slightly with every thump. I slept on top of the covers that night. It was the only way to keep cool. The next time I went to class, I was on edge. I couldn't help but feel that I'd get that strange sensation again, that feeling of the world stopping around me. This time we were dismantling an old TV.

It was a group effort, and we all got an individual assignment. We were to individually identify certain parts. Then, as a group, using the manual, we were to roughly describe the way electricity moved through the device. Gary was in the middle of presenting our work to the teacher, when I got this sudden sour feeling in my throat. Like the aftertaste of a bad drink. As Gary was explaining the HV connector, He suddenly froze. Red light.

My classmates were quiet and frozen like statues, and I could see the classroom clock hold still. But just outside in the hall, there were clear footsteps. They were uneven. One foot stepping, another foot dragging. I could hear the footsteps clear as day. But there was something else. It was a small, frosted glass window in the classroom. room door. I could see something moving in the corner of my eye. I tried not to move, not even to look,

but curiosity was getting the better of me. Still, staring straight ahead, I was aware of the movement at the edge of my vision. There was a distinct crinkling noise like someone clutching a paper bag. The door opened slightly. Please, someone. There has to be someone. The voice was my. The voice was It was strange and hollow, with drawn out vocals. You have to wake me, wake me, please. The door opened wide, just outside my field of vision. But I held my ground. I didn't move.

Red light. Suddenly, Gary was talking. It won't work until you reconnect it, he said, pointing at the flyback transformer. And it wasn't connected when we opened it. so someone's been tampering with it. Well, it looks like we have a proper repairman, our teacher laughed. Well done, everyone.

Messing with a heat sink too, nodded Will. Do we get extra credit for that? I'd just straighten my back and stared at the door. It was slightly ajar. Had it always been like that? I was beginning to feel like I was having some sort of episode. It was such an absurd sensation. I got this sour.

a feeling in my stomach, and it just wouldn't go away. My pulse kept pounding for hours afterwards. Again, I could barely get any sleep. If anything, it was starting to affect my day job. I was drowsy and inattentive, and I continuously skipped lunch for a nap. Once, as I was getting back to work after a lunch break, I got that awful feeling again. The lunchroom clock had stopped, and I immediately dropped everything. I was doing. It took me a few seconds to remember that the lunchroom clock hadn't worked for weeks and that everyone was just too lazy to change the batteries. I was both relieved and deeply troubled. I was considering skipping the classes altogether. I didn't want to feel that way again,

and it didn't seem to happen anywhere else. But I couldn't let this stop me. Not only did I need to know more, but I also refused to let this madness get the best of me. The third time I went to class, I was a few minutes early. I found myself chatting with Jonah, Paula, Will and Gary again. Paula was unusually quiet, and I noticed dark rings under her eyes. She seemed exhausted, almost nodding off as we sat down to talk. I could hear the classroom clock tick away. It was a calming noise.

You're okay, Paula. I asked, late night. No, I'm fine. It's just... She sighed, and as she was about to answer, I heard the clock, stop. Red light. This time, the footsteps were coming straight for us,

one foot stomping, one foot dragging. As the classroom door slammed open, my eyes were kept perfectly still. I stared into Paul's eyes, try not to think about blinking. Something was inside the room, agitated. Please, they have to be here. They have to wake me, I heard.

The voice was Clara, a woman pleading. Then, Paula blinked. Everyone else was just frozen, but Paula blinked. She was doing the same thing as I was. She was going red light There, I heard There, she's there Wake me, wake me

Paula was panicking She slightly turned her head to the right Like a gazelle ready to burst into a sprint I heard a paper bag Hit the floor As something big lumbered into view Over the course of a heartbeat Something picked up Paula by the neck

Then carried her off in one quick swoop I could hear her struggling to breathe, hands hitting something dry with mixed no force. Yes, take her, the voice continued from the paper bag. Let me wake up, please. I just kept looking ahead, my eyes tearing up. Paula was screaming and a scream was changing. It was as if something was pulling on a neck, as I heard a panic scream shift up and down in pitch.

I've never heard a scream like that. It wasn't human. It was a wounded animal desperate to live. I heard breaking bones and snapping sinew. Pola was silent. There was a thump that something was dropped into a paper bag. A splatter of liquid hitting the floor. Yes, yes, finally.

And then the clock ticked. There was no paula. at the table, no blood on the floor, no paper bags. I asked about her, but no one seemed to know what I was talking about. Paula? What Paula? Enough was enough. I almost stumbled over a chair as I sprinted out.

I couldn't take it. I ran along the hallway, out the back door, through the patch of blue sunflowers raised by the garden club. I knocked her a few bicycles as I jumped the fence to reach my car. I fumbled with my keys, got into the driver's seat, and was out on the road before I even put on my seatbelt. I'd had enough. I wasn't taking any chances. I was leaving this whole goddamn town behind. I took the main street, then a shortcut down by Frog Lake.

I went through the tunnel, out by the lumber mills. I slid out onto the freeway without slowing down. I'd broken a dozen traffic rules already, and I didn't care. The radio was playing the car. the latest pop star sensation, telling me to be myself. But at that moment, I'd have asked whatever God may be to make me someone else. This had to be it. This had to be why Mom taught me to go red light.

Something in me, in us, allowed us to see and be seen by something we shouldn't. Something made us aware. We were being taught how to hide. Suddenly the radio stopped. There on the freeway I went still. Red light. The car was standing still. The engine was silent.

I could see rays of light shining down from the streetlights. My instincts kicked in, and I just stared ahead. There was something in the passenger seat, something with a paper bag resting in its lap. I could hear Paula's voice, muffled. I think he sees. He can. He can wake me from this, this nightmare.

It isn't real. It didn't happen. I'm okay. A finger snapped next to my ear. Mom had done it a million times, so I didn't flinch. Instead, I just sat there, sticking to what I'd learned. My lungs ached. Please, just take him.

Just in case. Then I'll wake up. This'll be over. There was a rustling noise. I heard shaking from side to side, a stiff neck creaking. Please, someone must wake me. Someone must surely. My passenger leaned in next to my ear, keeping the paper bag in their lap, they spoke.

A strange, dark voice spoken from dry lips. Hello. My chest ached. my eyes watered, but I stayed still, and I kept imagining that red light in my head. In those painful heartbeats, I could imagine my mother turning back around with a smile as a light turned green. It would happen if I just kept still. It would happen. I'd be fine. Suddenly, the radio came back on. The engine was roaring and I was going 75 miles per hour. I was losing control, sliding back and forth.

I took my foot off the gas, kept heading straight and gradually slowed down. After a few seconds, I was standing still by the side of the road dry heaving. That could have gone bad. Real bad. Five car pile up bad. Needless to say, I've since moved out of town. I think whatever is hunting there is looking for people. like me, those who are aware, those who can see.

I think I get it. I'm still trying to put all the pieces together, but I'm starting to get a picture. I don't get what happened to Paula. It's like she never existed. No online presence, no car, no apartment, nothing. She's just gone. How the hell does the world just forget about someone? Look, all I'm saying is, if you've been taught this game with the same intensity as I have,

maybe it's for a reason. Just be ready in case you're aware. Remember it like it was yesterday. My mother, standing in the hallway, holding the Christmas present I'd wrapped for my classmate, Stella. I was eight years old. Mom's hand trembled. Is this a house of the cross? She asked, clenching her teeth.

Do you love Christ? No, Mom, I just... You want to celebrate its birth. Mom, it's just for... She opened the front door and threw the present out on the driveway. I wasn't thinking straight, so I just ran outside to get it, still in my pajamas. Burn it, she said, dropping the lighter and the welcome mat. Then she shut the door behind me.

"'Mom?' I called out. "'It's cold, Mom.' "'Maked feet in two inches of snow, the shiny red wrapping paper crinkled between my fingers. I kept banging on the door, trying to explain myself. "'Mom, please!' I must have stood there for fifteen minutes. Then I lit the gift on fire.

It was just this stupid pony figure I'd gotten from a happy meal, but I knew that Stella would have loved it. She collected them, and she didn't have the purple one. It wasn't even about Christmas. I just wanted to give her something without making it weird. When all the red wrapping paper had turned to call, Mom opened the door. She stared me down.

I tried to physically hold my mouth still to keep my teeth from chattering. Is this a house of God? She asked. No, Mom. Who owns this house? The old blood Who owns this family The old blood

Who owns you I looked up at her She looked almost apologetic Holding a garbage bag In her left hand She held it out to me And had dropped the ruin gift in it The old blood does mom

As it should She nodded Clean your hands Then eat your breakfast My family is of the old blood Just as there were pilgrims from England throwing themselves overseas to avoid persecution from the English church, there were Scandinavian migrants fleeing something similar. Some who mostly settled in New Hampshire were those of the Old Blood.

Not too far from Pittsburgh, if you know the roads. Long before the church burned witches on the hills of New Orleans, and long before the Vikings hung disembowed thralls from our birds' trees, there was the Old Blood, my dad used to say, and the spirits that govern the true laws of the world still await their due. It wasn't easy being a kid of that household. Outside the house, I was allowed to do whatever to blend in. But at home, we were a strictly pagan family.

I could go caroling, I could go to church, I could listen to sermons, whatever I wanted, as long as I didn't bring any of it home. Home, where the old blood rested, was sacred. We had our customs of course On World Burger's Night We would light 12 candles One for each month And eat a special kind of jam made of nettles

Instead of celebrating Christmas We would perform a year walk To protect ourselves from the influence of false prophets For another year We still had a tree though But we didn't decorate it It was meant as protection Trees were of the old world

and bringing one into your home meant it couldn't be tainted by the false faith. But the biggest celebration of all, by far, was the summer solstice, the midsummer celebration. The day of the midnight sun. Dad would prepare a small table out of a fir tree and mother would slaughter a chicken on it. She'd stuffed the chicken with fur needles and spices and then burn it along with the table in the backyard. until the embers faded, and we'd sit there singing songs and sharing bread. It was a way to offer not only sustenance, but also labour and love. As you might imagine, it wasn't easy to live by these customs and rules.

If anyone asked us, we were Christian, but mum taught me that it was okay to lie to protect ourselves. The spirits didn't listen to words after all. They listened to our intentions. Still, I was terrified of someone finding out, someone asking questions that I couldn't answer. I had this gnawing feeling that people could just sense that something was off about me, like it somehow showed on my face. But I was no different from the other kids. I wore my graduation cap and shot rockets on the 4th of July.

To those on the outside, I was just this ordinary kid who preferred not to bring any friends home. I would have been happy living that way for the rest of my life, but fate had other plans. The year I was scheduled to go to college, I sat down with my mom. I told her I'd met this girl, Lily. I told her how amazing Lily was, her kindness, a bright smile, a nonsensical devotion to edible cupcake decorations. Lily and I had started to plan a life together. I wanted my mom to be happy about it. Of course, she wasn't.

Yeah, Lily considered herself a Christian. She wore a golden cross. She sang in the church choir. She saw it more as a part of a cultural heritage, rather than a religious devotion. Trying to explain this to my mother, however, was useless. She was furious. You would defile yourself on this woman of the cross?

she spat. That pretty much ended the conversation. Ritting myself of that part of my life, Lily and I moved to Minnesota. I never told my parents where I went, so they couldn't follow me. It was a real possibility that they tried to get me back, or even harm Lily.

Seeing how my mother reacted, I wouldn't put it past her. Since I couldn't afford college without the support of my family, I found a job at a job at a local warehouse. Lily would study for years on end, ending up with a masters in aerospace engineering.

Pretty advanced stuff. It wasn't until a few years ago that we decided to finally tie the knot officially. I asked Lily to marry me, and she agreed. I asked her in the most appropriate way I could imagine through cupcakes.

She still had a soft spot for them. This opened her can of worms, though. Lily was insistent that I should ask my parents to be there for the ceremony, and I couldn't explain to her why that wasn't possible. My mom and dad, in a church, seeing their only son being married to this woman. I couldn't imagine it. Instead, I pleaded with her to just... Not. We do well with her side of the family.

That'd be enough. For months, I thought the matter was settled. As summer came, Lily brought me along for a shopping trip to Minneapolis. She insisted on driving, and I must have fallen asleep somewhere along the main road. When I woke up, we were in the middle of nowhere. Just this big field with a couple of houses, a large clearing surrounded by fir trees and covered in high grass. It looked like an overgrown farm, possibly colonial. I had a bad feeling about this.

This was pretty damn far from Minneapolis. Lily was confident, though. She pulled me along with a smile. Quite the surprise, huh? She smiled. Here we are. It's something all right. What is it?

Don't you recognise it? Her smile faded. I tried to reassure her, but I just couldn't see it. I'd never been there before. Your mum said you used to spend your son. summer's here, she sighed, did I get it wrong? Apparently, Lily had looked at my parents and talked to them on her own. She wanted to mend the wounds and reunite us as a surprise. For some reason, my mom had lied to her and tricked us into the middle of nowhere.

Standing there, halfway between the house and the car, I got this chill of my spine. Tonight was the summer solstice. You don't understand, I said. They're, they're dangerous people. They're abusive. They, they... Honey, slow down. Are you saying you don't know this place?

I'm saying I've never been here, and that... That they took us out here for a reason. Lily started to look nervous. I took her by the hand and hurried back to the car. I got in the driver's seat and started backing out. We didn't get far before the entire car shook with a sudden bang. Lily screamed. I noticed a set of one-way tire spikes ahead of us.

All our tires had been shredded. I glanced something in the rearview mirror. People. At least six of them. I grabbed my phone from the charger and got out of the car. Lock the doors, I said. Be ready to call for help. Lily started a dial on her phone and locked the doors behind me.

She took a few pictures. All six people. Walking towards us were dressed in white, with oxy dazes weaved into their hair. And, while I only recognised four of them in passing, the two in front were far too familiar. Mom and Dad, a few grey hairs older than I'd last seen them. I'm glad you came, Mom said. Is that Lily? She sounded so nice on the phone. Just let us go, I yelled back. We don't want any trouble.

"'An't you staying for Midsummer?' "'That asked, looking heartbroken. "'I thought that was what you wanted. "'Our blessing for the marriage. "'Not like this,' I said. "'Not tricking us.' "'Oh, come now,' smiled Mom. "'Don't pretend like you would willingly

"'just come along if we told you to come out here.' "'Son, please,' Dad's side. "'Listen to her. "'This is important to us. "'I won't let you hurt her.' "'We won't. "'Just come along, and we won't hurt. her, Mo nodded, but if I see either of you waving your phones around, I'll have her tossed in the fire.

We were out of options. Even if we called to help, they'd never get to us in time. Lily agreed, we had to play along. Leaving our phones in the car, we got out and started walking up to the colonial buildings. We were about ten paces ahead of my parents and their entourage. I was about to start conspiring with Hurley when my thoughts were cut short All over the tree line I could see others emerging

Must have been at least 20 people All dressed in white Some whom I recognised Others not so much Uncles, aunts, cousins All kinds of distant relatives We had a big family But we'd always kept to ourselves

A handful of times Mom and Dad had gone to see them without me. Maybe this was what they'd been doing when the kids weren't allowed to tag along. Maypoles were being raised all over the clearing, 10 feet tall, large crosses covered in grass, flowers and red ribbons with two large rings hung on each end, six of them in total, evenly spaced. As each one rose, I could hear a jubilant yell come from that direction. I'd heard about this sort of celebration,

but I'd never seen it, the maypoles blessing the area as a haven for tired spirits. Lily held my hand and leaned in close. She was shaking, and I wasn't that much better off. What are they going to do? She whispered.

There'll be a fire, I said, dancing, singing, breaking bread. I thought back on the fur tables my dad used to make for midsummer. The dull knife my mother used that cut the head off the chicken. How she'd spray the table in blood until the carcass stopped moving.

Her sacrifice, I continued. Usually a chicken, but now, maybe a cow, a goat. I, I didn't know. I thought, I thought it was just some... It's all my fault, I sighed. I just didn't want to expose you to them. She wrapped herself around my arms.

sobbing. It broke my heart. Once we got to the yard, there were smiling faces all around. Everyone dressed in white, carrying countless baskets of flowers. Oxide daisies, dandelions, even a few sunflowers, some yellow, some blue. All in all, it must have been close to 30 people. And in the middle of the yard stood a large table made of fir wood. Someone touched my shoulder and almost fell over trying to get away. How my mother had managed to sneak up on me, I'll never know. She wasn't the quiet type. We're getting ready for the bonfire.

She needs to be involved. I'm not letting her out of my sight. Then you can start cutting the bread, Mom continued. It's by the kitchen. We kept to ourselves, just observing the others. There were so many details one might have missed if one did nowhere to look.

For example, how they tied living snakes into the maypoles to better absorb any corruption that would try to enter, or how no one wore wall, as to wear fur of any prey animal would invite predators. A hundred little rules all put to practice, and there Lily and I was on our knees cutting bread. I could hear her muttering something under her breath. She had her thumb on a necklace, a golden cross. She was praying, making sure no one could hear us. I leaned in close. Not here, I whispered. I, they're not rational.

Have you, have you done this? She whispered back. Are you a part of this? No, not like this. But you know what this is? Usually yes, but... Someone cleared their throat behind us. As I turned to see my dad, looking at me.

apologetically at me, I got to my feet. I'll just borrow him for a few minutes. Dad smiled. We'll be right back. The shadows were growing darker. In the old country, the midnight sun would keep the sky bright for days on end, but that's not the case for Minnesota. Still, the time was probably around 7 p.m., and it was still bright outside. It messed with my sense of time. Dad looked back over his shoulder to make sure we were alone. He faced me. You love this girl, he asked. You want to spend the rest of your life with her.

I know she's a Christian, but... I'm not asking about that, he said, putting his hand on my cheek. I want to know if you love her, the real her. Do you? I looked back on Lily, staring at me from across the yard. Of course I did. I just nodded. Dad smiled and patted me on the shoulder.

Then you will be fine. An hour passed, they prepared a large table in the middle of the yard, decorating it with flowers and branches. I was growing nervous. My mother called out to the others, using an old herding call. This odd howling noise made to echo her cross fields. It was haunting. From every knocking cranny of the clearing came all these vaguely familiar faces

in the sea of white. She spoke to them in the old tongue and I can make out a few words. She was giving thanks to the Blackhorn Virgin, the goat-legged mother, the mountain spirits and the lands who nurtured us. She talked about her offering and the blessings we were thankful to receive

to bring new life into the steps of the old. blood. Then, my dad stepped out of the kitchen, naked. It took me a few moments to realize what was happening. By the time I got to my feet, four men were on the way to hold me back. Lily just kept looking back and forth, not understanding. I was screaming. I don't even remember what. It just came out of me, like blood from a wounded soul. I screamed. as they laid him out on the table. I screamed as they held the axe into the sky.

I screamed my neck roar, and my face flustered and red. But all those screams turned to cries of despair as the axe fell. This is why he wanted me to be sure. The greater the blessing, the greater the offering. Among dozens of jubilant voices and cheers, I cried like a child. They broke the table into pieces. using branches from a birch tree to spread the blood around.

They cut him open, filling him with branches from the fir tree and spices, a dead head biting down on an apple, all put into a pile, neatly decorated, and set aflame. Empty eyes refusing to meet my gaze, no matter how many times I cried his name. We were dragged in front of the fire. I remember sitting there, leaning on my knees. Watching the fire eat away at everything we'd put forth,

blicks of flames pealing away at a body freely given. Someone put a bowl into my hands, bread and some sort of walnuts. Lily got a bowl too, but hers was different. It was mostly sunflower seeds. Eat up, my mother said, and you'll have my blessing. Lily just stared into the fire. I could see the flames reflecting in a wild. wide eyes. Her eyes were tearing up as she forgot to blink. I curled up next to her,

and we ate together. It wasn't much. It'll be over soon. As we finished, they'd started to sing. I swear they'd all grown taller, like a head taller. Their eyes seemed brighter. The song still hadn't set, even though it was well past 10 p.m. As the song grew louder, we were led away from the others. They dug a small hole, about three feet deep, large enough for two people. Lily, mistaking it for a shallow grave, started to panic. I just held her clothes. It's not that, I said.

It's not that, it's not that. They stripped us off our clothes and laid us down. They covered us in branches and leaves as my mother watched us. You've been blessed, she smiled. and in the morning you'll be reborn. She looked different. Her eyes had lost her colour, and her teeth had grown sharper.

She too looked taller, younger. You may marry however you want, have many children. Come see me sometime. The singing from the bonfire had grown from hymns into screams, grown louder and animalistic. Two men were attacking each other,

beating each other roar. One woman was slamming a head with a rock, an older man was trying to shovel as much dirt as possible into his mouth. They were completely losing themselves, driven mad by the flames. As branch after branch covered us, Lily and I just stayed still, waiting for it all to be over. In a matter of minutes, the world turned dark. The sun finally set.

All we had was each other. and the howling of madmen. We curled up next to each other and waited for morning to come. At some point, we must have fallen asleep. I woke up to the sound of Lily choking. She was tearing at her throat, desperately feeling for something. A necklace, holding her golden cross. She tore it off and breathed a deep breath of relief.

We pushed the branches aside. It was a beautiful summer morning. Birds were singing and bees were buzzing about in the high grass. And there we were, nude and suck covered. The clonial building still stood. All that remained from the bonfire was a black spot in the middle of the yard. The maypoles had been taken down. I just sat there for a second, trying to wrap my head around it all,

as Lily dry heaved into the grass. Lil, I asked, are you okay? She shook her head. I couldn't blame her. We picked up our clothes and made our way back to the car. The tires were busted, but we could call for help. For a moment, we just sat there in our air-conditioned car, leaning back into our leather seats. I looked over at Lily.

There was something different about her. She was slightly paler. and her hair had grown darker. Her eyes, usually a clear green, looked almost mud-brown. She just stared straight ahead. Lil, I asked again. What are you? Don't call me that, she interrupted.

That's not my name. What do you mean that's not? That's not my name anymore, she cried out. She baptized me. Lily turned to me. Her eyes wild. She was different. Many of the little quirks I'd grown to love about her over the years

was simply gone or changed. Even her voice seemed darker, raspier. She baptised me and just... I feel it in me, and it just feels wrong. It moves, it rearranges all the pieces. I leaned over and held her against my shoulder. Even her cries sounded different. We called the place.

We got our car towed. We filled out our reports. Lily showed them the pictures she'd taken, but they didn't show that much. We got to shower and change our clothes. For the better part of the day, we just talk to people, other people, not so much each other. A lot has happened since that day. There are no longer crosses on our house. Lily has asked me to call her by a new name, Viga. A night I can hear her talking in a strange language. But she's still... She... She still watches cupcake videos on YouTube and she still smiles at me in the morning.

She sings in the shower and she kisses my cheek before we go to work. She's still the sweetheart I fell in love with. But something deep inside has fundamentally shifted. I can see the way she stayed. into open flames, the way she wrinkles a nose when we pass by a church. I can see how comfortable she's getting with a knife, how she doodles strange signs into a work notebooks. We're still getting married. That much hasn't changed. I'm just marrying Viga, not Lily.

But that's fine. It's still her. It has to be. In 2017, a group of scientists and philosopher Baxter Harding collaborated on an experiment named Project Revelations. Under Harding's ideals, the experiment aimed to suspend multiple volunteers into a temporary state of rapture, using sentry deprivation tanks and a solution named R, fed through IV. They found they could place individuals into rapture, and then pull them back into reality for questions about judgment-dicture. the afterlife and the secrets of immortality. The team was funded by fanatical religious billionaires who lived prosperous lives.

Still, they grew increasingly interested in extending their life beyond their expiry dates. The first few individual tests proved somewhat successful. However, they soon hit a wall as subjects could only remember the first five minutes of the experience. Their brain activity on the EEGs would drop to zero. Subjects told the scientists that those five minutes felt like 20 and would also experience mental confusion for up to six minutes afterwards. Subjects claimed they floated in silence. Some noticed the dot of light they couldn't reach,

while others claimed they saw nothing. Harding and his benefactors became especially interested in the subjects that saw the light. The project's funding increased, and those who could not see the light were dropped from the process. The remaining three subjects, John, Chris and Eno, were asked to swim toward the light. It wasn't until a year later when an apprentice accidentally put another subject under just minutes after the first one, that they discovered that the second consciousness could start with the first left off.

Following the discovery, they attempted the experiment with the same three people. would take turns swimming towards a light, one after the other. After 15 minutes, they found that the dart had only grown slightly bigger, and the final swimmer began to hear a low and bassy tone. It isn't known how damaging the process was, or its long-term effects on the subject's brains, but it was soon discovered that the subjects could go under multiple times while keeping the same three to six minute rest period. Harding came up with an idea

He proposed that the three subjects swap in and out of rapture Until they reached the end One would enter while others would rest After 15 minutes It would be the next person's turn This meant that each subject had a 10 minute break Before they were to enter again It wasn't something that could be done straight away

Although subjects only needed a short break They found that even if they were by parties were fit, they needed to be mentally strong to swim in the state of rapture. This set the experiment back by months as the subjects were put on a specific diet and required to visit the facility multiple times a week and enter rapture to train. Within three months they extended the swim time between the three from 15 to 30 and finally to 45. After six months they got to 120.

after a whole year, they pushed it to 150, where subjects claimed they were close to the light source. Harding had decided that this was all the subjects needed, and they would push it to a total of 195 on the day, and that the subjects would be able to do it, if motivated. The subjects were instructed not to eat within 24 hours of their slots, and on arrival, they were greeted with envelopes of Harding's cold hard motivation before being strapped up and led to a tank. The experiment started off smoothly. The subjects would go under, recover,

and then report their process just minutes before it was time to go again. Their ECGs, EEGs and blood pressure never rose there anything of concern until 170 minutes in. It was strange that the subject one's heart's heart's speed up. His EEG showed increased activity in his brain, even a tiny amount during the blackout. I could tell by everyone else's faces that this was something new. Make a note of increased brain activity at 175 minutes, Dr. Press spoke. Stand by for removal. It wasn't until his recovery

moments later that he radioed, demanding to speak to Harding. I couldn't hear it well. Harding had put on headphones. Faintly, Subject One spoke in a panicked tone. I caught bits of sentences. Words like eyes, four angels and seven leaked through. But I watched on as Harding turned down the volume and took off the headphones. All is fine, continue, he reassured. Once again, Subject One entered Rapture. I observed his stats quietly. subject 1's heart rate is too high, Dr. Ford commented. I silently agreed. When I had made the mistake of putting Subject 2 into Rapture shortly over a year ago,

I thought that was the end of my time here. However, it was Dr. Ford that discovered my mistake was beneficial. Despite progressing the experiment, it felt like I had been walking on eggshells since. It doesn't matter. Continue. you, Harding demanded. And what Harding and his friends wanted, they got. Everyone cared somewhat for the cause.

However, many of the scientists there needed money and publication, and shamefully, I was one of those people. The room was filled with a thick silence and anticipation. Everyone had waited for subject to finally communicate, and when he did, they all seemed to hold their breaths. We were further back, I swear, we're so close. Subject 2 called breathlessly through the speaker. The waves of the tanks were loud. I didn't think anything of it at the time. We should be closer.

Something is happening. This time, Harding did not put on the headphones. Subject 1's channel was the only one turned down. Just keep swimming, Subject 2. Report back with any other abnormalities, Harding requested. Roger. I excused myself from the room.

The heavy and intense air felt all too much. The chance of failure when we worked on this for years weighed down viciously. If the project was a success, my name would be on one of the most revolutionary experiments in the world. This meant more jobs, more money, and even bragging rights. The promises of a greater future only assisted in pushing back any doubtful thoughts. I found myself in the room with the tanks.

I hadn't intentionally set out to go there, but I think I subconsciously worried for John and Chris. A mass of wires fed through each pod and the beeping of machines blanketed the room. But it wasn't until a few minutes after I settled on one of the chairs that the faint sound of scratching caught my attention. I couldn't pinpointed it at first. It would stop occasionally and sometimes start back under the disguise of the beeping.

The parts were thick, designed to completely block the world out for those inside, and in return it made it extremely difficult to hear the subjects. That's what made the scratching so intriguing. Sensory deprivation had always interested me. I was tempted to take one of the pots for a spin without compound R, which I'd never dared. I had thought that perhaps were the new money and jobs that were to come out of this. Maybe I could afford my own pod, but maybe I'd start with a few sessions. I'd made it over to subject one's pod and found the source of the scratching.

Muffled words escaped the pod, but got lost in the air. I caught a few things such as scroll and light. Screaming erupted from Part 1. It scared me into shock. I stumbled back, then stood frozen for moments, listening to the screeching and scratching. I had witnessed a scientist open and close those things multiple times, but with no visible handles or locks, my brain frazzled under pressure. John, I called out in an uneven voice. He returned nothing short of an expression of pure fear.

John, I'll get you out, just can't. Do not touch the tank, Mr. Sullivan. I was driven throughout my veins, and any feeling of urgency melted into fear. Subject 1 is experiencing paranoia. They all are. I almost felt like a child getting caught doing something he shouldn't. This is the longest they've been under. Previous tests had the same result after an extended time.

It takes a lot of mental strength. Tank 1 grew quiet again, except for the slight scratching. He most likely had entered rapture again. As a scientist, you should know these things come with side effects. If you want, you can stay here and try to talk to them or return to the observation room. Personally, I think we'd do much better with you in the room. It didn't feel like much of a choice. Harding had a strange aura of authority.

I felt like I had to please him. Hearing him say scientist rather than apprentice brought me dream. I followed, harding back into the room. The atmosphere felt a lot heavier than when I left. The other apprentice was viciously writing down notes spattered in by Dr. Press. We're definitely making less progress. Someone is swimming back, I think. I keep entering facing the wrong way.

I was so damn close. Subject to his voice filled the room. He sounded annoyed. If something was disrupting the experiment, it could make me. mean more time swimming for them. We need to speak to subject one, Dr. Harding, Dr. Ford suggested. Subject one has requested radio silence. I do not want to affect his mental state.

I understand Dr. Harding, but if he's purposefully sabotaging the experiment, we need to find out why. Subject one is fine. Is he not, Mr. Sullivan? He has just visited the pots. I should have said something. I moved my gaze from Dr Trinity Ford and back to the monitors. Yeah, it's fine.

Dr. Ford glanced at subject one's stats. I could tell she wanted to mention them and how they weren't normal, yet her lips remained pursed shot. The subjects are experiencing paranoia, just like they have done previously during limit testing. Harding reassured. I was stuck. His words were.

made sense as the three subjects had to train to stay in the state. But there was no explanation for everything new that had happened. Hello? Subject three's voice rang. Subject three, how are you doing? One of the doctors responded. Oh God. His voice was shaky and breathy. I was about to touch it, but...

Damn. I'd assumed we were further away. We need to abort. Pull John out. Despite the water surrounding him, his voice was dry and hoarse, as if he had been in a desert for days. Subject 1 is already under. Subject 3, you need to breathe. Oh God, we're... The radio fizzled and hissed as Subject 3's broken words spluttered incoherently.

Subject 2's ECGs and EGs began to blare warning signs as his heart rate and brain activity dropped and rose rapidly. pull him out, Harding screamed. I watched as two of the scientists scuttled out of the room. Subject 2's vitals fell flat moments later. Subjects 3. Do you hear me? Subjects 3? I shoveled past the now standing group of people and out the door, just in time to see the two scientists helping Eno out of the pod. Is he okay? I asked in a panic.

The two seemed relaxed. or Eno mumbled something ending with, in the light. Yeah, his machines failed, his stats are fine. I sighed and watched them wrap a towel around him and guide him to the resting bay. In the distance, I could hear Harding's voice over the radio. He had no concern for Eno's well-being. John's part was quiet. There was no scratching or screaming, just silence. He wasn't a friend, but he was one of the only

only people involved that cared to ask how I was doing. He was a nice guy, and it told me he was doing this so he could pay off his student loans. And although we hadn't spoken much, I considered asking for his number once the experiment was over. As if on cue, the two scientists returned. It was slightly damper than they were just moments ago. One spoke into his radio and asked for permission to let John out. Harding's voice run through and I watched him pop open the tank

The first thing I caught sight of Was John's smiling face The two corners of his lips stretched Almost entirely across his face As if in complete ecstasy His skin folded around the tips of his lips And the skin appeared to be rubber I thought the prolonged exposure to salt water

Caused it but it looked too synthetic The two scientists already gloved up, helped a passive John out of the pod. The water was a deep red, yet John had no visible injuries. He struggled to stand, as if you're a baby, learning to use his two feet for the first time. The smell of rusted pipes filled the room quickly, and the red liquid splashed across the floor and onto my shoes. I flinched at first, worried that the liquid was a biohazard. Yet the other two scientists allowed John to lean on them and soak them. Across his body was seven blisters, all extremely sore-looking and ready to pop.

They weren't seeping or cracking, and clearly weren't the cause of the red water. What happened to him is an allergic reaction? I asked. The two looked at each other, at John, and then at the water. One mumbled something along the lines of not being sure and to ask hiding or press. John? Are you okay? His face slowly turned to me and his head tipped to the side. His neck too weak to hold his weight.

I thought I heard it crack. Red droplets fell from his hair and down his cheeks. Some entered his mouth and stained his teeth. But it did not seem to bother. him. His eyes were dim, as if he wasn't there, but his EEG showed more than average activity. John stared at me for what felt like minutes. He gurgled something. The emerging water made it difficult for him to say anything. I didn't have time to say much more as the two scientists carefully wrapped him in a towel and led him into the resting bay. Just as they

turned the corner, John stumbled and hit one of the blisters on the wall. He didn't even let out a yelp as it burst and stain the area with a strange black goo. The scientists led him away, leaving the sludge to slink down the wall. I glanced back to the pod. Faint scratch marks covered every visible piece of plastic inside. Most of it had been on the lid. I wondered what John saw in his paranoia. I didn't look at his hands, but he must have had some strong nails that caused the damage he did.

Harding returned to the room, followed by Dr. Trinity Ford and Dr. Press. What is that? asked Dr. Press. Harding simply walked towards the pod, cautious of the red splotches on the floor. Voices mumbled in worry and concern. Seven? Trinity's eyes focused on the scratches, and it wasn't until then that I noticed they were all sevens. Interesting. Harding leaned over the tank without concern for the liquid and swiped his finger over the scratches.

He then glanced at Subject 2's pod. He didn't say much. Perhaps he expected it or was mulling it over. It's time to blot subject three, wrote Dr. Jones and Dr. Morris. They took Subject 1 to the resting bay, I informed him. It was only for a flash, but I swore he looked concerned. All right, Dr. Press, Dr. Trinity, come with me. Mr. Sullivan, assist subject three.

When I finally opened the pod, I was relieved to be greeted by Clearwater. Chris was already sat up, and it appeared he hadn't experienced as extreme paranoia as subject one. Careful does it. I guided Chris out of the pod. He pressed all his weight onto me, soaking me with salt water. I stumbled under. him, struggling to keep him up. How are you feeling? I asked.

Chris's breaths run steady, and he refused to speak. His hands formed into fists, and he pushed back and away from me. Chris screamed like an injured animal. His voice cracked and echoed throughout the room. He fell back and caught himself on the edge of the pod. I watched as he used it for support. What happened? I asked and handed him.

a towel, which he took but didn't bother drying himself. I watched in shock and silence as he tried to find the words. At first, he stumbled over himself as his mouth tried to find the right words. The light, he began. I thought it was weird, but there was something in the light. Something smiling. Gris brought his hands to his face and began sobbing uncontrollably. His tears and snop mixing with the salt water.

He swiped the towel across his face aggressively. I first saw it around 160 minutes in. He breathed heavily. I just thought I was going crazy. I placed my hand on his wet shoulder, a gesture of reassurance. His skin felt strangely soft. But just before I touched it, I saw them. Angels, with animal heads, a lamb with seven eyes and a sword.

scroll, the end of the world in stages. Chris rubbed his face with a towel again, harsher than the last. I couldn't begin to comprehend what he meant. I'm sure it made sense in his head. It wasn't until then that I realized I had yet to see his face. I imagined him with the same disturbing grin that John wore, and at that point I grew terrified of the man in front of me. I watched nervously as he rubbed his face with a towel yet again. The seven seals, I whispered. I looked down at the towel, scared to see blood, and was relieved to see it was the same white colour as previously.

If John made contact, he'd know where they are, where is he? The resting bay, he wasn't really talking when he came out. Chris pushed himself up, and I finally saw his face. It was red, but thanks. Thankfully, there was no unusual grin there. As he took heavy steps toward the resting bay, I watched small puddles of water form on the floor behind him. He swayed side to side at points and almost collided with a black goo on the doorframe. He stopped and stared at the liquid confused.

He even gagged at what I soon discovered was the smell. It wasn't until then that I decided to follow him. I stayed behind him, ready to support him. if his exhausted body fell. Chris opened the door. It scraped against the ground. The hinges had dropped over the years, yet it was never fixed. Damn, Chris hissed.

I held my breath, fearing I'd throw up my dinner out of anxiety if I dared to breathe. What? What the hell? he continued. I forced myself to look around the rooms insides. My eyes only ever stained on something for a little. a millisecond. Familiar bodies lay across the floor, bloodied and naked. Some lay atop of each other, as if they fell over one another. I instantly turned away. It didn't feel real. At first I felt numb, but nausea came and went in unexpected waves. It didn't smell like I expected. The bodies were too fresh, still warm. There was no time for decay as they had just reached death's

door. My mouth began to water. I tell that bile was soon to follow. Chris took a step in, and I rushed past him. Cool air leaked through an open window and sent my goosebumps into overdrive. At a disbelief, I shook some of the bodies and checked a few pulses. I hoped at least one of them were alive. I kept swallowing, but soon vomit would rush from my stomach. I held it firm in my mouth. Traces of it trickled out of my nose, and I wiped it away with my sleeve, almost choking on it. I swallowed it back down. Chunks of lunch were sent back to my stomach to finish dissolving. He's not here.

Chris's voice was raised in confusion and fear. He hadn't moved from his first step. I tried to equalize myself to stop the room from spinning. Jesus, is that blood on your face? What? It took my panicked brain a second to process. I glanced down at my lab coat. A mix of blood and vomit combined at my sleeve.

My stomach rumbled angrily again, but I chose to ignore it. Who isn't here? My voice didn't feel like its own. It was weak and breathy. Every time I spoke, the air oxidized in my mouth, and I could taste the acidity on my stomach's remains. I couldn't help it. Rather, I did it without thinking.

I wiped my face again, trying to clear my mind and sight. And when I did, I was able to figure out just who Chris was referring to, John. This is a bad idea. My best friend, Alfie, was yelling in my ear above the pounding music. This is beyond a bad idea. This is such a bad idea that the horror movie protagonist creeping around the haunting mansion in her underwear with nothing but a flickery flashlight would stop, look you dead in the eye, and tell you that this is a stupid, terrible, horrible, bad idea.

I felt some of Alpha's beer sloshed down the front of my shirt. As usual, he couldn't hold his drink. We were crammed like sardines into the sticky basement of the least run-down bar in my hometown, and I'd just finished telling Alfie that I was going to a remote town in the Pyrenees Mountains to look for my father. I remember his response verbatim, because, as it turned out, I should have heeded his advice. But that came later. For the moment, I was trying to make Alfie understand that while my father hadn't disappeared,

not quite, I still felt like I was owed an explanation. My father, Jamie, had been a professor of sociology, a hardworking man who always came home smelling like orange peels, chalk, dust and desk polish. For most of my childhood, I remember him being quiet, kind and fair. What he did to our family when I was a teenager though was anything but. My father's area of study was medieval witchcraft and his views on the topic were controversial. The scholarly consensus about the thousands of witch trials that plagued Europe was that they were a result of small town feuds, mass hysteria, a lusinogenic fungi in the food supply,

or some combination of the three. My father, however, had a different opinion. He was convinced that, despite the exaggerations and persecutions, there had to be a grain of truth at the bottom of it all. His career was spent proving that a cult of witches, or at least people who believed they were witches, had really existed and persisted up to the present day. The hunt for evidence to back up such an extraordinary claim led him to obscure locales around the world. But he always came back with a lot of stories, local sweets,

and a sunburn on his beaky nose until his last trip. A few days before my father was due back from Spain almost 20 years ago now, we received a letter postmarked Madrid. In it, my father described how he'd fallen in love with his research assistant. He was moving to the mountains for a simpler life, and that, although he was very sorry, he was sure we'd understand, and that it was all for the best. The handwriting was my father's, but the message wasn't like him at all.

We were all sure that something terrible had happened. The authorities involved dragged their feet, not wanting any part of a messy, international domestic dispute. They responded to my mother's hysterical pleas with pity, not concern. When the local Basque authorities confirmed that my father was indeed alive and well in a small Pyrenees town, the case was closed. It might not seem fair, they told my mother, but people have a right to start over and be forgotten. After that, my hatred of my father knew no bounds. I didn't

destroy the gifts he'd given me, changed my last name, majored in history, and dedicated my doctoral thesis to disproving any historical basis for the evidence of witchcraft. So my father had destroyed my family, I would destroy his life's work. My presentation had been a resounding success, and I was back in my hometown, hence Alfie and the bar to celebrate. My mother took advantage of my visit for some help with chores around the house, one of which was disposing of the few cardboard boxes of my father's things that we still had stuffed away in the back of the closet. I could take anything I wanted, my mother shrugged, and ditch the rest. There wasn't much left, but it brought back memories. The tackle box from our first fishing trip, ticket stubs

from movies we'd seen together lovingly preserved in a folder. It was a little bit of the It was hard to imagine that a man who would keep such things could have just abandoned us. I also found his final postcard, a sun-bleached hilltop town with a crumbling bell tower in its centre, surrounded by pine trees and snowy mountains. What if I went? I told myself. What if I finally got some closure? What if this was what I needed to open a new chapter in my life?

I checked the faded print beside the stamp. Lapixuri, Navarra, Espania. I had a location. All that I needed was a plane ticket. Once that was bought, I headed out for a blurry night with my high school friends, the only part of which I really remember was Alfie's drunken prophecy.

Four weeks later, I was in Madrid. Then it was a train, a bus, another bus, and a two-mile slog of the unmarked stop where the river dropped me off. As the dusty door closed, he shot me a strange look, halfway between fear and pity. Then I was left alone in the steep, zigzagging road that led up to Lapig Surrey. My dad's postcard was from the 90s, but it was eerie how little the town had changed.

Wethered bone-white houses, narrow stone streets, the crumbling bell tower. The room I'd rented was one of only three options in the whole region and the only one where English was spoken. The owner Erskine was a big, energetic woman in the 50s who spent her youth in London and had decorated her rural Basque home with images of double-decker bosses, police booths and everything British. It was surreal to sit beside the hearth of a sunken medieval antechamber and sip tea in front of a giant painting of Winston Churchill with a, bulldog. With a few hours of daylight left to kill, I decided to take a walk around town. Old men in slouch hats and unbuttoned shirts playing cards were putting along in rusty tractors. Shaw wrapped grandmothers carrying baskets of vegetables. Bored teenagers in fake leather jackets

huddled on street corners smoking. I received a lot of handwaves and short curious conversations on my stroll. stroll. People in the pixery seemed welcoming, even if we didn't share a language, but also watchful. Like they expected something terrible to happen to me at any moment and didn't want to miss it when it did. The language barrier was actually a blessing in disguise. I hoped to avoid any questions about what I was doing in La Pixerie. If people knew my true purpose, it might affect to what I could learn from them. Even worse, someone might tip off my father before I could confront him.

Besides, I wanted to see for myself what made this sleepy town worth abandoning a family for. When the sunset, the temperature plummeted, and a howling night wind blew down from the mountains. The stone walls were thick, however, and the wood-fired hearth heated my room marvelously. I expected to sleep deeply after so many days of the mountains. travel, but I saw something just before I closed my eyes that disturbed my rest all night. As I took my last glance at my room's high medieval window, I saw something darker than the starless sky scamper away from the ledge. Whatever it was, it had been watching me. Who knew for how long?

Maybe it was just a black cat, but what was it doing on a window ledge two stories up from the street? I set out early the next morning. I'd written down the local sites that my father had deemed especially important, and my plan was to use them as a rough guidebook, walking from spot to spot and asking the locals, as incoherently as possible, about the other weird foreigner who seemed so interested in these forgotten places. Walking down the foggy dirt roads,

I kept imagining that I suddenly turn a corner and see a weathered figure with familiar round glasses and a sunburned nose leaning on his hoe, content with the morning's work. Would he recognise me? I was so lost in thought that I nearly fell into the first sight my father had mentioned. So again Ojaska, the witch as well. The road twisted and I found myself in a shady hollow about to step into a phoeia so deep I couldn't see the bottom. Springwater dampened the dark stone and fill the gulch with colorful flowers. I recognize Belladonna, Mandrake, Henbane, and others that, according to my father, the witch-cults used in their rights.

Some had been harvested just a few days ago. I shivered, and not just because of the cool air of the valley. There was no good reason to be collecting those plants in those quantities, unless you wanted to poison quite. a lot of people, or at the very least, make them hallucinate for weeks on end. Even later, eating lunch beside a golden field with white-capped mountains all around me and the warm sun of my face, my thoughts went back to the neatly snipped plants of that gloomy grotto. I felt a presence behind me while I ate. I spun around to see a tired, hungry donkey just a few feet away.

It was just standing there staring at me, but there was something unsettling about his big, pitiful brown eyes. The sadness in them seemed almost human. A farmer came by to shoe the poor beast off, and I was finally able to ask a couple indirect questions about my father. Yes, he confirmed, a guy like that had come to town a while back. He lived nearby with a young lady, but they had since moved on.

He wasn't sure where. My heart sank. If my father had moved without leaving a forwarding address, how would I ever find him? I reminded myself that this was just one farmer's opinion. It might be wrong. Maybe they just moved to the next village over and so on. Even so, my heart was heavy as I set out for my next objective.

Aramu Beltzac, the Black Plains. local legend held that it was the meeting place of the witch cult, and my father considered that the disuse of such prime grazing and planting land was proof enough that something very disturbing happened there. As I passed the last of the old stone farmhouses, the road narrowed to a trail that zigzagged through the pine forest before the last opening to the plains. The view was probably spectacular, but it was already dusk and low clouds were quickly covered the fields with fog. I'd planned a circular route back to town, so it was either crossed the plains or retraced my steps in the dark. I swallowed my fears, adjusted my headlamp,

and set out into the cloud-covered field. The trail disappeared almost immediately. To make matters worse, the reflection of my headlamp of the fog made it impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction. Not only could I no longer find my way forward, but I could no longer find my way back, and if anything was skulking out there in the dark, my tiny headlamp would appear brighter than a lighthouse beam. No matter where I looked, it was the same hipp-eye grass and opaque mist. I tried to keep from panicking, telling myself that as long as I walked in a straight line, I'd come to the end eventually. but in practice it wasn't so easy.

I had to scramble around ditches and boulders as I went and it soon became impossible to tell which direction I was going. From down in town the plains hadn't looked this big. Between the damp and the wind my teeth began to chatter. I took refuge behind a boulder and consulted my GPS but the signal was dead. Finally, I got it together enough to proceed. I was nearly knocked up my feet by a black shape that went flying past.

Even now, I tell myself it was probably just a cow, fleeing the rain clouds. But between the fog and my frayed nerves, it was hard not to see the black shrouded form of an old crone. Her eight-foot-tall frame bloated with gluttony and wrinkled like a rotten apple. I felt sure she looked at me with a single black pupil and left behind the reek of rotten meat. Other dark shapes whipped to the fog. I couldn't be sure how many. By then I was running for all I was worth, paying no heed as twisted ankles and slips in the mud. I didn't stop until I found a tree line, and then, somehow, the dirt row that led to Lapixuri.

My landlady, her skin, panicked when she saw the statoes in, limping, shivering and soaked in mud. She insisted I'd take a hot bath, and it wasn't until I sank in the tub that I realized how sore I was. I'd had a narrow escape from getting lost in the mountains, and perhaps from something else as well. I didn't mention what I'd seen to her, more from embarrassment than anything else. Sitting here, neck-deep in hot water, surrounded by thick stone walls, it was easy to imagine that what I'd seen had been a huge product of some lost cattle and my overactive imagination. And so I thought.

I climbed into bed with a groan, wondering what my next day in Lappizuri would bring. The wind still howled outside, but no dark shapes haunted my window that night. I did, however, have the most frightening, realistic dream of my life, if indeed it was a dream. It started with the rattling of Erskine's key ring and the heavy wooden door creeping open. As it did, several figures in hooded black robes scurried into the room. I say scurried because they crawled on all fours, although I could tell by the moonlight, aged skin of their hands and bare feet that were definitely human, at least in form. They disappeared from view, huddling at the foot of the bed, or maybe under it.

I felt the rustling of the sheets being lifted. My socks were pulled off, and I felt a strange sensation of some kind of ointment being rubbed into my soles. And one of the hands doing the rubbing had at least six fingers. I didn't run. I was too sore to move. half sure that I was dreaming and if that weren't enough I was also scared stiff

yet as the hooded crawling figures finish their disquieting work a feeling of relaxation flooded me I was being carried with them up into the air out the tiny window toward the night sky beneath twinkling stars

the winds carried us to Enra-Mew Beltzac and even with the lights of labanamo, Zuri and the toy-sized pine trees far below. I was not afraid. Not until the Witch's Sabbath started in earnest. Glowing, fiery orbs circling the field provided light. A blind orchestra wrapped head to toe in black cloth provided music. We descended from the sky to a set of tables set with food that ranged from five-star luxury fair to rotting trash. I was lowered to one of the latter tables. At the furthest point from the field from me, an enormous black he-goat sat atop an enormous throne of twisted black wood. And when its glowing red eyes landed on me,

I felt compelled to eat. It didn't matter that the dead rats in front of me were swarming with still-living maggots or that the potatoes were green with mold. I ate. I ate like it was the best meal I'd ever tasted. I ate with the magic. grin, like there never was and never would be any purpose to life except to gorge myself from the filth in front of me. At the high table, just below the he-goat's throne, I recognised the bloated witch, the farmer I'd met while having lunch, and my father. He raised a golden goblet in Toast to me, then clicked his hooves gleefully. After dinner came the dance. I don't have words to describe the writhing, ecstatic way we came to

together as one flesh, and I doubt any reader has the stomach to read through it. At some point, I drifted off into the sleep of the exhausted. When I awoke the next morning, I wasn't sure if the ache I felt in my whole body was a result of my exertions the day before, or what had happened during the night. I wondered why my socks were off and laying at the foot of my bed. The moment I set foot on the stone floor, I knew I wouldn't be doing any experience. exploring. It was hard enough to hobbled downstairs and eat breakfast. If Berkskin knew anything about what had happened during the night, she gave no sign. After some strong coffee,

I recovered enough strength to try my plan of last resort. I go down to the town hall and ask directly about my father. Walking into the quiet marble hall, I expected to run into the same stubborn bureaucrats who my mom had struggled with all those years ago. Instead, I saw a girl about my age in a smart grey suit, hanging toys and posters beside an enormous desk. She was so focused on a work that I felt bad for interrupting her. Can I help you? she asked in perfect English. Um, I began. How had she known I was there, much less what language I spoke.

New seemed to travel fast in Labixuri. I'm looking for my father. Dr. Richard Sheer, she finished for me, turning around with a smile. The man who put us on the map. This was too much. How had she known my father's name? His books and the photos in them breathe a little life into this sleepy old town. Hardly a tourist comes by who doesn't mention wanted to hike the mountains from Dr. Shira's posters,

or search for the, you know, witches, she laughed. My name is Carmen Braggio, and I'm a good. great admirer of your father's. I'm Julian, Julian Chenot, well formerly Shira. Did you ever meet him? My father, I mean. I wasn't at all prepared for the direction this conversation was taking. No, I was just a girl when your father came to visit us. Carmen's face clouded. He didn't stay for long. Do you have an address? I gushed. Hmm, let's see. Carmen returned to the. a huge desk and searched through some filing cabinets. Here it is.

28C, Zeretta, but it's been vacant for almost eight years now and she scrunched up a brow, frowning. There's no forwarding address or any further information. Just a note that the owner moved and donated their home to the municipality. All paperwork in order. I was hoping to meet him here,

I trawled off. It had all been a waste. I'd be going home sore, uneasy, and with even more questions than I'd left with. It made me want to hit something, preferably my father. If only I could find him. The anger and disappointment must have been written all over my face, because Carmen gave my arm a little squeeze. I'm sorry, she sympathised.

It's been a while since you've spoken to Richard, hasn't it? Ten years, I grunted. Not a word. Well, Carmen put a finger to her lips thoughtfully. I have access to a government vehicle. I could drive you up to visit your father's former home, at least. Who knows? Maybe you'll find some sort of clue.

She grinned like we were children playing some kind of detective game. Only if you want, of course. Five minutes later, we were bouncing up a dirt track toward the mountains. The wind blew through the open jeep, making Carmen's rave. hair swirl around her face. She noticed me looking and smiled. I blushed and turned away toward the icy peaks. I finally understood how someone might fall in love in a place like this. My father's former home was far above the village, even above Eremu Beltzac and the pine forests. It must have been the summer home of some prosperous shepherd nestled as it was among the boulders

beyond the tree line. We rolled through the fast-flowing mountain stream, and parked just in front of the two-story stone structure. The wood shutters were closed, and the place had started to show signs of abandonment, at least on the outside. The views were majestic, but after a few walks around the property, I didn't learn anything I hadn't known before.

Carmen stood beside the Jeep, and stuffed into the pockets of a jacket against the chill wind until I returned. Any luck, she asked, I shook my head. You know, she added slyly, the house belongs to the city government. I have a key. In the dark and dusk, we found some furniture covered by bedsheets. On important papers scattered on the floor, some fruit preserves that had long spoiled, and some wine that hadn't.

There was a whole separate wing of the house, but even with two of us pushing, The old wooden door wouldn't budge. I looked around helplessly. Carmen held up the bottle of wine. We should let any of this go to waste, at least, right? I got a fire going in the hearth while Carmen washed out two cobwebby glasses in the stream and brought us some bread and cheese from the Jeep. We curled up in the blankets we found and clinked glasses.

Out the front door, the late afternoon valley opened up before us. Maybe it was the adventure of it all Or the intimacy of the fire Or the strength of the wine But I taught more than I meant to About why I'd come About my relationship with my father About how I didn't know who I'd be

Without his great and terrible shadow hovering over me There was something else that had been bothering me Something about the house About what we'd found It was there in the back of my head Like an itch I couldn't scratch I looked into Carmen's eyes, as dark as the Sorgonohaska. She'd been so patient with me, so kind.

Whatever it was, it could wait. I leaned in for a kiss. Carmen pulled back. Aren't you going to finish your wine first? She whispered. I shot what was left without a second glance. Carmen stood up. I wondered, Woosley, where she was going.

But when I tried to follow, my life. legs wouldn't move. I looked at them stupidly. They felt like two useless logs disconnected from my body. I tried again. Nothing. As my vision started to blur, I remembered what it seemed strange to me before. There wasn't any dust on the wine bottle. It had been brought to the house recently. And why did my tongue feel numb? I tried to ask Carmen about it, but my mouth wouldn't work either. Carmen knelt down in front of me. She lifted one of my arms, then let it drop. Apparently satisfied, she stroll me to the door that led to the remainder of the house and opened it with a single twist of a hidden latch. Hucking me under the armpit, she dragged me

like a sack of grain into the other wing, which I soon discovered was by no means abandoned. I can't swear by everything that happened next, as before I was drugged this time so heavily that I'd been paralyzed, but still I insist there is a grain of truth to what I saw. Carmen tied me to a chair with black silk ropes and draped me in a red robe with a tall peaked hood. She then proceeded to kindle the hearth, light five black candles and spread a red tablecloth over a long table. At its head was a throne of twisted wood that I thought I recognized. This stun she placed a small black cauldron to boil, adding water, herbs and fat to make an ointment. At first I couldn't see where the fat was coming from. As the fire glowed brighter, however, I recognized the source.

A preserved human corpse. Only the head, torso and one arm were left, yet even after so many years I recognised my father immediately you did say you wanted to meet him again didn't you Carmen smirked

well here he is enjoy your family reunion while you can she continued to prepare the room for whatever was to come stopping only to pour some more wine in my feeble dribbling mouth

the guests didn't begin to arrive until after sunset. They exchanged a set of words I didn't understand, like an incantation, before stepping into the room. A tall obese grandmother, a middle-aged bold man with six fingers on each hand, a boy with lifeless eyes and slig back black hair. These and many others passed by me,

remove their clothes and anointed themselves with Carmen's brew before taking a seat at the table. Finally, Carmen joined them as well. but not before leading a huge black goat to the place of honour. I was in no condition to take note of their rights or conversation, even if I could have understood it. I felt like I was flying high above the twisted scene, surrounded by half-formed fiends who mocked and twirled me

helplessly around the shadows of the ceiling. A few things, however, are clear to me. Firstly, the right was almost like a reenactment of my visions from the night-bearing. before. If the witches had dosed themselves in the same ointment that they've rubbed on my feet overnight, no doubt they were having the same, terrifying, euphoric hallucinations that I had experienced. Secondly, this was some kind of initiation for Carmen. Unlike the others, she was clothed, wearing a simple white robe.

She sat at the furthest point from the black eagote, barely eating bland food while the rest gorged themselves. determined look burned in a dark eyes. She wanted to prove herself. Lastly, a phrase. As a Galerian, Omei kept coming up, it was always met with raucous laughter and sideways glances toward where I sat drooling in my ridiculous attire.

It occurred to me that it wasn't there as some kind of sacrifice. I was there as a joke. A final prod at the man who they called Arazegal, the troublemaker, I later learned. I was Arazagalerian Omea, the troublemaker's son, and they didn't seem to care if I lived, died or told the world about them. Who would believe me anyway? Slowly, the feeling of flying faded. With an almighty effort, I realized that I could twitch my toes and fingers. The poison was wearing off

And Carmen was too focused In the ceremony to notice Despite my desperate urge to flee I forced myself to stay calm And wait for more strength to return Soon even my legs responded And my left ankle was so slick from the heat That I could even slip it free from the black ropes

Around the table The witch's chanting was rising to a high point The obese grandmother and the six-fingered man stood on the table, stomping along with a chant as it rose to a crescendo. I chose my moment carefully. Just when the ecstasy reached this peak, I kicked myself into a standing position, aim for the door, and promptly fell over. The drug clearly hadn't faded as much as I thought.

Carmen shot me a look of irritation before tying me with more black ropes. She snipped off my clothes and hung me from the rafter. in front of the hearth, like a pig waiting to be slaughtered. It was so hot that the sweat dripping down my naked back sizzled when it dripped onto the flagstones below. It occurred to me that maybe I'd been wrong about not being a sacrifice. After what felt like forever, Carmen closed in. She reached into the steamed cauldron of ointment and began to spread it all over me, chanting as she went. The rest of the cult repeated.

after her in a diabolical chorus. As she finished smearing the goop around the top of my head, I finally understood what Carmen's test had been. It all went back to the herbs collected from the Saganahaska. This was a test of Carmen's ability to make the poisons, hallucinogens, and other bruise that the witch cult used in its rights. I was horrified to think what the effect of this final, full-bodied toxin might be. I didn't have to wait.

The witches watched me from the other side of their long table, calm as doctors attending an autopsy, when my whole body began to shake and spasm. They nodded to one another approvingly. The slick-haired boy grinned and squeezed Carmen's shoulder congratulating her. I felt my muscles twitching, stretching and shrinking, like my body was being twisted into some horrible new form. I blacked out.

The smell of damp hay and feces. It was that cool blue hour just before dawn, and I was in a stable. I felt a cane lash against my back. I snorted and pushed myself to my feet with all four. Hoves? I tried to scream. I brayed and whinnied instead. My face was stretched, my back extended.

Everything felt wrong, but there was no time to panic. The farmer struck mercilessly with his cane until I trotted out into the field, where the first load of the day was bound to my back. Firewood, bricks and construction, tractor parts, tools and animal feed, up the hill and back down again, with a cane never far behind. I tried to catch a glimpse of myself in a roadside creek, but I looked away immediately. It was too horrible. Even worse were the mocking grins of Carmen and the other witches when I passed them on the streets of Lavixuri. I thought about the other beasts I'd seen in town. How many had once been men like me?

Not that there was time to think. Each overburdened step became a struggle not to fall, and when I was finally led to the filthy paddock, I collapsed immediately into slumber. Days blurred into weeks. each the same as the last. I came to know each rot of the road all too perfectly as I hoard loads for half the village. It felt like it would never end.

Until one morning, I felt a prodding in my very human ribs. It was a police nightstick. A flashlight shone in my eyes. Someone was yelling in a foreign language. I was laying naked, half-starved and delirious on a city park bench. I didn't find out that I had been dumped in Pamploma until I saw the city name above the police station as I was being taken in for booking. Unsurprisingly, the blood test revealed that I'd been heavily drugged. The problem was convincing the police that I hadn't done it to myself.

My tale about being used by a cult for the nightmarious initiation right didn't hold up. I knew how fantastical it sounded, but it was the truth, and I thought that meant some people. It came down to my word against that of the local authorities in Lappiguri, who not only denied everything, but also claimed I was wanted for being under the influence of drugs in public there as well. There was never any question about who the police were going to trust. As far as the legal system was concerned, I was just another junkie tourist. There was a horrible waiting period while the authorities debated the merit of the merits. of charging me with public nudity and public intoxication versus letting me off with a fine to avoid all the paperwork. In the end, laziness won out, and over a month after I'd left, I was on a plane back home.

I don't know why I feel compelled to share this story. After the sneers of the police, my academic co-workers, and even my friends and family, perhaps I just want to be believed. Perhaps rather, my story. is a warning. If you go looking for the strange and mysterious, you just might find it, and the world out there is stranger

than we ever dare to dream.