CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 4+ Hours of Reddit Horror Stories for a Dark Christmas

Episode Date: December 21, 2020

LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "My son has the same imaginary friend as me" Creepypasta►28:54 "My family has been camping on the same island since I was a kid" Creepypasta►46:26 "I Belong to The Sea" Creepypasta►58:42 "I really hate my in-laws" Creepypasta►1:17:39 "Every Christmas my grandma warned me of the Yule Cat" Creepypasta►1:35:36 "Why I Now Live in Arizona" Creepypasta►1:56:32 "The Midnight Truck of Bell County" Creepypasta►2:40:21 "The History of the Gunnerson Family Holiday Tradition" Creepypasta►3:09:34 "I’m stationed on the Falkland Islands. There’s a reason these islands are important" 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. CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY- Maxim Verehin: ►https://www.artstation.com/artwork/4V6n8►https://www.instagram.com/maxverehin/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-

Tap, tap, tap. The white cane tapped against the railroad tracks, gathering spiders under the moonlight. They ran from beneath the crumbling bricks of the old smokestack, from inside the rusting hulk of an abandoned box car, and from the red brick remnants of the factory itself, the spiders melding into the cane and becoming one with it. The image of the tall, bent figure with a birch cane flashed into my mind

as I sat behind the wheel of the idling squad car. I flipped on the flashing lights and punched the gun. gas. Never before had I received any kind of psychic vision, and the force of it struck terror in my heart. I had to get home to my family. I had to get home to my son. I'd been under incredible stress the last few days, having stumbled upon my former partner and narcotics detective, taking a large stash of dope from the evidence room, which certainly explained the Alpha Romeo he'd recently bought. He had no idea I was aware of what he'd done, had probably done many times before, but I was a straight cop. In fact, everything I did in my life was by the

book, and not just legally, because, as a boy, I'd done something so awful I'd spent my whole life trying to wipe it from my brain. Tap, tap, tap. The white cane tapped fences, mailboxes and curbstones, gathering more spiders from manicured lawns and short driveways. My wife and I had long known my son had an imaginary friend, but at first we didn't worry much about it, supposing it was nothing unusual for a boy. We did grow more concerned when he reached the fifth grade and still carried on with his friend, and we became somewhat alarmed when we learned it was some kind of old man, but we hoped maybe he just wanted a grandfather. My wife had never known a father, and as for mine, he had died tragically with the rest of my family when I was young. But then,

my son told us the imaginary friend's name, Mr. Shanz. It was the name itself that loosened the mountain of buried memories in my head, and they'd been tumbling down in an avalanche ever since. For Mr. Shans had been the name of my own boyhood imaginary friend, and I'd never told anyone. In the worst of the childhood memories that now came back, I was standing in the yard, watching the flames lick from the windows of my old house, praying my parents and sister would make it out.

Mr. Shand stooped over his cane behind me, his shadow from the streetlight stretching towards the burning house. Neighbours ran toward me from the yard next door. My mother, whose face I can barely remember now, screamed in agony. Dad cried out my sister's name as he tried to reach her. The neighbours arrived, worried looks on their faces, prepared to shelter me protectively. But they froze when they saw what was on the ground beside me. A gasoline can institutionalised for years

I eventually ended up in an orphanage all memory of the fire and shans buried in my mind what remained was a driving subconscious need to live right to balance the ledger for some great sin tap tap I saw the cane making its way of my own driveway I burned rubber down the street of my neighbourhood switching on the sirens hoping irrationally

that the noise would scare off Mr Shans pulling in front of the house and leaving the Flashes on, I bolted through the living room towards the stairs. My wife, Sandra, on the sofa watching TV, jumped to her feet. John, what is it? She asked, chasing behind me as I ran up the stairs. I had the shattering of glass halfway down the hallway to my son's door. Busting through, I switched on the light.

My son sat, terrified on his bed, huddled defensively against the wall, blood on the sheets. Cold air blew in through the shattered window. Looking down, I saw a thousand wriggling black spiders crawling over shards of glass, marching towards me, climbing the desk, reaching the comforter on the bed. I ran over to the bed, spider squashing under my boots, scooped Todd into my arms, and ran from the room just as Sandra arrived with a gasp. Drops of blood dripped to the floor from my son as we ran. Downstairs, we found his injury was very minor, a cut on one of his feet.

Harry, our beagle, sniffed hard anxiously. We let the dog climb onto the couch and lick his face, which helped calm him, and our son then tried to reassure the dog he was okay. I called for backup and an exterminator. The backup showed first, of course, but they couldn't determine whether the window had broken from the inside or the outside. I had a dream-like memory of the boy's dark room when I first slammed open his door, a glimpsed white cane thrust through the broken window, tapping the sill and shooting a stream of something black onto the floor.

Of course, that was impossible, so I didn't mention it to anyone. By next morning, the window had been replaced, the spiders vacuumed out, those we could find anyway, and everything put back to normal. But I needed answers, and I barely knew where to begin. How could my son have the same imaginary friend that I once had? I wasn't religious, but the man I sought out now had been a mentor all of my life. Rabbi Stone My dad had been an Episcopal priest whose best friend was a rabbi,

ancient-looking even then. My father first met Rabbi Stone when consulting him on the Old Testament but before long the old man became someone he sought out on personal matters as well and the old rabbi never abandoned me even after what I had done to my family

he visited me at whatever institution they locked me up in and with his help I eventually came to remember my family as the victims of some random tragedy. As I grew into a young man, whenever I experienced doubt or felt like I was drifting without purpose, he managed to help me find the strength to keep a steady path. I arrived at his humble home late that morning and was met warmly by his wife, Rachel,

who washed me into a husband's office. Rabbi Stone had been over many times for dinner, so he knew my family well. Looking more like Yoda as the years went by, he sat behind a clustered desk that dwarfed him. After pleasantries, I didn't waste time. Rabbi, I must ask you, Do you believe in evil? I don't mean bad people or bad luck.

I'm talking about something outside of everyday reality. He pulled thoughtfully at his whiskers before finally answering. When you spend your life reading the old text, one thing that is striking is how much like us Yahweh seems. Jealous, angry, hurt, sometimes even annoyed, We tend to think it's simply because those desert nomads had a very primitive understanding of God. And it's true, they did not think in terms of some grand engineer of the cosmos. But their God was more knowable.

You might encounter him walking on the road as Abraham did, or at an inn like Moses. I've actually come to prefer their view, to see God as a being you can warmly embrace. But if we accept this view, we must also accept that there are other spiritual beings, some of whom are not so warm. Whereas Yahweh is strengthened by human love, these draw from jealousy, fear, and guilt. He rose with difficulty from behind his desk and came around, took me by the arm.

Such spirits prey on the innocent, but it is not the innocent which fuel their power. You were guilty of no evil as a boy. It was your father who unwittingly invited evil into your home. This came as a shock to me. Memories of my father were vague, but I had the impression of a very moral man. I didn't ask the rabbi for specifics, and he didn't seem to want to get into it. What he emphasized was the boy's innocence.

The sin that opened the door to Shanz was not his. After a short while, I was on my way to the station to report my old partner's theft from the evidence room to internal affairs. If you consider me a rat, I get it, but understand what I felt was at stake. my family Ross Clayton had been more than a partner he was one of my best friends things had been more cool recently

but I still considered him a brother the thought of destroying him crushed me but my talk with the rabbi made me realise that it was my guilt that invited evil into my home my sin that put my son in jeopardy my father had once done something that first brought this shans into our lives

and the being had lain dormant until my guilt brought it back. The rest of the afternoon became a nightmare of giving statements to internal affairs. I would have to surrender my badge if they wanted it, and I thought I would at least face suspension while it was sorted out. But instead, they made me swear to keep quiet

while they did their investigation. They wanted me to go to work as normal, so Ross or anyone else involved wouldn't become suspicious. They told me not even to tell my wife. That evening, at dinner, Sandra could tell I was under enormous stress, but what you couldn't see was how a burden had also been taken off my shoulders.

I would get ostracized at work once all this came out, but for now the burden had been lifted. My conscience was clear, and hopefully we'd seen the last of shards. Todd picked silently at his meal. There were things I wanted to ask, but didn't. I wanted to know everything he could tell me about Mr. Shenz, but it seemed like drawing attention to it would only give the demon more power. Instead, I focused on making my son know I didn't hold him responsible, that he was innocent.

All three of us were, and if we believed in that, nothing could harm us. The look on my wife's face told me she doubted these words. Did she somehow know that I had turned in my partner? I went to work that night for my usual shift, six to midnight. The night felt strange to me now that I saw. the world in such a different way, full of forces and beings beyond our understanding. Why had an entity latched onto my family? Surely we were not the only family tainted by sin and guilt.

I cruised in the squad car absorbed in these thoughts. When? Tap, tap, tap, tap. The image of the white cane again slammed into my mind. I almost drove into a parked car. This time the cane gathered flies. I saw them swarming off dead rats and parked. of dog crap, buzzing out of dumpsters and barrels, melting with a cane just as the spiders had.

The tall, bent figure tapped his way along the railroad tracks, and with each tap, I imagined cracks splintering out across the land and poisoning the world. When the man turned away from the tracks and into the neighbourhood, I punched on the flashes and hit the gas. My mind raced as I sped to the other side of town. Why was Shand still stalking us? I had cleaned my conscience. the guilt fuelling him had been cleansed.

I called Sandra. Get upstairs and check on Todd. There's something wrong. Another minute and I'd be there. In my mind came the image of Todd's second floor window from the outside, as though I was viewing it from a ladder. In the reflection I saw, not myself, but a hooded old man with cracked skin like withered concrete.

It felt like the old man was looking at my reflection in that window, and a slight smile curled on the corners of his. mouth. As I pulled in front of the house, I saw a male figure slip out of the sliding glass door on the side of the house and scamper off into the direction of the homes behind ours. No time to chase him. I ran into the house. Pounding came from upstairs. My wife yelling our son's name. I bolted up the stairs, heart pounding so hard it echoed through my whole body. My wife, pounding on Todd's door, was in full panic. He won't open it. I checked the knob, locked. Shug the door. Shugged the door. shouting my son's name.

Already I could hear buzzing from within. Stepping back, I launched into the door with my shoulder, splitting the lock through the wood. We both rushed into a swarm of flies. It was almost impossible to see through the black cloud. We brushed them from her eyes, choking, my wife shouting Todd's name. I noted the window was intact,

but opened a couple of inches. No one was in the bed, no one under the desk. Then I noticed flies, gathering like a living sheet on the closet door, I ran over and whipped it open. Todd sat inside, a blank look on his face, flies crawling across it. As I started to reach for him, I noticed something in his lap so covered in flies, there was no way to know what it was.

I pushed my hand into the squirming black mass, swatting the flies away until the head of our beagle, Harry became visible. Todd didn't resist me when I pulled him out from underneath the poor dog and ushered him out of the room with Sandra, still brushing flies off. him, we walked him downstairs. I put in a call for backup again, telling them to search the area for a mail lurking in the yards nearby. I almost said an old man, but I wasn't sure that it had been what I saw. We couldn't get Todd to say a word. He seemed catatonic.

An ambulance arrived and the paramedics thought he should be taken to the hospital. We would go with him, of course. But before we boarded, one of the officers came down from Todd's room. broken neck he whispered Harry had died from a broken neck could Todd possibly have been strong enough to break a beagle's neck it seemed unlikely I decided to let Sandra go with Todd to the hospital

and I would meet them there shortly I wanted to have a look around the neighbourhood first out back I noticed shoe prints in the dirt snapped photos with my phone I followed the trail into the yard diagonally behind ours which belonged to the drum and the drum and A couple of other cops were still nosing around. Watching nervously from the window of the house was Ned Drummond himself, whose demean

changed when he saw me. I could see him making his way to the door. I got there just as he opened it. Bill? He said. What's going on? A little incident at the house, I told him. Did you see anyone come through here?

I was asleep until I saw the light. Drummond looked around nervously before continuing. but my wife set up one of those door cameras might have picked up something. Let's check it out. The feed runs to her phone. She will be home from work in about an hour. Rather than wait, I decided to go to the hospital to be with my family. On the way to return my squad car to the station, I called Rabbi Stone.

I'm sorry to wake you, Rabbi. Don't worry about it, he said. Now tell me what's wrong. This chance thing hit my family again. No one is hurt, but the dog is dead, and my son is on the way to the hospital, for it seems like a psychotic episode. I can be there in a half hour, the rabbi offered. Thank you, but that's not necessary. I'm just wondering if you learned anything else.

I did, he replied. Shanz is possibly another name for Samail, one of the fallen. Early Christians equated him with Satan. The ancient Hebrews considered him the angel of death, but you have to look at the same. Further back to the Sumerians to find the first encounter with this being, they depicted it as a serpent, the whisperer of lies. How do we fight it? Only by removing the sin that empowers it. I thanked him and took my own car from the station to the hospital. I found Sandra watching over Todd, who was sleeping comfortably in the private room. We slipped into the hallway to talk. I touched her arm and she pulled away. Did she blame me for what we?

what's going on with our son? There had been a distance between us lately, and as I thought about it, perhaps there had been for some time. I had a tendency to get absorbed in problems at work, and I didn't let her inside my world. She could be such a source of strength at times, and other times so vulnerable.

By shoulding her from my troubles, I had left her feeling cut off. By not leaning on her for help, I had made her feel unneeded. I'm sorry, I told her. She looked at me with genuine surprise. For what? The only thing that really matters is the three of us, I said.

Sometimes I forget that. Her eyes softened. So many things she wanted to say, I could tell. But now was not the time. Instead, she said, I don't understand what's happening. We're under attack, I explained. There are things I haven't told you.

Things I didn't even remember until recent. But I promise you, no more secrets. She started the cry. Todd could not have harmed Harry. He loved that dog. I put my arms around her, and this time she didn't resist. It wasn't Todd, I said. I had to go check some video footage at her neighbours, see if it picked up anything.

I'll be back right after that. I kissed her on the top of her head and left. Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the Drummond's driveway. As soon as I went back to the hospital, I intended to come clean with Sandra about everything, my childhood, my discussions with Rabbi Stone, and even the fact that I had turned in my old partner, Ross, to internal affairs. No more secrets. It was very late, so I appreciated that my neighbours had waited up for me.

I think we got him, Mr Drummond said excitedly. I felt excited, terrified and baffled. Did they really watch Shansom video? Was that even possible? Mrs. Drummond, who did a couple of shifts bartending in addition to a real estate job, was setting up a phone so we could watch the footage on a 32-inch monitor in the living room.

Is your son aright? he asked me. You'll be fine, the dog, not so much. My God, Mrs. Drummond said, That's awful. Wait till you see this, Mr. Drummond said. I think we got the creep cutting through the yard. I held my breath as the video came on. The drummins kept a well-lit yard.

The camera faced the street. A figure appeared walking through their yard. Pause it, I said. Too shattery to make out much, definitely male, tall. Not stooped over, however. No cane. Okay, I said, slow motion. The figure did not walk like an old man.

When he reached the street, he jumped. into an SUV. As it pulled out, I then paused it again so I could see the license plate. Jesus, there was no need to call it in. I recognized it right away. The SUV belonged to Ross Clayton, my former partner. Moments later, I sat heavily behind the steering wheel and waited to start the car. I now understood why my wife had been so distant lately. How long had it been going on? I could feel the air being sucked right out of my world with a whoosh. I started the car. My son's life, maybe even his soul, was at stake.

If you had asked me a week ago whether I believed in demons, I would have laughed. Of course, if you had asked me a week ago whether I'd killed my parents and sister, I would have looked at you, perplexed. If you had asked whether my wife was sleeping around, with my former partner, no less, I would have punched you in the nose. Before I put the car in gear, knew I was. understanding hit me with the force of a stormfront. It had not been my consuming feeling of guilt that had opened the door to Shanz.

My father's sin had brought that demon into my family, but Sandra was the one feeding its strength now. I was about to finally hit the gas and head for the hospital. When? Tap, tap, tap. The image of the white cane tapping outside a factory flashed into my mind. My muscles were locked frozen. The scrawny, bent figure, walked amid the strewn rubble.

but the old decaying factory still lived, machinery beating deep inside, a furnace somewhere within still flaming. Spouts of fire shot from that furnace outcracks in blackened windows to become one with a white cane. Shanz crept along the city's streets, blue fire arcing from streetlights,

which crashed with the pop, and jumping from cars which stuttered to a stop, and from apartment towers which blinked out. All of these trickles of fire streaming into the terrible cane. He was coming. this time with fire. I remembered the gas can beside me all those years ago.

I raced the car across town, running stop signs and red lights, swerving to the wrong side of the road to pass pockets of cars. Anger started the rise within me towards Sandra, who had betrayed me, but I knew it was crucial that I suppress it. This being, whatever it was, turned guilt into power, and I suspected it could exploit any negative emotion. I left the car on the front entrance, throwing the keys to the valet and running inside straight for the elevator.

Come on, come on, come on, come on. Here he was. It was here. Shands, Samail, whatever it was. The elevator zipped me to the seventh floor. I ran hallways darkened for the night, my footsteps, the only noise in the empty corridor. Bursting into the room of my sons,

I found Sandra sleeping in a chair. No one else was there, and for a moment I felt relief, until I realized the bed was empty. I flicked on the lights. Sandra woke up, immediately anxious. I pushed my way into the bathroom, empty. What is it?

My wife asked. He's gone. I ran back into the hallway and from station and station until I found a nurse. Did you see a boy? I asked. She shook her head. An image exploded into my mind. The hospital and fire.

Flames shooting from her. from a couple of floors of windows. It had not happened yet, though. How could such a fire even be set? Hospitals have tremendous fire safety protocols and sprinkler systems. Gas. Only gas could create a large fire. And the very thought brought another psychic image into my mind.

A decrepit hand, inhumanely long, charcoal grey skin and yellow nails. Turning valves. I ran for the waiting elevator. Sandra caught up to me. I punched the button to the lowest floor. What's going on? she demanded. I took both her hands and looked hard into her eyes, making sure I felt no anger, no guilt.

I groped through my thoughts for the love I felt for my son, for my wife, and channeled all of that into my eyes. I love you, I told her, and I'm going to make this all right, all of it. I searched her eyes. If she no longer loved me, I felt I would see it and would accept it. Would love her anyway.

Would let her go with love. But I couldn't tell. It's not your fault, I whispered. Before she could reply, the doors opened and I ran out into darkened corridors, normally reserved for staff only. We ran by huge carts stacked with trays of dishes. I grabbed a kitchen worker. Where are the oxygen tanks?

What? I pulled out my badge. The tank son, it's an emergency. down there to the left I ran Sandra following me into a large bay My son stood a short distance away With a match poised the strike

I froze where I was Stopping Sandra with my hand Air hissed from dozens of oxygen tanks Bins of rags had been moved close by Some strewn on the floor Even more alarming My son stood in the middle of a huge puddle Nearby

Empty bottles confirmed my worst fear rubbing alcohol. I noticed a red door beside an alarm panel opening on its own. A water valve turned. The sprinklers. He was turning them off. The long shadow of a bent figure

reached from behind my son. Tard, I whispered. Dad, he mumbled. Confusion marked his eyes and face. He understood none of what was happening. Memory of the flaming hospital ran through my mind. I edged closer. Tard, listen to me.

There's something you need to know. Shanz was my friend too, when I was about your age. The tip of the match touching the box, held still. I know, Tad said. He told me that if you listen to him, you would have saved your family. He lies, I said. That's what he does. I just want things to be like they were, he said.

They will be. just put down the match. It seemed like his muscles were locked and he struggled against them. My family, I said, was stepping slowly into the puddle of rubbing alcohol. All burned to death because of me, because of his tricks. Tears started streaming down his face. I can't stop him, he cried. My hands went listen.

I was in striking distance. One quick swipe and I could grab the matches. I focused on them. I was about to grab them, and I saw the tip snap along the box. The match sparked into flame and fell from his hand. I could see the flame reflecting off the puddle of rubbing alcohol as the match fell. My hand shut forward. If I missed, we were all dead, and probably hundreds of people with us.

All that oxygen in the room might ignite, even without the rubbing alcohol. The lit matchstick landed right in my hand. I squeezed it out. Then, scooped in my son and ran towards my wife. But the danger was not over. Shant had grown powerful enough to turn valves. Certainly, he could produce a spark. I handed Todd to Sandra, yelling,

Go, go! Then ran back toward the water valve of the sprinklers. Light bulbs began to pop. Sparks shut from the fixtures. I was halfway to the circuit breaker when the rubbing alcohol ignited. Before I had taken a few more steps, an explosion of fire blew through the room. Fire took everything combustible, the bins of rags, cardboard boxes, my clothing and my hair.

As I reached the breaker, I could feel my skin melting. Hot air singed my lungs. I could barely see through eyes that had lost their lids. But drawing on my years of police work, which included responding to fires, I focused on the water valve. I turned it. The skin of my hand melted under the steel, but the sprinklers immediately sprayed jets of water. Alarms blared. I slumped down against the wall.

Smoke burned into my damaged lungs, making me gasped for breath. Time flowed like molasses, and I was only loosely aware that the fire went out. Sometime later, rescue crews found me. Sandra stayed with me as to wield me away, telling me Todd was unharmed, but recovery had been long and hard. My face and hands are badly disfigured. Sandra spends time with me. But how can I tell what she does outside of the hospital?

Todd will hopefully be released soon. Unlike me, he will not have to deal with the knowledge that he killed his family. But he will have a terrible reminder of what happened every time he sees once left in my face. As for Shanz, I fear he bides his time. My dad loves camping. Actually, my dad's entire side of the family is very outdoorsy. Ever since I was about eight, we've gone camping on an island, out in a large lake, located about six hours from my home. Honestly, I feel like we're probably insane for continuing to come to this place year after year,

even after the weird stuff we've seen, but it's otherwise a really fun place to camp. Aside from literally everything I'm about to tell you, it makes for a great vacation spot, very secluded and relaxing. Originally, we were a small group, just me, my brother and dad, my dad's best friend and his son, and a good friend of mine, since my dad figured little eight-year-old me wouldn't want to be stuck with a group of boys all. weekend. Over the years, the vivorosa continued going, but our numbers have grown. Now, we usually end up with a group of up to nine or ten people, comprised of family members and other close friends. We've been camping on the island every summer since we were kids for the past 11 years. It wasn't

a pre-existing tradition either. My dad just decided one day that it would be a great idea to pack up and live in the woods on an island for a week. He turned out to be right. And he turned out to be right. now we're here. By this point we all know the place practically as well as our hometown. Two years ago my family actually bought a little cabin out on the island which we used often in the summer and rent out to other visitors when we aren't occupying it. Point being we've been visiting this island for nearly as long as I can remember. As much as I love the place, there is some weird and unexplainable stuff that goes on out there. The following events are just some of the strange things that have happened to me and my friend,

who we'll call Violet, throughout the years. But I do plan and ask my fellow island visitors if they've had any weird or creepy experiences during any of our trips. The first one happened, either the first or second year we headed to the island for the weekend. The campsite we frequented is set right on the water, so that some of the sites even face out over the lake. Our campsite was set a bit farther back,

but was still within easy walking distance of the lake. So the four of us we spent most of the day in a constant loop from campsite to lake and back to campsite again. Another thing about this campground, it was empty almost every single time we stayed there. There were a couple of years where one or two other groups would be there at the same time as us, but that was rare. In hindsight, we should have taken that into consideration before setting up camp there year after year. It was a very bare-bones campground, two outhouses and a shed full of logs, parked near the entrance, one water pump alongside the path to the beach. Some of the sites were even overgrown with tall grass and bushes,

to the point where there was nowhere to actually put a tent. Anyway, on this particular day, it was sunny, so everyone was parked out on the beach with towels and a cooler of cold sodas. It was early afternoon, and Violet and I had been sent back to the campsite to grab the second cooler, which was packed full of snacks for lunch. What I remember vividly isn't I walk to the campsite, but the walk back to the beach. There's a dirt road that winds all throughout the campground,

leading to each individual site, and which eventually wanders all the way to the beach. Violet and I were walking that path, just rounding the bend so that the bank of tall grass just before the beach was visible a little further ahead of us. We must have been talking, because I remember her suddenly motioning me to be quiet. We slow to a stop, gradually,

the kind of stop you do when you know something isn't right, but you aren't quite ready to think about it yet. We stopped in the middle of the path in broad daylight. We gave each other confused glances. My arms had started to wake, so I set down the cooler. Something about the air in that moment, a sudden silence made the hair in the back of my neck stand up.

It took a moment for the realization to set in. As I mentioned, this campground was tacked right on the edge of the island, so that the lake was audible at Brinwood. all hours of the day. It had been especially loud today with a strong south wind stirring the waves into a bit of a frenzy, so much that the sound had eventually faded into the background like white noise. The sound of the waves hadn't disappeared, but it wasn't coming from the lake ahead of us. It was coming from the woods to our left. I remember the feeling of dread when the realisation struck me. It was as if all the moisture was sucked from my throat as my stomach shrank in and

itself. The sound itself was almost perfect. A wet slap of waves against the rocks, followed by a bubbling, frothing, hissing, as the water crawled backwards before being stirred into another wave. Crash, hiss, repeat. But it was too wet. Which doesn't even make sense, because it sounded like a lake, so of course it was wet. But I just remember thinking that it sounds wet. Not wet like water. but more organic. What should have been, the crash of waves against rock sounded more meaty, like a bucket of water thrown over someone's bare chest, hollow and raw.

The hiss was wrong too. It sounded too breathy. It sounded like breathing, like something trying to imitate the sound of the lake with heavy, swampy breaths. I think Violet and I both realized that at the same time, because when it joked around to look at her, her eyes were as wide and panicked as I imagine mine must be.

She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, something exploded out of the bushes directly to our left. It moves so quickly that neither of us got a good look at it. All I know is that whatever it was, it was too big to be a rabbit,

but too small to be a deer. But it had antlers, and it moved like nothing I'd ever seen before. If you've ever watched an old scratched up DVD. Think of how the characters move around where the DVD is skipping, but not quite frozen, kind of jerky and glitchy, jumping from place to place, but leaving a trail of pixels whenever they move their limbs. It moved like that,

but without the skips that come in between. Just really distorted, twisted steps. I swear, I saw that thing's insides as it ranged its way across the path. Its mouth was shuddering open and shut like a fish. We were frozen for about three seconds after it disappeared into the trees on the other side of the path. After that, we just took off of the beach without saying a word. We tried to tell my dad and Drew, my dad's best friend, what had happened. They both told us it was probably a deer. It was not a deer.

Violets and I still talk about that sometimes. I think that was the first instance where it occurred to us that this may not be an entirely ordinary island. The next one happened two years after that, when I was around ten. As I mentioned earlier, this campground barely even qualified as a campground. I mean this in the nicest way possible, because I love the place, but it was terrifying to walk around there at night. Weird rabbit deer creatures aside, the place was pitch black after 9 o'clock, and as a kid, the thought of walking to the outhouse alone was unfathomable.

One of the outhouses was located, and I'm not joking. in the middle of the downwards, with no paths actually leading to or away from it. Yeah, we'll get to that later. And the other one was parked on the edge of the Circle Drive that sat right in front of the beach. So, I'm ten, and I'd rather suffer the whole night long than walk to that cobwebby outhouse by myself now that it's dark. I entered my tent and as quietly as I could, trying not to wake Violet and padding across the campground to the fire,

where my dad was still sitting drinking a beer. As far as I could tell, Drew had already retreated to his tent with his son and my brother was passed out in the tent he shared with Dad. Dad walked me to the outhouse and waited for me outside. One thing I should note about the outhouse, opening the door and coming out, you can see directly across the dirt circle drive to the path that leads through the bank of tall grass and down onto the beach. I keep saying beach, but I mean that in the same way that someone who says outhouse means

clean, pleasant restroom. The beach at this campsite was rocks, not even pebbles, just straight up two miles of rocks. You had to wade a good 15 to 20 feet out into the water before you would hit sand that wasn't painful to walk on. So I opened the door

and the first thing I saw was a tall figure standing at the mouth of the beach. It took a second for my eyes to get used to the darkness but then I recognised it as Drew. I remember being confused for a moment because I'd been sure he was sleeping. A feeling of realization dawning a second later. Drew was, and still is, a practical joker.

One of his favorite pastimes during these camping trips is to see how many times he can scare us kids completely out of our skin. So I thought, oh, okay, he's going to loop around and hide on the path and scare me on a way back. At the time, I didn't think how impractical it would have been for him to come home. all the way out to the beach and then loop back when he could have easily gone and hid in the bushes along the path while I was using the bathroom. Give me a break. I was ten. Figuering, I might as well let him know that he'd been seen. I waved in him and rolled with my eyes exaggeratedly to say, nice try. Instead of waving back, he tilted his head slowly to one side as if confused.

He lifted a hand limply into the air, but didn't wave it. Then he smiled. and turned, hands still raised, and walked up the path and out of sight. By now, I had a weird feeling in my stomach. I asked my dad if he and Drew had been planning a joke on me, but he said Drew had gone to bed. I was adamant that he hadn't, and insisted that we walk over to the beach to join him, because he must have come out after us, to see the stars or look at the water or whatever the hell people do on the beach at 11 o'clock at night. My dad obviously thought I was crazy, but he followed me anyway as I led the way over to the water. We walked up the path through the tall grass

and out onto a completely empty stretch of rocks met by eerily calm water. To this day, part of me thinks it was still an elaborate joke done by my dad and Drew to scare the hell out of me, which in that case, it definitely worked and props to them for the commitment. Technically, he could have looped around and sprinted back through the trees to a campsite

without me ever seeing him. Like I said, the campground was empty most of the time aside from us, so he wouldn't have disturbed anyone. The other part of me remembers how, when that thing turned around, everything but his head was facing away from me, before it seemed to remember that his head was supposed to turn too, and it snapped around lightning quick, or without ever losing that damn smile.

That's the part to me that thinks, yeah, okay, probably not. This is the last one I'll tell for now, and it happened two summers ago. We just put the final touches on the house, bringing in dishes and whatnot, after an unfortunate incident during which we sat down for dinner and realised there was not a single plate to be found in the entire house, and we were staying there for the rest of the week before heading back home that Sunday. There was a whole crowd of us in one small house, so everyone was spread out all over. Violet and I were sharing the very top room, which everyone referred to as the loft, even though it wasn't technically a loft

and there was an actual loft just down the stairs to the left. The layout of the house is actually kind of important here, so I'll explain it as best I can. At the very top is the loft, which is actually just the small bedroom at the highest point of the house.

There are stairs leading down from that room to a small catwalk, which looks down on the living room slash kitchen area below. The catwalk leads to the actual loft which holds a bunk bed and a couple of closets. Turning bright at the end of the catwalk will take you down another short set of stairs to the landing, where there's another bedroom in two bathrooms.

One more set of stairs leads down to the living room and kitchen. Anyway, it was some unthinkable hour of the morning that normally I would have no trouble sleeping straight through. For some reason, I woke up. Have you ever been dreaming really heavily? And when you wake up, it's almost like you were just slammed back into your bed. I could fall in from the sky. That was how I woke up. My chest felt heavy with dread, the way it usually does after a nightmare.

I could feel my heartbeat, thudding along slow and syrupy. I looked to my right, expecting to see Violet passed out beside me, but she wasn't there. I sat up, looked straight ahead and jumped. Violet was standing at the foot of the bed. Right in front of the window, blocking the faint light from outside. so that she was barely a silhouette in the blurry darkness. She was looking at me, completely devoid of expression. Her eyes flat and her mouth slack.

Her hands hung at her sides, but one of them was open, as if she'd been reaching for something. Her fingers spayed. My glasses were off, so I genuinely don't remember if I saw this, or if I imagined it. At first I thought her hand was twitching, but as I squinted and looked closer, it was less like the handed to some.

was moving, and more like something writhing and pulsating beneath her skin. What are you doing? I mumbled, still half asleep, more than a little unnerved. Without taking her eyes off me, she reached for the door with a partially open hand and fumbled for the door handle. Her fingers moved weirdly, as if her hand had fallen asleep in that position and she hadn't gotten the feeling back to her fingertips yet. She left the door wide open when she left. I sat there with my heart pounding as I gradually woke up My brain already filling the gaps with logic It was late, she was tired, I was tired

She could even be sleepwalking She came back into the room a few minutes later And there was an immediate shift in energy You know when something weird has happened And it's like the air itself gets heavier, almost harder to breathe As soon as she walked back inside shutting the door this time it felt easier to breathe again. She must have sensed the change in the atmosphere

because she gave me an odd look as she climbed back into the bed. You're okay? You seem way to relieve to see me. By that point, I think I already knew what was going to happen, but it still caused an awful sinking in my chest as I asked her

why she'd been acting so strange when she left the room. And watched the colour slowly drained from her face. There was a moment of tense, silence. Then Violet swallowed and said, So, that wasn't you on the landing? Apparently, this is what happened on her end. She had gotten up to use the bathroom, gone down the stairs to the landing, where she had seen me.

She was understandably confused, seeing as she'd just left me lying in bed, but wrote it off, figuring she'd been too tired and noticed that I wasn't there. She had barely glanced over me, anyway, and it was dark. According to her, while I'd been lying in bed at her sleep, I had also been standing at the landing, staring straight up at the skylight above with my mouth slack and my eyes blank. One hand opened, and, twitching weirdly at my side, Violet had said my name, and that was when, whatever that thing was, had turned and gone up the stairs to our room. She said it wasn't until the thing passed her that she'd got in any sense that something was wrong. She said there was a sharp whiff of something acrid, like old meat gone bad. There had also been a low, garbled mumbling, but the thing's mouth never moved. I asked her if she had seen anything on a way back up to the room.

She hadn't. To this day, I have no idea what that thing was or where it went. These are just the stories I tend to tell people the most, around campfires or at parties, back when those were still a thing. There's a whole lot of weird stuff that goes on on this island, and I know my brother and other family or friends who have come out over the years or still have some stories to tell as well. We all love the place, but we've all learned over the years that those noises in the woods are usually best left, uninvestigated. I live by the sea, but please don't get excited by that. People is gush about how lucky I am and how I must spend every spare moment on the shore as though collecting salt. to my hair and kicking pebbles was somehow more diverting than Netflix.

I don't get it. I never have to be honest. This town, this coast, is not the crystal turquoise ocean of vacationers' dreams. It's cold and ruined and forgotten. The sea is always broiling in this pugry, grey-green collar, topped with foam and sputum. The waves roar and beat the shingle mercilessly, constantly, and worst of all, it reeks of death. I hate it. That's why I need you to understand.

I didn't come across this by choice. My flat is fine. It is what it is. I live a crappy life and a crappy town that is slowly rusting to death. But my flat is a little sanctuary of sorts, and I have made the best of what I can afford. Decent kettle, comfy sofa, a couple of unkillable succulents for company.

Any other Sunday I would be crashing out, talking to my plants, and maybe watching a random B movie to waste time while I doomscrolled. But today, some idiot neighbour set off the fire alarm. Not a big deal really, just a minor annoyance, and I figured it would go off in a few minutes. But ten went by, then forty. After two hours, I was ready to lose my mind.

So, I bundled into my coat and headed out. I don't know how many of you live in quiet places, but here, nothing much opens. on a Sunday. The town sort of goes to sleep, which is nice, I guess, when you're not trying to escape, so I didn't have much choice when it came to passing the time. I walked aimlessly to begin with, inspecting the salt-bleed shopfronts and hanging signs. There was one for a boarded-up restaurant that was so faded, it was reduced to a pair of startled cartoon eyes and text that read fish hips, which made me chuckle. I didn't even realize I was headed to the beach until my boots

hit the pebbles. We don't have sand here, at least not unless you wait for the lowest of low tides, and fancy calling the wormy mud sand. Mostly it's cliquor rocks, about the size of salad potatoes all over. It took me a couple of steps to get into a rhythm and find my balance as I headed down to the waves. I honestly don't know what came over me. Maybe it was some residual madness from the ringing in my ears, but whatever it was, the momentum carried me as close as I could get with dry feet. I suppose I'd never really looked at the sea before. The rotten seaweed tanks stung in my throat, and I wouldn't linger long, just enough to confirm my suspicions that it was ugly and unwelcoming and move on. Today was different. There was something else in the air, a taste maybe, or a sound.

I couldn't put my finger on it, but I started out at the same. swell while I searched for the answer. Then I saw her. I didn't focus at first. I was watching the rolling brakes, trying to see the white horses I had heard people describe them as.

Then I saw a tangle of kelp, swaying inside the murk, almost dancing. That's what I mistook her for at first. Detritchus in the seaweed, until her hand broke through the black ribbons as if she was reaching for me. Damn.

I didn't know what to do. And I'm ashamed to admit I hesitated longer than I should have, pacing back and forward, willing myself to run away or dive in, and caught between the two impulses. After a moment that seemed like a lifetime, I threw off my coat and waded into the surf. It was freezing. I honestly don't have the words for how cold it was. I felt like a rindow had just kicked me in the lungs and my limbs became sluggish and seized once I was up to my sternum. Still, I fought through it and carried on. I didn't really have to swim,

just do this ungainly hop and clawing motion to get to her. The waves were crashing over my head now if I missed the jump and soul to begin to sting my eyes, blurring my vision. I got close and almost had a panic attack when a leathery strap of seaweed wrapped around my neck like a snap bracelet. I clawed it off and reached out again, trying to find the outline of her arm, trying to save her. The water was in my nose.

running down my face. I couldn't really see anything other than the dark pulsing of the kelp and the hollow green water, but I kept reaching until I felt something solid. I only made it to her fingertips, but I tried as hard as I could

to interlace them with mine and pull her toward me. I was sputtering, gobbing mouthfuls of freezing water mixed with snot out from the force. Her fingers were cold, but then so were mine, so a tiny hope still lingered

that she could be alive. I reached the palm and began to feel some relief. I had her. I could help her. I... This is hard to describe. It all happened so quickly, but so slowly all at once.

I had managed to interlock my thumb with hers and reached the back of her hand, just as a surprise wave beat me back. I tightened my grip, determined not to let go, as the water thundered over my head. I redouble my efforts, pushing back against the force,

of the ocean until, to my surprise, her grip tightened too. Panicked, I kicked up toward the surface, but she held me fast. I remember hearing you should not try to save someone from drowning unless you're trained, because they will push you down to keep themselves afloat. But that wasn't what this was. She was holding me there, suspended and still, just like her. As I scrambled and my cheeks involuntarily puffed with wasted air, I saw my manage to open my eyes.

I wish now more than anything I hadn't And I understand if you put What I'm about to tell you down to some kind of stress hallucination Or oxygen-deprived trick of the brain But I know what I saw She was woman-shaped at first glance In that I was right

But as she held me there I saw little details I'd missed at a distance Little wrong things Her mousy hair wasn't made up of strands like mine But seemed to be some kind of men membrane extending from her its scalp. There was no nose, no ears. The lines I had taken for lips were nothing more than dark, scaled and popped markings,

from the corners of which a line like a Chelsea smile spread into a seam extending back along its jaw. Round, flat eyes stared at me, and for a split second, I was lost in the metallic, unblinking gaze. That's when the seam across its face split into a pulsing grin, revealing a thwarting PIN narrow, transparent teeth. Fear kicked me back into the present, and I twisted and thrashed trying to get away. All the while, this thing never lost its grip, only holding me tighter.

My lungs were burning, and I was vomiting bubbles from the exertion. I knew I had to get away, knew that there was not much time left. Despair and panic and rage flooded me, and I lashed out with the only weapon I had. Sacrificing the last precious cup of air, I pulled my face down to the blue sky. advice that held me, and, with all my might, tore into it with my teeth. I did not think. It was all animal instinct and fury. I tore and grow round my jaws again and again, until at last I felt release, and my body scrambled to the surface as if possessed. I have never been a strong swimmer, but I moved to the speed then, desperate to put distance between me and whatever that was.

I heaved my aching carcass onto the beach, abandoning my coat and not slowing in the until I reached the road. I turned back, heart pounding in my throat, but nothing followed. I could have convinced myself I imagined it, if I hadn't started heaving then, and spat out a mouthful of seawater and blood. I stared at the pinkish stain on the pavement and ran my fingers across my lips to check for injuries.

Nothing. So I tried again, this time feeling along my gums for a loosened tooth or cut. I knew there was none defiant. though I prayed I would find evidence of a concussion or some other rational explanation. Still, I knew I wouldn't. I knew, despite desperate hope, because I could still feel fibers of its flesh between my teeth. I was suddenly very cold, rather suddenly aware of how cold I was.

Nothing could compel me to set foot on that beach again, so the coat was a lost cause. Instead, I did my best to stagger home. I had completely forgotten about the fire alarm and didn't even notice the engineer that held the front door open with a look of concerned bemusement until I had stumbled through. I pulled the keys from my pocket and wheeled my chill joints to work faster, avoiding looking at the deepening bruises on my wrist and pulling off sopping wet layers as soon as the door was closed behind me,

abandoning them to the floor. I got into the shower as hot as I could bear, sat down then and cried. It's been six hours since I got home. and four since I got out of the shower. My hair is dry now, and I'm sitting on the floor by my sofa, swaddled in my dressing gown. I don't even know why I'm telling you this. It's just...

I have to tell someone. I have to do it now, before I forget anything. Before I convince myself, I have completely lost my mind or... I don't know. I got home six hours ago, full of adrenaline and exhausted, but aware. Everything in my flat was as I left. it, I think, I'm sure. And I got out of the shower four hours ago, give or take. It took a long time to warm my bones and brush my teeth and process what I saw and what I thought. I walked into

the living room while I was still rubbing my head with a towel, so I didn't notice until I kicked it and heard the clink as it toppled and rolled. Instinctively, I stopped it with my foot and bent down to pick it up. A little bottle, about three inches of scuff green glass. glass, wax dripping down one side from the seal. The dread quickly sat heavy in the pit of my stomach. This was not here when I got home. I walked across this floor. It was clear.

There was nothing. I looked at the bottle in horror and confusion. There was something inside. I picked at the wax until it gave way and shook the bottle violently. If it had taken much longer, I would have smashed it on the floor, despite my bare feet. but the shaking worked, and a tube of brittle paper poked out past the lip. This is when I sat down, back against the sofa, and grabbed my phone from the arm and began typing. Every few seconds picking up the roll and putting it down.

I have been staring at it for 20 minutes solid now. I thought I should write this as I read it. I hope it'll be like having someone here with me. I feel sick. It only has two sentences. on it. A few cryptic scratched out words in birocaps almost like a handwritten cookie

fortune. That would be funny if I wasn't so afraid. I know I should tell you what it says, but it's hard to type out. I just keep rubbing my eyes and thinking I'll wake up from this god-awful dream, this nightmare, this...

It says, you are hers now. You belong to the sea. My wife is amazing. She's been there for me in the very worst of times in my life, always with a set of encouraging words. We started out as friends,

and I'd highly recommend that route for those of you looking for love. If you can call your significant other an asshole without them throwing a fit, you've got to keep her. There's just one issue. It's her parents. Most men in media are depicted as having a strained relationship with their in-laws, to be sure, but this is different. They were never outright cool, but they creep me out.

It probably has to do with my father-in-law's profession. Paul makes dolls. Well, Marianette's really. And he makes a pretty penny doing it too. You'd be surprised to learn the sorts of things that rich people can spend their money on. It was the most recent visit over to their house that really set me on edge, though. I slammed the driver-side door of the SUV and leaned against the window with my face down. staring at the concrete driveway.

I was working myself up. I knew that as soon as we entered their home, I'd be confronted with the dead eyes of those damn puppets. I could already feel my shirt collar beginning to cling around my neck from perspiration. It's going to be okay. You always overreact. I felt the gentle hand of my wife brushed the small of my back. I twisted around and grinned.

I know, you're right, but they just... I know. She said, smiling, it's going to be fine. We pulled a little sausage fat baby from the car seat in the back. There was a wide red mark running the length of his round face. He'd fallenously parred, and the impressions on his skin served as the perfect receptacles for his spittle. He began to stir as I began bobbing him slowly awake. A little guy.

Being a dad still felt so alien, but I loved him. As the wife removed the diaper bag from the back seat I could see her grey-haired parents poked their raising faces out of the front door. They waved us over and I began taking hesitant steps up to the old ranch-style house. We moved into the house

and the smell around me changed nearly suffocating me. Elderly dead skin cells bathed my lungs and I had to get out. I sat next to my wife on the ancient couch sending up a puff of dust particles. I tried to cover my baby's face with my hand without anyone noticing.

I did not want him breathing in the ungodliness that was stuck in the recesses of those couch cushions. Eggnog? asked my mother-in-law, Elaine. Of course, I forced the smile. As she handed me the crystaline glass, I passed my son off to my wife and took a long, slow sip of the thick white stuff. Mmm, good, I grinned, wearily at her.

Whoever had made the eggnog had decided that a ratio of 60% alcohol was a good idea. I can't disagree. As I finished the glass off and sat it on the nearby table, I felt better. It was swimming and warm.

The fireplace crackled and forced the jump out of me. You need to calm down, Elaine refilled my glass. Thank you. I held the glass for perhaps a minute before it was gone. Paul strained his

popping knees from the armchair and moved to the hallway, looking over his shoulder. He spoke to me. You want to help me out? I knew what that entailed. I had really wished I would not have to look in that room. I choked out my words. Of course. As I stood, I could feel my wife squeezed my hand reassuringly.

When I looked down at her on the couch, I could see that she was shooting me a look. You need to calm down, said that look. I nodded at her. I moved to follow a father as he waddled down the hall. Paul spoke without looking at me. Got a new piece of wood down in the basement. I need your help with it. I can't move it myself.

I hope you don't mind. No, I don't mind. I clenched my jaw, and I could hear the blood pumping in my skull. Throb, throb, throb. As he opened the basement door to the infinite blackness, I grew dizzy. The alcohol in the eggnog was really doing its business. We made a way down the steps slowly,

him lumbering ahead with me wavering behind. As he clicked on the basement light, I could see what he meant. There was a huge piece of what might have been driftwood, perhaps six feet in length. It had to have been two hundred pounds. It did not occur me to ask him how it was that he'd gotten the thing in the basement in the first place.

Without much ado, we squatted and momentarily fought to tilt it so that it would more easily shift up the stairs to the ground floor. By the time we reached the top of the steps, I could see my small family and Elaine sitting near the fireplace, unmoving, heads cocked to watch the flames. After shutting the basement door, we shimmered awkwardly towards the open doorway at the very end of the hall. I could see the dolls just barely through the threshold.

The goose flesh was already springing up on my house, arms like mad. Whoa there, careful now, said Paul, giving me a warm smile. There was something else there too. I could just make out that his expression was sending me telepathic messages, something along the lines of, you better not put a hole in my damn wall, kid. Sorry, I felt small. It's all right.

We stepped into the room and we were surrounded on all sides by dead eyes. Eyes that I see my dreams. eyes that could put a spell on me, eyes drawn from the deepest parts of hell. The dolls hung on every open space of wall and sat upon every possible surface. Most of them were dressed in the entire of Victorian England, but some were more contemporary,

a construction worker here, a businesswoman there. As we squatted to set the large piece of driftwood onto the floor, it felt as though microscopic bugs were boring their way into my flesh. I could feel them. This was easily the largest room in the whole house. It was Paul's workshop. The floor was covered in sawdust and splatters of paint. Against the far wall was a workstation with wood-shaping tools.

Even if I did hate dolls, I couldn't help but admire his current project. It was a life-size marionette, and it seemed that he'd already carved out the hollows for eyes. I shivered. The shape of the arms and legs were impeccable. His handiwork was worth taking note of. I suppose. He settled under his stool at his workstation, waving me over. He took up her foreign blade and began shaving off a piece of the doll's arm, forcing it to take the shape of a true-to-life human.

It was an unsettling moment, watching him do it. He cackled at me. I thought for sure my dolls were making uncomfortable. No, I lied. They're really quite something, from a certain angle, I guess. I was fidgeting, and I could feel the heat coming off me again. I wanted to fall out there in the floor right then and there, with all those damn eyes on me. It felt like they were following my every micro-expression.

They were judging my movements. I was under extreme scrutiny. He juggled. It's an art form, really. It takes a lot of practice to get it just so. He grunted as he had a specifically difficult piece of raised wood. Relax, you are family. I'm going to go sit in the family room.

He waved me off and I left that damnable room. As I returned to the den, I settled under the couch and Elaine refilled my glass of eggnog. You look so flushed, said the wrinkled or true. Yeah, added my wife. Are you all right? She bobbed a little boy on her leg. He grinned stupidly, eyeing me over.

For the briefest of moments, it felt as though he'd had his eyes replaced with those of a long-dead marionette. I blinked and wiped my hand along my slacks. I'm fine. I downed two more glasses of eggnog as I put the dolls out of my mind. The smell of the slow-cooking roast wafted through the home, and I was getting wasted. The shadows in the home grew long. Our baby took up in an imaginary game, crawling beneath the Christmas tree. Elaine and my wife took up in chatting.

about this and that, and I kept my full attention on the flames of the fireplace. Paul worked continuously in his workshop. He always did that. He was always working. Forever the artist, I guess. Something like that. My vision was growing blurry, and I excused myself to the kitchen. The floor of the house creaked beneath my feet. It was an old house. I hunkered down in front of the stove and expected the roast. I was beginning to get the trunk munches. It did look good. I found the punch bowl containing the eggnog and found the half-empty bottle of whiskey sitting next to the bowl. I poured more of the liquid into it and then looked over my

shoulder to be sure that no one else has seen me press my mouth to the edge of the bowl and lift it up. After wiping my mouth, I checked the amount of time left and the old school timer. I sighed and moved to the living room again, settling into the couch next to my wife. I wish they had a TV. I fell to sleep and was roused by the sound. of the cooking timer. We gathered to the kitchen, helping Elaine set the table. I felt warm, and my thoughts of the marionettes were momentarily forgotten. As Paul entered the kitchen, wiping his hand down the front of his carpenter's apron,

he greeted us with a warm smile and began carving the roast. The sound of knives and forks clinking against a beautiful white china plate filled the air, and I ate ravenously. So, Paul addressed me from the opposite side of the table. table. How's your little stories going? I swallowed hard. My stories? Yes, your little stories. The things you write about, you know. He waved his knife in a circular motion, as though to accentuate his point. Those little made-up fancies you put on paper. Father, said my wife. I put my hand on a knee to assure that I had not been offended.

I'm sorry, said Paul. I wiped out my mouth with a cloth napkin provided. It's fine. They're fine. I shrugged. It could be better. It could be worse. He pointed his knife at me while chewing.

That's because you produce fiction. You produce gross approximations. His shoulders relaxed. I just wish someone would follow my work. It would be nice to have another puppet maker in the family. You'd be creating reality. He slammed his glass against the table and snapped his fingers at me. You'd be creating something better than reality. I felt small all over again.

His expression gave him that same sensation I'd had in the dull room. I was under extreme scrutiny. I exposed my teeth sheepishly. We finished our meal in silence. I continued to drink. After regathering in the family room, my wife mentioned in passing while yawning. I think we better stay for the night, I'm too tired to drive home and, She twisted in a seat to look me over. I don't think you're in any shape to drive. I wish you weren't right. Elaine Rose.

I'll make sure the guest room is ready for you too then. I think Paul can break a raw crib for the little one. Thank you, Mother. My wife snuggled tightly into my bicep while yawning again. I was shaking. I did not want to stay the night. I didn't even want to be in the house. I stood.

No. Elaine flinched and hesitated. I can drive. I stood and took a step forward and nearly staggered over. Elaine put a cold, bony hand of my collarbone. Don't be silly. You can leave in the morning. It'll be fine.

I'll even let you use one of my weighted blankets. It's very snugly. Defeated, I sat on the couch and waited. Time passed and we dressed down in the guest room. My wife reached out to grab my elbow after I settled her son into the old crib. He tidily stretched and was quickly asleep My wife whispered in my ear

Can you please stop acting so weird around my parents I'm sorry, okay I don't know why they make me so nervous I can't put my finger on it Most men get nervous around their in-laws, right? She kissed my neck from behind As I looked down at our unmoving sun in the crib I guess

We bedded down And just as Elaine had promised There was a nice fluffy wetsy, weighted blanket waiting there for us. We folded it out and quickly entangled ourselves together beneath it. I felt a set of hands grabbing my ankles in the bed and another set of hands pin my wrists down. I couldn't make a sound.

There was something over my mouth. I wanted to scream. I wanted to let the whole world know that her parents were finally going to be the death of me. My eyes shot around in all directions and I could see that Paul was quickly binding my arms to the bedpost. my wife was nowhere to be seen Elaine had my ankles and no matter how hard I tried kicking her off

I could not relinquish a grasp her nails dug into my shins and I swear I could feel my warm thick blood begin to spring out in the bed covers How were you doing with your little stories? asked Paul I attempted a muffled response but nothing came

they grinned in the darkness and I could see the glint of their cold metallic teeth Then they fed on me Her on my legs and Paul on my face They dug into my flesh And the boiling hot pain shot through my body like electricity I could do nothing in defence I could not fight them off

I was going to die there in that bed I knew it They wanted to kill me What have they done to my poor wife and child I tore my face from Paul's And the ripping of my cheek muscle in his clenched teeth Made a sick popping sound I whipped my head to peer into the threshold

of the guest's room. Standing in the doorframe was my wife. She was holding our son, rocking him back and forth. Go to sleep, go to sleep, don't worry, said my wife. If you give in, it'll be over all the sooner. She flipped on the light, and for the first time, I could see the macab mess of gore before me. Her parents had already devoured the majority of my body. I was little more than a set of flailing bones with bits of sopping viscerase soaking into the bed sheet, I could not fathom how it was that I was still alive. My head rolled clear of my body in one swift snapping motion from Paul's strong calisans. He carried me through the house under one arm.

I'm going to make something that's better the reality. You understand? He said. Given that I was no more than a severed head, I could neither nod nor shake. He moved me to his workstation and secured my head to a person-sized marionette. He lifted me in the way. the strings and danced me around the room while standing atop his stool. All the while they laughed maniacly at my misfortune.

I screamed as my newfound arms and legs did things of their own volition, or rather of his volition. I screamed myself awake and kicked the weighted blanket blanket of my sweating body. My white t-shirt and boxes clung to my body. I was drenched in sweat, still shaking from the nightmare. After a cursory glance, I could see that the room was still dark. It was night time, but both my wife and child were gone. After I looked at the edge of the bed to be sure that no lurkers beneath could snatch my ankles,

I hopped off the bed and scoured to the open doorway leading into the hall. I could hear an old Bing Crosby tune. Was everyone else awake? How strange? I moved down the hall. I needed a glass of water. I needed to calm down. As I came to the edge of the family room,

I could see they were gathered there, barely illuminated by the bulbs of the Christmas tree. Paul and Elaine in the recliners. My wife and child on the couch. My shoulders relaxed. I was being ridiculous, of course. I approached them hesitantly. Ah, you've decided to join us. Paul twisted in his seat to catch me out of the corner of his eye.

Something was off. Something just wasn't right. The uncanny valley was screaming. I reached for the light switch. Come, said Paul, join us in what is better than reality. I flipped the light switch on, illuminating the orphaness veiled in the dark. My son hopped off the couch and began running around in happy little circles. He?

Doesn't know how to walk. The wires extending from his body up towards the ceiling controlled his every movement. My wife's mouth clacked open, all wooden and painted. Her eyes shut from left to right, as dead as the material they were made from. Come on, honey! A jaw moved sporadically. Paul stood without exactly touching the ground. They were puppets.

They were all puppets. I nearly voided my bowels in the spot. I screamed. I felt the whole world's spin around me. My eyes shot to the door leading from the house. I bolted and wretched it open, pelting down the driveway barefoot. I nearly stopped and dove into the SUV, but I had no pants. I didn't have the keys.

Within my moment's hesitation, I looked over my shoulder and could see my in-laws waving at me. Come again, called Paul as his wired body caught in the breeze like a windchime. I will not be visiting them ever again. They say it's a legend. just the story we tell to scare children, but I'm here to tell you not to believe a word of it. You would do well to beware the Yule Cat, no matter what they say.

My cousins and I grew up on the Icelandic countryside and spent most of our lives within a stone's throw of our birthplace. For two weeks in December, my saintly grandmother would welcome us into her home so my parents could go Christmas shopping or have some time to themselves. She invited all my cousins as well, a brood of eight when we were all assembled and many nights after Grandad had made excuses for going off to the pub

Grandma would gather us around the fire and tell us stories stories about fairies, Queen Mab and her ilk and of the elves and darker things that had once been a part of this landscape she told her stories of Icelandic heroes and filled our dreams with monsters that beg to be slain as we took on our favourite champion's roles but especially around the Christmas season her favourite story was of the Yule Cat

He is a giant creature capable of stepping over palisades and creeping into tall buildings He punishes the lazy and rewards those who work hard And do their work year round If you neglect your duties the Yol Cat will find your children Never doubt His favourite meal is children without new clothes in winter Their parents having spent their summers at leisure

Thankless children he hates as well Those who scorn their parents work In favour of frivolous things So be thankful my children That your parents work hard to keep such dark things away Most of the stories about the Yule Cat Involved naughty children who went into the woods at night Spoiled children whose parents found that the Yol Cat

Had dragged them out through their window and gobbled them up And good children who went rushing home on Christmas Eve To get their clothing gifts before the Yule Cat could get them My little brother, Sven, always held a deep fear of the ewe cat, but I can honestly never remember a time when I was afraid of it. It always seemed goofy to me, and in my head I just imagine a cat with giant legs that looked like big noodles. Its body was way high in the air, and its legs just wiggled around beneath it.

I had drawn a picture of it from my grandmother once, and she had only smiled and ruffled my hair. Let us hope that if the eulcat finds you, he is as silly as you think he is. I'd smiled about the idea of meeting the yorkat then, thinking of all the monsters and beasts my cousins and I slain in our dreams. I'm not smiling as I write this.

I came to live with my grandparents when I was 15. My father and mother had been killed in a car accident when a semi-truck slid on ice and hit them head on. They say they died instantly, but all I knew was that Sven and I was suddenly without parents. There was never any question where we would go, of course. My grandmother opened her home to us without a second thought,

and, with Grandpa three years in his grave, she said it would be nice to have some company. I lived with her until I was 23, attending university and getting my degree, so I could begin a career in architecture, and then taking up residence in my parents' old home so I could maintain the family homestead. The house was on my grandparents' land,

so it wasn't as though we had never been back. Sven didn't like to go back to her old home, claiming there were too many memories there, and my grandmother sheltered him quite a bit. When I moved back, I invited him to come live with me, but he declined. He was 17 and showed none of my drive. I was worried that if he stayed,

my grandmother would cuddle him forever, but that was his decision. I decorated my old home like it was my first Christmas. The lights and decorations still in the cross space, as they had always been, and my house had shone out against the darkness like a beacon. My tree stood in full view of the window, and I bought presents for everyone. I spent much of my life without much money, and now that I have a lucrative job,

I decided to take advantage of the holiday season and spoil my relatives a bit. I was sitting snug by the fire, a cup of spiced hot chocolate in my hand, and a slight buzz when my phone rang. My grandma's smiling picture showed from the home screen, and I picked it up as I tried to compose my voice. Grandma was used to people being a little drunk. My granddad had always been pickled more than sober during his life, but I was at that age where I was self-conscious about her seeing me like that. I answered the phone, and she immediately started without a greeting.

Karen, you have not come by to get your your clothes. You'll need to come back now. I wasn't used to my grandmother being so forceful. She was usually very mild, but she seemed upset about this to an irrational level. Tomorrow was Christmas Day, when all of my cousins and their families gathered for presents and grandma's usual Christmas feast. What Grandma was referring to was a tradition of giving us clothes to, quote, keep the Yule Cat away. This was my first Christmas away from home. I usually got them from Grandma when I woke up on the 23rd, but I guess I'd missed it since I'd moved out.

Oh, that's okay, Gran. I'll get them tomorrow. I'll be there with the others and you can give them to me. No, you must come get them now and hurry. I need you here before the sun goes down or the Yule Cat will get you. I rod my eyes. Gran, I think the Yol Cat will understand if I don't want to go out in the snow to get clothes. Can't I just come by tomorrow?

Her voice went from a severe matriarch to a pleading older woman in the blink of an eye. Karen, please. It is your first time away from home And I want you to be safe I can leave them on the porch if you don't have time to come in But please come and get them Please She sounded so scared that I couldn't disagree

I told her I would get dressed and come over before sunset And she sighed in relief and thanked me I dressed warmly in my snow pants and a heavy coat My muffler and gloves came on next Along with a pair of snow boots and a flashlight just in case All of this went on over what I was already wearing, jeans and a t-shirt and thick socks, and stepped out into the ankle-deep snow. I put a hand on my old Jeep and decided against it.

My head was a little sloshy, and I knew it would only take a few minutes with a heat blasting before I'd be asleep and sliding on the icy road. Instead, I decided to walk. My grandmother's house was only about two miles from mine, and the bracing cold would sobe me up a little. I set off towards the woods that separated her house from mine. Every time I walk those familiar trails, I always feel like I should be scattering breadcrumbs behind me.

My grandmother's house lies sheltered in the woods, and they always feel so dense and foreboding whenever I have to walk through them. The snow and the cold made them quiet, the birds having all left, and many of the animals asleep for the winter, but the tracks told me that there were, indeed, things out here. My leg started to get tired almost at once. If you've never had to slog through deep snow, then I can tell you that it isn't much fun. The sun was going down, and I began to regret not taking the truck. I could hear the snow making the trees crack and sag, and now and again there was a scurry

of movement of some small creatures. Other than the occasional noise, it was as though I had the forest to myself, and my loud footsteps made me feel like the last person on earth. I heard the snow crunch nearby, I swung to see what was there. The sound had startled me. My own feet were the only thing making much noise out there, but I found nothing out there that could have made the noise. By the sound of the crunch, I would have thought it was a reindeer or maybe a clumsy squirrel

who'd fallen from a tree. In the dim light, I couldn't even see if there were prints, and I started the slog a little faster, worried it might be a wolf or something. The crunching came again, but I shrugged it off as my mind playing tricks. When it crunched again, closer this time, I started moving even faster. Going too fast would be a great way to break an ankle or fall and impale myself in a tree limb, but the crunching and lack of a source was starting to freak me out. The snowing sky was already overcast and the sun was setting behind them.

The thoughts of being out here after dark made my skin crawl, and the thought of getting lost in a stretch of woods that would become nearly unnavigatable once the sun went down made me quick in my pace again. My footsteps were loud, cutting through the silence like a foghorn, but somehow I could still hear the steps behind me

as I nearly jogged through the ankle-deep snow. What I thought might be a reindeer or a wolf now sounded like something much larger. It was very rare, but polar bears sometimes got stuck on ice floes and found their way here. I'd seen something about it online, I thought, and I could just see a big hungry polar bear

lopping along behind me as he prepared to make a quick meal out of me. I didn't dare look back as I heard the crunches come down, not eight feet behind me. It hit the ground large enough to dislodge snow from the trees, and I started bucking it as best I could. What the hell was it? Iceland didn't have a lot of large predators, none that came this close to settled areas,

and my mind began to travel to a time when I was young and sitting warm around my grandmother's fire. My cousins and I had always loved the stories of trolls and elves, great heroes who slew the former and were aided by the latter, and we always took up sticks when we played and pretending to swing mighty swords at the knees of ugly, hulking trolls. The idea of being devoured by a large and slavering troll. My mind showing me the one from Harry Potter seemed less fun now that I was being chased by one in a fairy-tale forest.

I glanced behind me in a blind panic, not wanting to see, but wanting to know nonetheless, and felt my boots sink into a hole. I went down, face first in the snow, and nearly headfirst into a tree, and rolled over to face whatever was now surely going to get me. My ancestors had been the men who settled this land, men who rode onto these shores in boats with axes and tamed this wildness, and I would be damned if I would die with my head in the snow like a blubbering baby. What I saw looming over me was no troll

What I saw looming over me It was much worse But when I had drawn him I had made his legs long and wavy like noodles I'd drawn him with a tabby cat coat And a pair of big friendly yellow eyes He'd been given the Cheshire cat's grin And a pair of pointy ears

That made him look a little like Batman He looked friendly, goofy Something a child couldn't possibly be afraid of The Yule Cat for that was the only thing it could be, was none of those things. His coat was black as twice-baked charcoal, and his bones and muscles seemed to shift beneath it like there might be something living just under its skin. Its legs were long and powerful, like a panther or a jaguar, and its paws left tracks as big as hubcaps with claws like stilettos.

His mouth was filled with big teeth, and the tips seemed to poke at his lips painfully as its slavor ran. pink. Its ears had been mostly chewed off, sitting on its head like rounded nubs that barely seemed big enough to be ears at all. Its eyes, though, were the worst. Its yellow eyes blaze like torches, the centre's crackling red, and when it loosed a long, loud yell, I felt my snow pants fill. I was saved by dumb luck. Its yowl had loosened some snow from the tree over my head, and when it fell, it coated the eulcats face in a cold blanket of surprise. I rolled away, and when I did, the beast lunged with me and ran smack into the tree I'd nearly fallen into. It yelled again, angrily, and its claws sounded as if they were shredding the tree to pieces.

I couldn't tell you if they did or didn't. I was running through the snow like a reindeer, churning it up as my fear gave me a new purpose. I could see the smoke from Grandma's chimney, but I knew I had to be another quarter of a little. mar from the house. The shadows were gathering and I knew that I was dead as soon as the thing got its bearings. When it came after me, I realized it had been playing with me before. Its crunching steps sounded dinosauric and it cleared the distance between us easily. It swiped to me as I ran and the claws slid easily through my jacket. My back suddenly felt cold as the goose down spilled out of it and I began to realize I was running on borrowed time. I had to find some way to lose it. I had to find

some way to use its size against it. I needed a place to hide and catch my breath, my lungs burning and my head swimming with exertion. That's when I passed the Himal Tree and realized where I was. When we were children, there was this tall tree that we used as a landmark. We called it the Himal Tree, the Sky Tree, because it always seemed like it soared up into the clouds. My older cousins and I hiked the tree once, nearly a quarter mile into the woods, and found that the tree lived up to its name. It was massive, 60 feet of wood-like iron, and beneath it was a series of roots that looked like a cage.

The soil had pulled away from them, and as kids, we would crawl beneath a tree and camp in relative comfort. The spot was large for a child, but would be snug for me. I was hoping that it would be too snug for this hellcat as well. I booked it running flat out as the tree sought up to greet me. I jumped over a sprawl of fallen trees, something I remembered from childhood, and prayed that maybe the cat wouldn't be so lucky. When I heard him hiss and stumble a moment later, I knew that luck was with me. I didn't look to see how badly he had spilled.

I fell on my belly and prayed I had the angle right as I slid between the roots of the huge tree. I thought my shoulder, the tough roots hurting as I hit them, but I made it mostly under as the cat scrambled after me. I winced as his claws caught my leg, ripping through snow pants and jeans to sink its meat. But I shook him off before he could pull me out, I was soon snug beneath the wooden canopy of the huge old tree. The underside was just as I remembered it. It was damp from Snow Run, but the frozen snow had mostly covered it, so I was left in a crystalline world, domed by white. The cat screamed in agony, shooting a paw between the roots and searching for me in frustration.

I huddled against the side of the tree, not wanting to be found by those furtive claws, and stayed as still and quiet as I could. The scrambling went on for what seemed like hours, until finally the cat removed its suttie paw, and I heard it crunching off into the forest. I stayed still, fearing some trick, but it went right on moving until its heavy footsteps were only slight crunches in the distance. I stayed put, though, blowing in my hands as my wet pants and bleed.

leg began to make me shiver. I would freeze the death out here if I stayed too long, but I was afraid that the eulcat might double back and wait for me to leave. I shivered for as long as I could, feeling the temperature drop as the sun crept closer down. And finally, I decided I'd rather be eaten than freeze the death. I crawled out, and when I wasn't immediately set upon, I started stumbling towards my grandmother's house. She was waiting in the doorway for me, a mug of spice cider in her hand, and a concern grimace for my many injuries. He found you, didn't he? It wasn't a question, but I nodded anyway.

I've been sitting by the fire and letting her feed me and nurse me for the last few hours. She bandaged my leg and took my shredded clothes away. She set a plate of food in front of me, and when I finished the spice cider, she brought me tea and told me to rest. Before she went back to a room to sleep, she dropped a package in my lap, and it was a new sheepskin coat, lovely to see and soft a touch. I couldn't imagine what it had cost her, though I knew what it had almost cost me. You won't bother you now, she said, and made away to bed as I sat convulsing by the fire. So, heed your elders when they tell you the old stories. was lucky, but you can't always count on luck. The Yule Cat still lurks in the hills and woods,

searching for those he deems ungrateful and underdressed. Don't take the clothes you get for Christmas so lightly because they could save your life if you find yourself in the sights of the Yule Cat. Thalasophobia is characterized by a primal fear of open water. This can manifest in many ways and can be exasperated by any number of fears. The ocean is vast after all, and last I checked, we hadn't even bothered graphing out more than 10% of them. Meanwhile, we have wannabe philanthropists

fixing to send us to Mars. But then, I suppose, the sand is always redder somewhere. Fear of open water is not something I would have considered a problem. According to my mar, I was swimming like a pro by age two. I did freestyle in high school,

we got a bit more into say, and after a tour with a USS butler, I did some work towing in salvage for the USNS. I've seen plenty of odd stuff out on the water islands of trash you could fairly walk across. Dead dolphins belly up on toxic waters, as far as the eye could see, a failed piracy attempt that saw both vessels capsized, but none of that turned me away from the sea. See, the logical summation is that the ocean, like any other fact of earthly nature, is as gorgeous as it is indifferent. indifferent. Respect must be given, and even then, sometimes, the ocean must take a dew.

That's why sailors work by routine as a rule, checking and double-checking every knot in every rigging, gazing upon the waves for a change in the currents, trusting the stars over their own skewed sense, and then, even then, they do rely on superstition. As for me, well, I relied on two inches of steel hull. Although I wasn't a practicing Catholic, I had my mother's pendant with me at all times. A small silver disc pressed with the cameo of Mary. So I got myself a nice stipend and settled down in New York for a while, doing contract work and saving up for a sailing trip around the world.

And I still hate myself. Hate the memory of my smug self as I haggled with the agent. I was doing fine. I could have gotten another place. Hell, somewhere closer to the dock. So what's the catch? I mean, this place is too good to be so cheap. I folded my arms and leaned back as she averted her eyes,

sweeping her already neatly pinned hair behind her ear. It was casual, but it was still a tell. She sighed and met my eyes, and I could tell she wasn't in the mood to tell me bold-faced lies. Well, to be honest, there was a death in this unit about two years ago. That had my brows raised. But before I could begin any belligerent questioning, she continued. It wasn't a murder or anything like that.

Someone happened to pass away in the tub. They drowned? There have been two more tenants since, but there's far more life to the place than sad memories. She finished a bit weakly. That wasn't in the ad, I sighed. She pursed the lips and looked about the place. Honestly, it was a nice place.

The front door opened into a small foyer An open living area with huge windows Looking onto a sizable balcony A full-sized kitchen Even a nice whole linen closet Like Mars House had Already I could see myself Frying up some buttered fish at the stovetop

I was struggling not to pass out on the couch An hour into something I made an offer The first night was like most in a new place I unpacked the essentials Ordered some pizza, crack some beers And watch LeBron James take a laughable dive. I mean, the guy could fold me into a basketball and drobble me up and down the court,

but I still snorted and called him a pansy. Playoffs brought out the best and worst in athletes. You know how sometimes there's this beat of silence between a broadcast when they cut a commercial? I was gazing stupily at the buzzing screen after the fanfare of ESPN passed when that delay hit, and in the quiet hum I heard it, this dripping ever so quietly. Whether due to my frugal nature or my adherence to neatness, after several years following military protocols, I pushed myself off the couch and looked about for the source of the noise. Ah, I thought, heading through the broad, open door into the kitchen. I turned the knob firmly and the dribble ceased.

I got back to dissecting the feats of better men than I. It was a week later when it woke me. The sky outside was that greyish tint, where you couldn't tell if it was one. 1 a.m. or dawn. I slapped about on my bedside table for my phone and checked. 3.02. God damn it. And then I heard it. A steady. Drip. Drip. I closed my eyes, even as I rolled them back in my head. Of course I need to get a new fixture. The place was a little too good. And you know what? Hey, on the bright side, I needed a project to keep me busy on my off days. I wanted to just drift back to sleep

But for one, the way I'd woken was so Sudden and complete That I knew it would be a while to lower my heart rate And for another, I really needed to empty my bladder I yawned widely as I plodded blindly down the hall Confident in my lack of tripping hazards Pass the linen closet towards the bathroom I shivered and realised my feet were as cold

As if I'd left them out during a foray or past St. John's Of course I sighed again And made my way to the bathroom Did my business And made sure to turn the water fully off I made my way back to bed And started the doze

And though I couldn't be sure of it then I can swear with some certainty Now that the steady drip of water lulled me back to sleep So just under two weeks Into moving into the place I was having issues with my water And central air

And becoming generally more irritable overall My sleep was suffocating, though I had attributed that to being in a new place. Something else began to nag at me, however, something unreasonable and unseemly, something from the depths of my monkey mind, fueled by pop culture and campfire stories. I got my laptop out and started Googling. That lying trench, I muttered to myself, perusing the article. It was sensationalised as hell, as would be anything printed by the post, George Rafferty had rented this unit two years back.

Apparently, some folks were sent a check on him when he hadn't come to work for two days. By the time they found him, he'd been dead for at least four days, since before the weekend, though the examiner couldn't say for sure due to his waterlog state. Obviously, this wouldn't be much of a story to end up in the post,

nor would it have elicited such a reaction from yours truly if it weren't for a certain extra detail. That being, that graffiti was found in the hallway, not the tub. Now, I'm not saying it's impossible for someone to drown out of water. All it takes is inhalation into the lungs after all. But that he was found waterlogged? I sighed and considered the source. A little more furious digging and...

Nothing. It's like this guy didn't exist as far as any reputable publications was concerned. On a whim that felt a little greek. guilty, I typed his name into the Facebook search bar. It was a common enough name and quite a few names popped up, but one stuck out to me. Here was no option to contact or defend them, and there was some script on their profile picture that reminded me of text on the cover of a paperback novel. A pleasant face smiled back at me, a balding man with a neat beard, the summer sun reflecting

of his dark brown forehead. 1962 to 2018, the text read, Always looking forward. The comments were all condolences and affirmations of love from those that knew him. The feeling of guilt intensified, and I clicked away. So, what had I learned? I sighed and looked around the place. The walls didn't bleed.

I didn't see things crawling on the ceiling at night. The idea that I was being haunted by a ghost that made my damn fall. causes drip began to seem more absurd, and, though I should have been laughing at myself, I just felt like a kid who got caught still believing in Santa. Poor guy, I thought. I wondered vaguely what organised crime outfit he'd run afoul of as I headed into the kitchen. That night. I dreamed about him.

George Rafferty stood at the foot of my bed. I sat up and stared at him. He's dead, milky eyes boring into mine, his smooth complexion. had gone pale and mottled, his flesh puffing out so he was nearly twice his size in life. It bulged against the tattered remains of a suit and tie oddly, like a scarecrow stuffed to excess. And I could hear it splashing from his fingertips like a spring rain. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but his swollen tongue prevented him. Instead, he just shook his head slowly, twice, no.

There was something very sad about that one small gesture. and before I could say anything, ask him anything, he receded into the dark. I woke with a start. The sky outside was that greyst tint, and I sighed, rubbing my eyes. For a moment, I wondered why the dream hadn't scared the hell out of me, but I shrugged it off and kicked myself of filling my head with visions of drowned men before bed. The next day, I noticed it. I was sitting on the couch, working steadily through a Chinese food meal, for five, and watching the late, great Alex Trebek quiz a Midwestern school teacher on what brought her to the show, when I heard it again.

That goddamn drip. And I practically leapt to my feet. Hell, I cut off the valve under the sink if I had to, just to stop that annoying. I stepped in something cold and wet. What the hell? The hallway was sodden. Enough water collected on the floorboards that I could. feel its splash at every step. My eyes widened with fury as I stumped over to the bathroom,

expecting to find a spraying faucet. The bathroom was silent, pristine. The faucet didn't so much as quiver with the threat of a droplet. What's more, the floor was dry. I took a step back directly into the puddle. My mind began to reel, but mainly with questions of, What the hell? What is this? Why? How? My eyes swept up and down the hall. The bathroom wasn't the source of the flooding, and it sure wasn't the living room. My eyes settled on the linen closet, and I heard a small burbling noise as a ripple of water belched out from beneath the door. My heart began to pound, but, filled with the need to make sense of the nonsensical, I leaned forward and gripped the knob, opening wide to what I knew to be a row of shelves and a stark metal running across the top of the closet. What I faced instead was... Darkness. Chilly air billowed past me, causing my teeth to chatter involuntarily,

cutting right through my woolen sweater. I took the sleeves down over my forearms and got out the flashlight function on my phone. It was a staircase, winding down, cut from some kind of dark, blue-grain stone. It was impossible for me to see around the curve of the flight, to the bottom with this hillical design, but suddenly, I very much wanted to. Something tried to hold me back.

Again, that small voice in the back of my head, the sailor's intuition, the prayers of my mar, but stupidly, foolishly, I stepped forward. I felt the darkness enveloped me and immediately turned back.

The rectangle of light that was my apartment glowed pleadingly, the guys having far too much fun drinking terrible light beer, cajoling me back to the television. Instead, I turned and squinted into the depths. My phone's light held aloft. I descended. It's a funny thing what happens to your extremities in low temperatures.

Blood flow generally rushes to those areas to warn them up. But as you get colder and colder, their blood recedes into your body, prioritizing your essential organs. Everything else becomes alien. As I continued lower, I continually wondered why I didn't just go back for at least some slippers as my feet became numb and sluggish against the cold stone.

My teeth stopped chattering, but my teeth was nearly visible before me, and I started to hear an odd, familiar sound, like the snores of my bunkmates, or the soft rising and falling of Mars respirator when she was in the last days. I forged her head, my head spinning with questions, clouded by anxiety, keen with delirium. and then around a hundred steps down

I heard it more clearly and I knew what it was so familiar was the sound it was the sound of waves ebbing, flowing lapping at a rocky shore my confusion doubled was there some kind of underground pier

connected to this building I descended further 150 steps 200 I was beginning to feel a bit tired and was considering heading back up to plan an actual foray when I felt the air began to change. The sound of the waves was all around me at this point. I continued, and the steps led to an archway,

succinct and functional in characteristic ancient Greek brevity of style. I stepped through, and my eyes widened. This couldn't make sense. Before me lay the sea, far and vast as the eye could see, just a few yards from where I stood. A massive full moon hung in the sky. The sky!

Above, reflecting across the churning water. I gaped and took a step forward, looking around, trying to take stock of the place. There didn't seem to be anything nearby. Just the rocky plateau that breached the night sea. I pinched myself. This is... I shook my head and turned to head back up the stairs. I needed to show this to someone, Mike or Pierre.

My heart stopped entirely. The doorway was gone. The stairs were gone. I was alone on a rock some 15 feet across in the middle of some ocean. A particularly large wave crashed against a rock and I sat down very quickly. I wits at my phone and was not entirely surprised to see a complete lack of service. The ocean, like any other fact of earthly nature, is as quickly. gorgeous as it is indifferent.

Much like a forest, by day, it dances, dabbled with sunlight, populated by cavetering creatures that go about their business, if not wholly inviting, at least appreciable. By night, nature takes a dew. To walk around a forest at night

is to attempt death. To be adrift at night is to experience death. I tried to control my breathing as I looked around myself wildly, expecting the door to appear at any moment, It didn't. I peered over the water, hoping to see the wink of a ship, or hell, the dark outline of land. The black sea and the black sky met in a perfect line.

That's when I noticed that the sky was starless. I don't know why it didn't click before, but something about that made me feel horrible. It was a sign I wasn't on any seas I'd ever known. I wanted to lie down and curl up. up, but no matter how I seated myself, the black limbo disoriented me, tricking me into feeling like I was capsizing. I sat on my ass and looked up at the baleful moon to try and center myself. The wild thought of leaping in and just swimming occurred to me, and suddenly I was beset

by the flash of a bloated, somber corpse shaking his head. No, the waves shifted and swelled, a massive, huge swell. I expected it to crash over me and pull me on. her, but he kept rising. My eyes widened, and then I was weeping, weeping and whispering, no, no, no, no, no, no, to myself. I felt the truest of fear, the fear that makes you genuinely and deeply call for your mother. The wave pulled itself free of the water, showing itself to be a neck, an enormous neck that writhed over the spray, creating maelstroms in its wake. The mouth of the end of the blackened, serpentine figure opened

and let loose a plaintive, pierce and cry. It reverberated onto the water and into the distance, echoing repeatedly. It also shook the teeth in my skull and made my lungs feel like they were going to collapse. It had barely subsided when I saw it. Across the water, more massive, snake-like figures were rising and wailing in return in different pitches. But all of them discomforting to my million ears, It rose in pitch to a deafening howl And the water raged

Whipping up under the rock and soaking my jeans I clutched my knees to my chest Closed my eyes and tried not to moan too loudly My mother's pendant was clutched tight in one hand I can't say how long I sat like that It could have been for 30 seconds for 30 minutes The noise abated the water calmed I opened my eyes to a black sea

Flowing gently watched by the full moon When I turned to check the horizon I'd stopped myself from crying out The door had returned Set into the stone pillar that extended up Up seemingly endlessly towards the sky I didn't care if it took me home I needed to be out of this place

I crawled to it on my hands and knees And seeing an ascending staircase enclosed by stone walls I clambered to my feet sobbing silently Casting my hands at the walls for support as I climbed back up. The waves receded into a shore, and finally a sigh, and the air got just a touch warmer.

When my hand slapped against the flat wood of the closet door, I nearly panicked getting it open and fell into the hallway, a shivering mess. The agent didn't know what I was talking about, and probably thought I was insane. By the end of it, she just told me to take it up with a property manager. There were some words, some heated exchanges, But in the end, I leveraged the fact that they had been less than honest about the possible homicide in the unit,

and we managed to come to an agreeable understanding. I was able to get out of my lease of reduced cost, and they didn't have to deal with fringed weirdos in the post skulking around the building and driving prices down. I decided to move somewhere where the creatures that conjure ideas of world-eating snakes and lock-dwelling monsters couldn't intrude. Before she passed, Ma always said the desert out here was a favourite place to visit, vast and wild. I'm glad I was able to give her ashes the kind of send-off they deserved.

And yeah, maybe there's something out here too, some cryptid that run screaming across the land, bleeding livestock for fun and feed. But you know what? I'll take my chances, with my two feet on the ground and Mother Mary hear my pocket. A word of hopefully redundant advice?

If you happen to hear your forces dripping... Don't go down those stairs. I remember I was almost asleep and that half-state where you don't even realize you've nodded off until something jerks you awake. It was a gentle knock.

My watch said 12.30 and I rode to my eyes, propping myself up on an elbow. Yeah, Paul, I asked. The door creaked open a hair and Paul's face slid through. Sorry, did I wake you? He asked.

Paul and I had been roommates since our freshman year of college. He was quiet, respectful to the point of almost meek, never made a mess or used anything that wasn't his. His only quirk was that he had trouble sleeping. Sometimes he'd be up days at a time

before he could finally sleep, and then I wouldn't seem for days as he tried catching up and all that missed sleep in one big go. Still, he did his best to stay quiet and respect my more rigid schedule, and I couldn't think of a reason he might be knocking this late,

unless something was wrong. Yeah, but it's all right. Everything okay? His pile I slid around the room, searching for something. Paul? He blinked. Yeah, sorry, I... I don't know if you might have had a guest here.

No, why? I rubbed a particularly large clump of sleep from my left eye. Well, there's a truck parked outside, he said. In our driveway? I asked, suddenly much more awake. Paul shook his head. No, on the street. I didn't know if you might have had a friend over or something.

When did they park? I don't know. I just looked out and saw it there. I threw the covers away and swung my feet out from under them. It's not a big deal, said Paul. I just didn't know. See, Paul grew up in Philly. I imagined it probably wasn't that big of a deal for him

to have random cars parked across the road all the time. But we weren't in Philly, or any kind of city where anything like that should conceivably happen. Our little rental was, well, if not rural, then ex-urban at least, with our nearest neighbour a half-mile down the road. There was no house across the street from us and no real reason anyone could have parked there.

I reached into the drawer of my own. my bedside table and pulled out a small 22 I kept for emergencies, making Paul's eyes go wide. Even the sight of a gun made his skin almost visibly crawl. I tried to teach him to shoot multiple times, but, well, if I said it didn't work, I'd be understating things to say the least. I throw on a t-shirt and walk to the front window to see exactly the truck that Paul was talking about. It shuddered ever so slightly, and small puffs of exhaust putting out of his tailpipe. You didn't tell me it was running.

I didn't know I should have. I mean, if it's running, it's not exactly parked then, is it? I'll call the police. No, don't do that. Why? Because then we'll have two problems. We'll just wait a minute and see if they leave. They could have just gotten lost or something.

You think? Not really, but maybe. Used to happen all the time back home. People would take the wrong turn and park at the end of our driveway while they tried to figure out where they were going on their phone. Dad would stand at the window and watch them go. So, we did just that. We waited and watched through the window for ten minutes or so

until it became clear that whoever was inside wasn't going anywhere. I say whoever, because as far as I could tell, there was no one inside. The cab was dark, except for a faint green glow from inside, probably the radio or the dashlights. I don't think they're leaving. said Paul. I sighed.

Yeah, it doesn't look like it. What do you want to do? He asked. I was already getting my coat on and gesturing vaguely at it. I'm going to check it out. Paul blinked. Why? I looked around.

I mean, why not? What if it's some kind of serial killer or something? Not ten minutes ago you said it wasn't a big deal, I reminded him. It's not a big deal because it's out there. And we're in here, he said, gesturing to indicate that the truck was, as he said, out there, and we were, in fact, where we were. It's a big deal if you're going out there.

I shrugged and nodded to the counter where I'd laid the gun. I'll be fine. I'm not going anywhere, said Paul, bravely claiming cowardice. I slipped on a pair of house shoes and picked up the 22 again. I know you're not. Just watch and lock the door behind me. If anything happens, call the police. Why can't I call the police now?

Because I don't want them to show up when I've got a gun in my hand, Paul. Frankly, I didn't want them to show up at all, but I didn't say that part. Our feelings about the police were one of the very few areas where we had a pretty sharp difference of opinion. I stepped out the door into the freezing wind and crunched across the frozen grass in the yard. My hands buried in my pockets and the hood of my parker pulled up, but still shivering like hell. My breath came in short puffs,

and my body protested that I'd left my warm bed for whatever this nonsense was. When I got closer, I realized how old the truck was. It was one of those old behemoths from the early 70s, but without any sort of brand marker. What I thought was black paint was instead some kind of matte primer all over the old thing,

scratched off and dinged in some places, and pulled in others. The chrome door house. The handles were pitted and dulled, and there was a faint metallic rattling in time with the engine. The floodlight above our porch barely reached me, the pale light making everything feel colder than it already was, and thickening the shadows around the woods across the road. I walked all the way around the truck, peeking through the windows, and occasionally glancing at the dark woods that started not ten feet from the road.

I was afraid I might see something, and more afraid that there might be something I wasn't seeing. Inside the truck was a nothing so profound that I don't think I can rightly recall it nothing. There was in a speck of dirt or trash as far as I could see, no McDonald's cups or straw wrappers, no worn spots or tears in the seats. Absolutely nothing. The whole thing was immaculately clean, stained only by that green glow. I looked back to the house. Paul was standing in the window with his cell phone poisoned in his hand like a talisman. I waved.

He held up his hands, silently, asking the question, So what the hell? I looked over my shoulder at the truck, then back at Paul and shrugged, making a face that I hope said, I don't know. I started back across the yard as another gust of autumn wind blew down the road, rustling the trees overhead and sending shivers down my spine as it left a deep silence in its wake.

It took me a couple steps more to realize it, But when I turned, I saw the truck had gone still, with no more puffs of exhaust or quiet metallic rattle. I frowned at it and took a couple steps back toward the road, my shadow falling long and thin in front of me, crying in my neck to look around the street and the roads. There was nothing, as far as I could see. Did you turn it off? asked Paul, the moment I stepped inside. No, I think it ran out of gas. I said, taking off my coat and hanging it on the hook by the door.

You think? I mean, I don't know for sure. You didn't see anyone out there? I took a deep, slow breath to resist the urge to be a smart alec. No, Paul, I didn't see anyone. So, what do we do now? Call the non-emergency line and have the city towed, I guess. It's on a public road. Cool, said Paul, seemingly happy to have something to do.

What's the non-emergency line? Dude, you're a programmer. You know how to Google something. Right, yeah, sorry. Now, I said, glancing at the wall clock. I have to be up in about six hours, so I'm going to bed. Night Paul. Night Jim.

I didn't have strange dreams or a creeping sensation of doom like I feel like I should have. Looking back now, that somehow makes it all the worse. I looked out the window the next morning, and it was gone. And I thought that would be that. In fact, between classes and work and so many case briefings to read, I hate to say that, by afternoon that next day,

I'd almost entirely forgotten about the old truck. Once again, though, after midnight, and knock on my door woke me. This time, Paul didn't wait for me to answer, but opened the door himself. Jim, it's back again. What's back? I asked. The truck!

He hissed. His face disappeared from the crack in the door for a second as he looked over his shoulder. I started to ask, what truck, before my memory clicked into place. Did you see someone park it? No, same as last night. I just looked up and it was parked outside. The only light in my room was a long finger stretching out from the door. I stared at the ceiling for a moment, thinking,

I'm not saying this is your fault or anything, but... But you did. Didn't tick someone off, did you? Paul shook his head. Who would I have enough interaction with to tick off someone that drives a truck like that, Jim? That was a fair point. There were a few people in the nearby town. If a grocery store and gas station could be called that,

they'd whispered about us being a little more than roommates when we first moved. But that rumor had been put to rest a long time ago when I dated a local girl for a while my first year in school. I briefly went back through my last week or so, wondering if maybe I'd tick someone off. But, classes and work kept me so busy. I rarely had any interaction with anyone that wasn't involved in either one or the other,

and none of them drove a truck like that. I threw the covers back. The sooner this was handled, the sooner I get back to sleep. I grabbed the cell phone and called the non-emergency number. Bell's County Sheriff's Department, came a tired female voice. Hi, this is Jim Campbell, out on three three. 2 Rifle Range Road.

We called you guys last night about a truck, someone just left running outside our house. Well, they've done it again. I was wondering if you guys could send out an officer to have a look, and then have it towed or something. There was the slight noise of typing on the other line, followed by distinctly worrying... Um...

Hello? Yeah, I'm here, said the voice on the other end of the line. I pulled up the address, and I have a call from you guys last night, but it says we sent a cruiser out last night, and no vehicle was found. What? Yeah, the officer said they drove by and couldn't find any truck. I sighed, typical.

Well, could you send another one out now? It's back. I'm sure if you just give it a few minutes, the owner will move it again. Ma'am, I said, trying to be patient. I don't think you really understand where we live. There's no reason for someone to be parked on this road, at all. This is the second night in the row they've done it. Neither me or my roommate feels safe. A noise came across a line that might have the audacity to be a sigh.

Okay, we'll have another officer out there soon. Closest one is about 20 minutes away, all right? Thank you, I said through gritter teeth. Was that so hard? I didn't say that. This time, she said, with the tone of a mother wagging a finger at a child, if the truck leaves, get its plate and either give it to the officer when he gets there

or call back. I noticed Paul looking at me with a worried expression and I pointed at the phone and rolled my eyes. Yes, ma'am. I ended the call. The number hadn't even disappeared from the screen before Paul asked,

well? They're sending out an officer. Phew, he said. Relaxing back on the couch. That's a relief. I wish I had your level. a belief in the competence of county cops, I told him, honestly.

You're going to be a lawyer. Your job relies on them being incompetent. I blinked, unaccustomed to any kind of witty response from Paul. Fair enough. We waited together by the window, watching the truck idle. The silence of the night seemed

to press in against us, until Paul turned Netflix on, and the gentle nothingness of conversation from the office drifted out. I checked my phone. It had been 17 minutes since I made the call, which meant the police should be around at any moment. I began to realise I was unconsciously holding my breath, waiting for... Something.

Maybe I knew that when the cop arrived, something would have to happen. A bartermy thought that, when the cop showed up, we'd see whoever was driving the thing, and then we'd at least have a face to put this mess, instead of some vague sense that somewhere out there, maybe hiding the woods, was something we couldn't see. Jim? said Paul with dread in his voice. I looked up for my phone to see the truck slowly rolling forward, not like it was accelerating, but like someone had taken the parking break off. The engine didn't roar and the headlights didn't turn on,

but nevertheless it picked up speed slowly, gaining momentum as it rolled away down the street. I looked for the license plate, but the thing didn't have one, and in seconds it had disappeared down the dark road. Not two minutes later, the cop arrived and parked outside, also on the road. We pulled down our coats and met him as he walked up our driveway. He was a mustached guy, younger, with a thick trapper hat on that covered his ears. You the boys had called? We nodded.

So, uh, where's this truck you keep seeing? You passed it, I said, pointing the way the cop had just come. It went that way, not even two minutes ago. The cop turned to look back down the dark road, and some deeper, older part of me knew the formula of how this conversation would go, and I knew what he was going to say before he turned back to us. I didn't pass anyone on that road, he said, frowning. Even though I knew the words sent to chill at my spine. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, said Paul frantically, shaking his head. they didn't have the lights on, I tried, maybe they pulled off somewhere in the woods.

The cop looked off down the road, tucking his thumb in his belt. Suppose it's possible. Don't really know why he'd do that, though. What did the driver look like? I frowned, hoping I could grab hold of the conversation before Paul, but I was too late. There wasn't one, he squeaked. My shoulder sagged as the cop's left eyebrow raised so high I thought it would

climb off his face. There wasn't a driver in the truck that you just said drove away. It didn't have a license plate either, I said, miserably. The cop leaned closer

and sniffed a couple times. You boys, uh, had a good time tonight. I mean, before all this, he asked. We're not high, I said flatly. The officer raised both his hands innocently and said, I wasn't implying that. Look, two guys our age say that a truck drove off that you didn't see,

did not have a driver, didn't have a license plate. The assumption is that we're either high or having a suspiciously similar psychotic episode. It's neither. The officer looked at me like who's actually seen me for the first time. His eyes narrowed, and he looked at me up and down just a bit. Then the Lincoln College of Law sticker on the back window of my car caught his attention. Paul, by this point, seemed on the verge of tears.

His head kept swiveling back and forth between the officer and the direction the truck had disappeared, and, despite the cold and each frantic breath fogging as it left his lips, he was sweating. Okay, why don't you boys give me a description of the truck, and I'll tell our people to keep an eye up for it. Deal? What if it comes back after you're gone, though? asked Paul. The cop shrugged. Just call us again. We can't really do anything if it ain't here, and you don't have a license plate.

We did our best to describe the truck to the cop. I told him about the primer-looking matte paint job and the pitted chrome, and how the interior looked perfect. He took notes in a notebook he pulled from his jacket and asked a couple questions about the body style and where the mirrors were. When he was finished, he flipped it over and said, Well, it sounds like about a 72 explorer. The only problem is those were some damn popular trucks back in the day.

I wondered how such a young guy could be so knowledgeable about the popularity of trucks back in the 70s, but decided not to ask. So... So, we'll keep an eye out for it. Doesn't sound like something that'll exactly blend in if it's out. But lots of people around here could have an old truck like that, parked in the yard, or behind their barns or whatever. If you two haven't ticked anyone off or caused any trouble you can think of, though, I don't think you have much to worry about. I mean this nicely. but there are a lot of nicer houses not far from here

if someone were going to break in and burgle the place. He had a point there. Our house was very clearly a rental that students had been riding hard and putting away wet, probably since it was first built. The cop told us a couple more times to call them if the truck came back and just keep an eye out and make sure the doors and windows were locked.

Then he was gone, and we stood in the yard and watched the taillights of his cruiser disappeared down the road, on Mrs. One, our eyes drifted over to the dark woods some few yards away. Paul spoke quietly into the winds, as it carried crisp, dry leaves around our feet, and brought the smell of wood smoke from some house nearby. Jim?

Are we going crazy? I didn't answer. Let's just go inside. I'm cold. He planted his foot on the cold ground with a small crunch. No, are we going crazy? Easy, he asked again. I looked at him in the grasping grow of our porch light.

I knew why he wanted, even needed the answer. It was the same reason he didn't sleep. He was the same reason he jumped at little noises. I don't know, I told him, honestly. He turned away from me to look back again into the yawning darkness, but he wore the stare as someone looking further than that. The past, maybe. I put my hand on his shoulder and we walked together inside, welcomed back into the warmth and comfort of a familiar place and the familiar sounds still playing from Netflix.

I asked if he wanted me to stay up for a while, but he shook his head, already pulling his laptop from his bag. I'll get some work done, just go to bed, Jim. I left him there on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, tapping quietly on his laptop, and slid back between my sheets once more. They had gone cold And I didn't sleep for a long time Instead I laid there Listening to the quiet noise that filtered through the walls Typing

Sometimes laugh track from the TV And the footsteps As he moved between the living room and kitchen again and again Making I knew Cup after cup after cup of black tea He always made tea when he was thinking of his mom I don't think he ever realised it but it was a habit I had long recognised.

Whether it was a nervous habit or a comforting ritual, I'm not sure. But every time he began to dwell on her, he'd made cups and cups of the stuff, like he was brewing a potion that might keep his own mind from snapping like hers had. I wondered if I should do or say something. But the more I thought about it, the more I came to realize how precious little there was to be done about such a thing. I also knew that there was a real possibility

that my bringing her up to him during all of this might very well validate his own fears. I was considering all these things, wondering what was to be done, and the very act of counting in considering them all quietly pulled me to sleep, like so many sheep being counted. I was miserable in class that day, and when I got home, Paul was asleep in his room. I sat in the living room reading case reports, until I came to a case that caught my attention. Three sisters all attacked a house after living together for a number of years.

They tore their clothes off and broke the windows, asking the family inside if they had, quote, prepared a room, and even assaulted multiple officers during attempts to subdue them. After they were finally arrested, all three sisters were put together in the same cell, where they chanted nude on the cell floor, but otherwise remained, quote, quite reasonable, according to the briefing. Their reason given for attacking the house was that, God had gifted them the house, and they were to be, in their own words, as Moses being led unto the promised land. All three were found not guilty by reason of insanity, clearly with the reason given by

staff psychiatrist being Folli Simultani, a term describing a sort of shared madness in which psychosis spreads from one person to another. I googled Folly Simultani and started to read up on the subject, getting only to the first couple of sentences which read, Affected individuals frequently live together and usually have an enmeshed relationship that isolates them from others, a situation that contributes to the lack of detection by others. Paul's door opened and I slammed the laptop shut,

much harder than I meant to. He walked out rubbing his eyes, dressed in checker pychama pants and a shirt, three sizes too big. What was that for? He pointed at the computer. Nothing. you practically slam the damn thing.

I thought fast, trying to think of something. I was, uh, looking at stuff. Stuff, he asked, laughing. Adult stuff. I nodded. Adult stuff. In the living room. Look, something popped up, and then I just went down a rabbit hole.

You know how it goes. He shrugged and pointed jokingly. As long as you're not, you know, in the living room. I'm going to take a black light to this place later, though. I've been not finding nothing in here. You hear me? We both laughed, and he walked into the kitchen. I watched him start making coffee

and chastised myself with the thoughts I'd been having just a moment before. And yet, when I reopened the laptop, I bookmarked the page on Folly Simultani just in case I had some time later to read through it. I didn't get a chance to read it. Between case briefs and reading for the night, But once again, just after midnight, I was awoken, though not by a knock.

No, this time it was the sound of music. It was some tinny, twangy guitar that sounded like someone was playing it through an old phone speaker they dropped on a solo cup or an old radio from the 1930s. I walked out to ask Paul to turn it down, but found in the living room, silent and still, was Paul peering out the window again. It's back, was all he said, without even turning to look at me. It's playing music now. I walked to the window and peered out into the cold night.

The window has radiated the sharp smell of cold air, and I knew it must be well below freezing outside. The truck sat again in the same place it had every other night, right at the edge of the forest, spluttering and putting out exhaust in the edge of the light. Jim? This can't be real. He shook his head. What?

I mean, this can't be real. This is either some terrible prank from someone in town, or we're both losing our minds. I could have phrased it better, and I saw the words hit him like a slap. You see it too, though, he said. I don't know what I see. I know that stuff like this doesn't happen, though. Either we're indulging the pranks as though, or indulging our own insanity. so the solution to both is the same.

Ignore it. His eyes had grown wide like a scolded puppy. He turned back to the window. You really think we're losing it? A part of me, a very mean little part, thought. I think you're losing your mind and dragging me down with you. I shook the thought away, trying to convince myself, it was just the cranky thinking of a person woken up in the middle of the night.

I don't know what. this is, I said, but I'm going to stop paying attention to it. Paying attention to it isn't helping it go away, so maybe ignoring it will. I walked over and grabbed the curtains and slid them across the window, shutting out the light from the porch and plunging the living room into darkness. I don't want to lose my mind, Paul's voice shook in the dark, and I could just make him out there beside me. I sighed and reached out a hand to pat him on the back, but at the last Second, reconsidered.

You'll be right, Paul. Look at it this way. If you're losing it, then I'm losing it too. So we'll go crazy together. I heard him laugh a little and breathed a little easier. It'll be a lot harder to convince everyone we're not gay if they heard us saying stuff like that, he said. Now it was my turn to laugh. Just put in headphones, try to sleep.

That's what I'm going to do. My eyes were just into the dark, and I saw him nod, though I couldn't make out the expression on his face. I heard him sniff loudly. Okay, just ignore it. I'll visit the police station tomorrow too. We'll see if we can get to the bottom of this.

He nodded again, and I watched him disappear into his bedroom, closing the door silently. When he was gone, I peeked through the curtain again. The truck was still there, sputtering. But, and I can't be sure of this. It seemed just a few feet. closer, almost like it had moved slightly to listen better.

The music still played, and when I laid back down, I could still hear it faintly. I took my own advice and turned on my television, putting on Looney Tunes and turning the volume up just enough to drown out the noise. It took a while, but I finally fell asleep. The next day, after my classes, I stopped by the county sheriff's office. The office had the well-worn, creaking look of so many small-town music. municipal buildings, like it had been built in the 20s or 30s, I mean held together by duct tape and barely sufficient municipal grants ever since.

The front desk was sat behind a webbed cage, and one of the fluorescent lights flicked in a way that gave me a headache after only a few seconds beneath it. The woman behind the desk quit tapping on her phone long enough to look up at me, wearing her look that said she was already bored with whatever I was about to say. Can I help you? Yes, I live out on Rifle Range Road. I called the other day and you guys sent out an officer for a truck that was sitting outside our house.

It's still coming every night and my roommate and I came to ask you if you can have an officer come out and either wait or drive by around midnight or... I trailed off when I saw the faint glimmer of recognition and amusement in her eye. The cop had probably told everyone here about the two roommates seeing ghost trucks, making sure to use air quotes around the word roommates like everyone else does. Ah yeah, I called Donnie went out to the other. the other night. I almost robbed my eyes that his name was Donnie, but caught myself. Maybe, guy with a mustache. That's him. Ah. She grabbed the office phone and tapped a couple buttons,

then said, yeah, Donnie, your call from the other night's here. It was a pause. Then she said, yeah, that one. She hung up the phone, and a second later, Donnie emerged from a side door, his hands in his jacket pockets. How'd he again, fella? I nodded. Hello again. I'm going to be honest. I didn't know I'd specifically see you.

He shrugged. Well, I was the one that went out the other day. So usually, we keep the same person on stuff if we can. Yeah, that makes sense. So, I'm guessing that truck keeps coming back. He asked, giving a quick smile to the lady behind the desk. Look, we're not crazy. I know this is weird.

I know it's strange, I guess, but we're not. That's why we've not made a bigger deal about this, because we know it's weird, and it doesn't make a lot of sense. Okay, okay, said Donnie, holding his hands up. Don't get all riled up. You said it keeps coming back. Does it come every night? And added, every night.

He stuck his hands in his pockets. All right, specific time or anything. My roommate usually sees it right after midnight. that's when he wakes me up at least. Donnie nodded. Just after midnight. All right. How's about this then?

I'll come out tonight about 11, and I'll park and hang out for a couple hours. That way. If there's something odd, then I'll see to it. If it's just some kids pulling a prank, maybe when they see the police getting involved, they'll knock it off.

That sound good? Yeah, that would be great if you could. Donnie nodded again. all right I'll come out around 11 then just make sure all your drugs are put away and everything he laughed but I went stone still that was a joke he said I explained everything to Paul when I got home

and we tried to carry on our normal routine I tried studying but couldn't focus worth a damn and Paul well Paul did the same thing he always did just quieter and slower he overcooked his pasta spill the hot water for his tea and rewrote the same lines of code six or seven times a piece. Neither of us said it, but we both knew tonight could end in one of three ways. Either the truck came and Donnie saw it and we knew we weren't crazy. The truck came and Donnie didn't see it and we realised we probably were crazy.

Well, the truck didn't come and everything stayed in limbo. I couldn't speak for Paul. The third one worried me the most. 10 minutes after 11, a police cruiser lazily rolled to a stop on the side of the street, little to the right of where the truck usually did. The car kept running, probably to have the heat on, but the lights turned off, and from the window, all we could see was the blue glow from the onboard computer inside. Should we close the curtains? asked Paul.

Why? I don't know. No, I said after a moment. I want them open. I want to see when it comes. What if it doesn't? He asked, barely more than a whisper. I didn't answer. At 11.50, the truck did come.

It rolled into view without lights or sound and parked in its usual spot. A second later, the tinny odd music began playing. Notes that might have been described as lulting if they hadn't sounded so stunted and decrepit. We watched as Donnie leaned out, and turn his cruiser floodlights to the truck. We saw him speak into his radio,

then climbed out of his car. Who's there? He asked. The words floated into the night and across the desolate, frozen yard to Paul and I. The truck didn't answer. This little game's over.

Now, come on. Who's in there? Again, no answer. Just the tinny note, rising and falling, as rhythmically and steadily as breathing. He unholstered his gun an inch closer, craning his neck to look into the cab and kept his gun ready.

When he was close enough, he cautiously reached for the handle. In one quick motion, he flung the door wide to the cab, quickly moving his gun from the seat to the floor to the ceiling, before realising, just like I had, that there was no one inside. There was nothing inside. He turned to look at the both of us, still watching from the window, then began to walk slowly around the truck, making the same loop that I'd made that first night.

He bought his flashlight from his belt and held it with his gun as he inched around the bed, the taillights and the cold wind combining to turn his skin a pale, raw red. He moved all the way around until he was standing again beside the driver's side door, looking confused. He slid his gun into its holster

and hugged his thumb through his belt loops, looking first one way, then another, into the darkness, stretching away on either side. I saw him sigh, and then climb in and turn off the radio. The last tinning notes drifted into the cold wind, and we're gone. It's amazing how menacing silence can be. The music gone. Some deep sense of dread that had been creeping through the back of my mind roared into the forefront

at the same moment a pit formed in my stomach, twisting and writhing under the sudden and unquestionable knowledge that something horrible was coming. I banged on the window and Donny's head snapped a look at us Get out, run! I yelled, pounding my fist so hard against the glass that I thought it might break. He frowned and started to climb back out

But the truck store swung closed I watched him grab the latch inside And put his shoulder to it But he didn't budge His face was starting to grow panicked now And I felt Paul's hand clutch in my arm Donnie banged his fist against the window rearing back and throwing his weight into each swing,

but the glass only bulged and bent without even a crack forming. Jim? said Paul frantically. Jim, what do we do? Donnie pulled his gun once again, and turning his head away and plugging one ear fired through the window. The bullet erupted through to the other side, but instead of shattering, the truck's window, now with a small hole through it,

began to cloud over like a thin membrane of skin, as dark fluid began to leak from the hole. Vanes began to appear within the membrane, pulsing under the cloudy film as dark troughs of liquid oozed down to the door and began to drip to the ground. Paul released his grip on my arm and heard the sound of him retching behind me as he ran to the bathroom. I stayed beside the window, watching his tiny faded to a blur behind a clouding window before he was nothing more than a shadow puppet, the shape of his fists still beating against it without effect.

I felt the bile rising up in my own throat, but bit my cheek to hold it down, frozen to the spot, unable to look away, but desperately not wanting to watch for a second longer. I caught the faint sound of screaming through the window now, a squeezed noise filtering through the bullet hole. Help, help, God damn it, help me! The tinny sound of a guitar started again and rose until it drowned out the screams, and, as I watched, the truck slowly began to roll away. into the night, the same as it had every other night, this time carrying its fated passenger. The truck disappeared into the night and the music faded with it. All I could smell was ozone,

and all I could hear was the sound of Paul hyperventilating in the bathroom. I felt deeply, dreadfully cold, or maybe it was just a cold dread, but either way, I stood, shivering at the window for a long, long time, and then I called the the cops. They were already on the way, it turned out. Officers from Bell County, county sheriffs from surrounding counties, ambulances, crime scene investigators, they all filled the streets, their flashing lights chasing the shadows of the night deep into the trees of the forest. They searched, Paul, myself, the house, the property, the surrounding properties. They searched everything they could get their hands on, stopping only occasionally to glare at us.

I know they think we did it, or at the very least, had some hand in it. They put both of us in the back of a cruiser, hardly speaking to us. Paul stayed out the window as they drove us away, the blue and red flashing lights turning its skin as sickly purple colour. What are they going to do to us? He asked. Question us, make sure our stories match up, probably split us up. They're going to think we're crazy.

I know, I paused. and the gravity of that began to sink in. I know. They did just that, too. We were split up and questioned, then questioned again. I didn't lie. I told the truth.

You understand, said one of the interrogators, condescendingly. Why are we having trouble believing you, right? I nodded, looking at the steaming styrofoam cup of coffee they had gotten me. The white styrofoam was almost dazzlingly white under the floor. fluorescent lights. They did that to make you go to the bathroom and make you uncomfortable. But I didn't care. The heat and the bitterness both felt good.

So, why don't you tell us what really happened then? Asked the man. He was a fat guy that had the air of someone who probably beat his kids. I spoke slowly and clearly. He got in the truck to turn it off. The door's locked. He tried to break the windows and couldn't. He shot the windows and they didn't break.

The truck drove off. The man sighed and his partner leaned over. Look, we can't help you if you don't help us, man. You understand that, right? I understand. I understand why you don't think I'm telling the truth. And I understand why this all sounds crazy. I really do.

That being said, I imagine his cruiser was a crypt of the camera. You'll see I'm telling the truth. We both are. They both stared at me, and I stared at them. And, for just a bare moment, I saw a flicker of hesitating. pass across their faces. And that was how it went, until they finally pulled me out of the room.

Paul was already standing in the hallway, and we were escorted back out to another car. On our way out, someone opened a door in front of us as they left a room. Before it closed, I caught a glimpse of a large screen on the wall, all playing dash cam footage, all playing the same dash cam footage, actually,

and caught the sound of someone going, play it again, before the door closed. It was 7 a.m. when we got home. They had destroyed the house, and we picked our way through the thrown books and spilled garbage to both collapse on the couch. We just sat there for a few minutes,

staring into empty space, not talking. Eventually, my watch chimed seven. Why did this happen? asked Paul. I didn't answer. Instead, I got back up and started getting ready. Where are you going? I've got class. No truck came that night.

Then again, it could have, and I'd just slip through it. I was asleep well before I hit the pillow, dead to the world for all intents and purposes. Still, somehow, I know that it didn't. Some deep part of me knew it wouldn't. After all, it had gotten, well, if not the prey it wanted, at least something. It took us days to put the house back together.

You don't realize how little it is. attention you pay to where things are until you have to put them all back. Every night when it got dark, without agreeing to it or even talking about it, we both stand at the window, sometimes for minutes, sometimes for more than an hour, waiting for something neither of us could articulate as we stared into the dark. A continuation, a resolution, some kind of closure, something. And we did that every single night for months, until life started to fall into that sullen normalcy that follows life-changing events.

It wasn't until we stopped, until the creeping thought that maybe it had all been some bad fever dream had begun to creep into the edges of my thoughts, that it all came rushing back with a quiet knock on my door just after midnight. Jim? No, I whispered. No, Jim. Paul's voice was hoarse. Come look.

The living room was dark when I walked out with the office playing on the TV. All that darkness only served to frame what I saw on the street though. An empty cup car idling in the street filled with a faint green glow. That's been some years ago now, and I've long since graduated and moved away from Bell County. I live on the top floor of a large apartment building now in Philly, far away from the street below. But there are nights still where I can't sleep, and I step out onto the house. our balcony, and I swear that I see an old police cruiser that doesn't look quite right, or an old truck idling, and my heart skips a beat.

But almost every time I see the cop inside or an old man counting the addresses looking for where he's going. Almost. Sweetbreads, derived from the 16th century, the thymus or pancreas, usually taken from a calf or lamb, but sometimes procured from the ovaries or testicles. First, soaked in cold water to remove all traces of blood, then poached in milk until tender. As a kid, my father told me it had been a holiday tradition that dated back generations in his family. I would later find out just how far back that was when I turned 16,

when I learned the history of the Gunnison family holiday tradition. Our families have continually been amongst the upper echelon of society for over some centuries, as leaders, politicians, tycoons, icons, you name it. Every member of every family knew nothing but success and happiness from birth up until their last dying breaths. And the sweetbreads, my parents told me, were the key to their success. Centuries ago, our ancestors were on the brink of destruction. They had no food, no resources, no home. They had nothing.

And they prayed to anything that would grant them release. something answered and they made a deal they were given a choice an annual tradition that must be kept and for as long as it was the family and all their descendants would never know a day of sorrow again my father told me that he had learned the same age I did

and so had my brothers and eventually my baby sister would too my father had told me that it had been his own grandfather that had established the tradition on a holiday in his own words, as the ultimate sign of mockery towards God and the Holy Spirit. That year, on Christmas Eve, after dinner, my parents dismissed my brothers from the table, telling them to, prepare. Prepare for what? I didn't know.

After they left, my parents told me the complete history of the Gunnison holiday tradition. And after they finished, my father said it was time for me to join my brothers, my mother, and himself in the tradition. I would only have to watch this year, he said, but next year I would have to do everything, alone. My brothers by then had returned to the kitchen and my parents rose, beckoning me to follow them. I did, as I was told, following my family through the back doors and outside into the cold December night, and down the path to our garage.

Our enormous compound was located some ways outside the town my father was the mayor of, within an isolated patch of dense forest. I'd always complained as a kid that my friends could never visit, that we were never allowed to give out our address. Now, I know why. I entered the garage behind the family and saw that half the space had been blocked off by some white sheets. The overhead lights were off,

with only the glow of a dozen candles providing any illumination. My mother, who had been a highly respected specialist within the medical field, wheeled out a metal cart. On top lay a collection of surgical knives, masks and gloves. She passed out gloves and masks for everyone, and once we all had them on, my father finally pulled back the curtain.

There was a woman, someone I'd never seen before, strapped to a table. She looked to be sleeping, and I could see her bare chest moving slowly up and down. My father, wordlessly, picked up the longest of knives off the table

and handed it to my eldest brother. My brother just took it and stepped up to the woman. I looked back and studied her. She looked to be around my mother's age, with long, flowing, strawberry blonde hair that was placed directly on top of her breast, maybe in some vain attempt to retain her dignity. An IV ran from her arm

to a pole next to the table, which I assumed was some sort of drug to keep her unconscious. She was slender, her body pure of any deformities or blemishes. I looked at the woman, and then at the knife my brother was holding, and then back at my father. This entire time, nobody had uttered a word.

The air was stifled with an uncomfortable silence. My father then finally spoke up. He said only one word. Begin, then. I remembered the sweetbreads. I almost threw my entire dinner up right then and there. I'd never seen a knife cut through human flesh before. my head began to swirl and I wanted to look away, but I knew I couldn't.

It was like watching the flaming wreckage of a car accident on the side of the road. I didn't want to see, but I couldn't look away. So I stood in silence as my brother collected our sweetbreads. After it was done, my family began flying out of the garage one at a time. I stood, frozen in place, looking at the white curtain that father had thankfully pulled back. Mother was the last to leave. She did her best to console me, telling me it had been hard for her to adjust in the beginning,

but that this one sacrifice was well worth the treasures it brought. I just looked at her, dumbfounded, unsure of what to say. But then what? I asked, numbly. What do you mean? she inquired back. What happens to us afterwards? After all this? I asked, dreading the answer. My mother, taken aback, thought for a moment, then smiled.

We join the rest of the family, rolling together, forever, she said with an icy chill that clung to her words. Together, forever. But where? I already knew before I had even asked. Somewhere, deep inside, knew from the start. the never-ending flow of cash, the isolated mansion, our status within the town. I had gotten every single thing I had ever wanted my whole life. And this was the cost.

Only one day a year. Just one. I followed my mother back inside, masking my shame and a cloud of indifference. Everything had changed. The way I viewed the world, my family, our name, my life, even my very soul. I didn't sleep a wink that night. I tried, but every time I would close my eyes, I saw the woman still strapped to the table,

and then I saw the blood pour from her throat, and then the sweetbreads. My father warned me, once the tradition has started, if it is not kept, the punishment will be swift and severe. He reminded me of my cousins, who had passed away very suddenly of leukemia a few years back, right after he turned 16. Leukemia.

He suffered every day. until he died, according to my father, and the same would go for me if I didn't continue through tradition. The next morning, my family woke as usual and gathered downstairs. We exchanged presents, jokes, laughter. Everyone acted as if everything was normal. I put on a convincing show. I laughed back, opened my gifts, smiled for photos. I pulled it all off, masterfully, so I should say. They never saw what was. was boiling right under the surface, not even when it came for the time for sweetbreads. I choked back my tears and urged to vomit, though it was hard and I almost gave in,

but I kept my smile wide and my eyes open. After our plates were cleared, my father stood up and toasted to his family and our success, and hoped for many more generations to come, and for the day when his first daughter would join the rest of the family. My dad then looked at me, proudly, not a worry in his eyes. As far as he knew, I had been another successful convert. I can say confidently, without any hint of exaggeration, that I dreaded each and every single day of the next 364 days.

I finally started sleeping again after three, only for my sleep to be continually interrupted by the woman on the table, who would wake up suddenly and began screaming every day. time I cut into a neck. I would go days, one time even a week, without sleep. I would lay awake in bed, pondering over how I was going to do it. Could I do it?

Was there any way out? There had to be a way out. My father and mother told me in private a few days after Christmas that I would pick who I would use to carry on the tradition. It could be anyone, even a complete stranger. All I had to do

was give them a name, and they would take care of the rest. But they warned me, if I didn't pick someone myself, they would do it for me, and they promised me it would be someone I would miss dearly. My skin ran cold

at the thought of someone, a friend, a teacher, some random stranger, tied up to that table, the knife in my hand, their internal organs on our dining room table. I knew then there was no way out.

I kept up my facade, pretending the long, sleepless nights away, as caffeine-fuelled study sessions and formulated my plan. I would have to pick someone who trusted me, someone I could get alone, someone who could disappear. There was a friend, a dear friend.

Once upon a time she had been a neighbour, but even after my family had moved, she remained my closest friend and one true confidant. She would trust me. She would do anything for me. I loved her. And now, She would disappear.

For me, Christmas Eve. It finally came, like any other important day that you wait for and dread, then suddenly one day it's tomorrow. My parents had kept their end of the bargain. They expressed no surprise, no remorse. They simply nodded their heads and told me he'll be taken care of. The rest was up to me. That evening, as I was walking down the hall to join my.

family in the dining room, I passed by my baby sister's room. She had been only two months old last Christmas, far too young to partake in the family tradition, but not anymore. I pushed the thought from my head and continued on downstairs. The family was busy chatting around the table as I sat in my seat. Mother had prepared a lovely dinner of homemade mashed potatoes, turkey with gravy, roasted peanuts and an orange cream cake, my absolute favourite. the sweetbreads wouldn't be until tomorrow.

Mother placed a fully loaded plate in front of me. On any other Christmas Eve, my mouth would already be filled with potatoes. This Christmas Eve, I was resisting a powerful urge to vomit all over the table. But I kept my call, as I had done for the past 364 days. Only one more left. I grabbed my fork as my father concluded his annual prayer of thanks and reluctantly began forcing food into my mouth. Just eating in front of them had become a chore,

an act I was eager to finally drop. Everything tasted like paper, wet and moist without any real flavour. I must have lost £15 since last Christmas, but nobody seemed to notice. They were already too far gone. Once dinner was over, my brother went to play video games while my mother began clearing the table.

Nobody said anything at first. then I did. Is she ready? I asked plainly. My parents both looked at me, slightly puzzled. Probably not what they were expecting. I then looked directly at my mother. She had stopped clearing the table

I was now hovering behind my father. She caught my gaze and for a moment almost looked scared, but then smirked. Yes, she is, baby. And it serves her right for breaking my little boy's heart. Don't you worry about a thing, sweetie. Nobody will even know she's gone. We'll make sure of that, she bragged, turning attention back to the table. My father looked at me, still puzzled, not sure what to make of my newfound bravado. I hoped it was working. He smirked the same way my

mother had, and I knew then that I had him, huck line and sinker. Don't be too tough on meat, son. We like it nice and plump, remember. father spoke, sending waves of nausea down into my stomach. I held back, thankfully, and got up from the table. I won't take too long, Santa's coming early this year, I said, and left without saying a word. My father chuckled briefly, but I caught my mother's shocked reflection on the glass doors on the way out. Too much, perhaps, not that it didn't matter now. The walk to the garage was probably the longest walk in my life. My entire life swirled around me, all array of emotions, everything that had led to this moment,

the moment I would carry on the Gunnison holiday tradition. I counted each step I took as they slowly made my way to the garage. The lights were off and there was no noise. She must be heavily sedated by now. The single side door was already open and the familiar glow of candlelight cast long shadows all around me. I turned a set of lights on, unimpressed and annoyed with my parents' theatrics at this point. Then I saw the same white curtain as before,

with the same set of knives on the same table. My heart skipped a beat. I needed to leave. I bought the mission, find another way. No, there was no other way. It was now or never. I took one last breath and remembered what my father had told me. The pact our fellow.

family had made, a deal forged in blood all those years ago. Without hesitation, I walked towards the curtain and with one swift motion drew them back. There she lay, fully clothed as I had requested. I would not allow this to be the first time I saw her naked. I wouldn't allow it. Sure enough though, a lone needle pierced the skin and ran up an identical IV pole. The bag looked to be practically empty. I looked at the clock on the wall.

I had precious few minutes left. I turned to the instruments of death next to me, the low light from the candles accending the chilly sting in the air. I picked up a knife randomly, swung back around to take one last look at the girl. But then I froze. My gaze had met a pair of open eyes. She was awake. She was struggling to regain consciousness,

but she was definitely awake. As her eyes widened, they focused on me. She didn't look so. scared or confused. She just looked at me, face blank and mouth a cape. The knife in my hand felt like solid gold. Everything had finally come together. My turn. For the first night in over a year, I slept like a stone. No nightly terrors, no ghostly visions of the woman on the table, no macabre family celebrations, just a deep, soundless sleep. I was almost sad when I woke up. It felt so good. Hopefully the first

of many nights to come. Today was a very special day. It was Christmas after all. More importantly, the day of our blessed family tradition. The sweetbreads had been repaired by myself. It was tradition and I could smile them from even upstairs.

Just moments later, father came in wishing me a Merry Christmas and inviting me to join the family downstairs. It was time. I slipped on my house coat slippers and walked down the stairs and into the kitchen, back arched and head held with the confidence I hadn't known in some time. My mother, ever watchful hawk, took notice immediately. Well, don't you look as bright as the morning sunrise? Merry Christmas, baby.

She nearly squealed and she put the finishing touches on her immaculate table. I smoked as I sat down next to my brother. Then I noticed my baby sister was missing. where's Sissy? I was a little concerned for a well-being at this point, knowing full well what this family was capable of. Oh, she's got a fever right now. We'll have to save us some for later, my mother responded.

Oh, how perfect. I remained quiet as my mother finished the sweetbreads and brought them over to the table. One by one, she placed a fine scoop on the small, delicate plates in front of each of us. The plate had been in the family food, decades and were used for only one purpose. After mother joined us at the table, my father rose. I don't know why my father insisted on making the same speech every year. It was cringe on

so many levels, even more so now than before, though I held my tongue as he spoke. When I look at this table, I see the pillar of success. Our family, our blood and our sacrifice, our family tradition has kept our family strong and alive, and we continue that legacy now and forever, and I am so proud to welcome my third son into the tradition. Son, you have made me, our family and our ancestors incredibly proud. His words made my stomach churn. My father sat back in his seat and almost on instinct the family joined hands,

my mother and brother on either side of me. Closing her eyes, my family looked. led us in a prayer. Lord, bless these sweetbreads as you have blessed our family. Rain riches, treasures and power on us as you have done so for generations before. Ascend us

above all others as we carry on this most sacred of tradition. Today, tomorrow, and forever. My brothers, always too eager for their own good, drop their hands first and immediately began eating. I watched as my parents smiled in admiration.

Then, turn their attention to their own plates. My father was the first of them to take a bite. He smiled at first, but I watched as his expression changed quickly. He was puzzled. He stopped chewing for a moment before swallowing. He hesitated, then took another bite. I looked at my mother, who had also started eating, but as she went in for a second bite,

and I was wrinkled and she stopped. She began looking around her, now confused. like my father. What's the matter, father? Don't they taste good? I asked, bluntly. My father looked at me, even more confused now.

Of course, there's just something off, he said, shewishly, though I could hear fear growing inside him. I had felt that same fear for the past 365 days. Do you guys smell that?

My mother asked. Worry, now thick, in a voice. I looked back at my brothers who had already finished their entire plate, my eldest even licking his clean with his tongue. My other brother had noticed the exchange between our parents and I, and spoke up. Smell what? I don't smell anything. Yeah, I don't smell anything either, I said dishonestly. My father, though, had also denied smelling anything out of the ordinary. So, it was just my mother and I. How can you guys not smell that?

It smells almost like something's burning, or... She trailed off. Or what mother? Perhaps something bitter? I said, as I stared directly into her eyes. In that moment, I saw a flash of clarity across her face. Then I watched all the colour completely drain away from every part of the body. What have you done?

My mother sputtered out. What the hell is going on? my father screamed, but before anyone could answer, he was interrupted by an agonizing scream. My eldest brother had been the first. He fell to the floor, howling like a wounded lion. I looked down to see his eyes turning blood red, his central nervous system was starting to shut down, and bloody vomit and saliva were now pouring out of his mouth. My other brother sat frozen, staring as our sibling died in front of us,

mother screaming incoherently in the background. father had stood up to get a better look but was knocked back into his chair almost immediately bringing one of his hands to his head. I thought my father would be next, but only a second later my other brother bent over in agony and began throwing up as well. What did you do to us? My mother shrieked as a second child died violently in front of her, still too shocked to move from her seat. My father was fading fast. His face was covered in sweat, his gaze now locked onto mine. I stared into his eyes, trying with all my might to bore the hatred and fear I had felt this entire year into his soul.

You make me sick, every single one of you, I spat out, now free to finally unleash the wrath that had been building up for so long. Did you really think I was going to carry on this tradition? Do you know how sick to my stomach I've been every day this past year? Our family, our tradition, it's an abomination. And when I thought of spending every Christmas side by side with you, sealed in this deal for all eternity and wanted to strap myself on that table. It felt like pure bliss.

The best part was that they would know in their last moments that it had been me that killed them. So, I made a deal of my own. They had made it too easy for me, really. I already had almost everything I needed thanks to mother. The only thing missing was a decoy.

And being a gunnison meant I could get my hands on practically anything in this town. My father collapsed out of his chair and onto the floor. I could feel the convulsions through the table and floor as he breathed his last painful breaths. My mother was the last to succumb. She grasped the chest, heaving in pain. I could hear the blood clotting with each gasp of air she took.

She got up to reach for me, but fell onto the floor as I stood up and hovered beside her. Kneeling down, my face now inches from her. I searched for any trace of the mother I used to know. But there was nothing. Because the mother I knew had been a lie. Everything had been a lie. Was it worth it, mother?

I whispered to her. Tears filled her bloodshot eyes and she let out one final death rattle. And then, all was silent. I paused, unsure of what to do next. I stood up straight to survey the carnage around me, Then I looked back at the table and saw my mother's untouched glass of wine. Without hesitation, I grabbed it and held it up high.

Toast to the Gunnison family tradition. I boasted, drinking the entire glass in a single gulp. Sitting the glass down, I spoke aloud. You can come in now. My voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. Seconds later, I caught movement to my right, but didn't take my gaze off the floor. She had played her part perfectly. She didn't believe me at first, not even when I offered to pay her $10,000 to play the victim.

She thought it was a joke. I'm sure she got quite the scare, though, when my mother abducted her. But it would be worth it, I told her, that this small amount would be but a fraction of what she and I would have once the tradition was over. So she agreed, and thankfully she had awoken last night when she did. She had proven to be invaluable. Whoa, that was fast, she said in awe, studying the scene in front of her. Yeah, well, we put enough in there to kill a whole football team,

and retorted, still locked into a death stare with my mother. Her eyes were pointed upwards, an expression of horror and pain, now permanently etched into her face. Is everything ready? I questioned as I turned to face her for the first time. Yes, it's all out in the garage, she replied as she walked up to me. My hands ran across her face and then threw her open hair. Go bring it in.

We don't have a lot of time and there's a lot to do. I told her, leaning in for a kiss. Her mouth was wet and her lips were plumb. Finally, he was beginning to feel like Christmas. She left without another word, leaving me alone in the dining room once again. We would sanitise the kitchen, then bury the bodies in the woods in a six-foot grave alongside the cadaver I had procured from the university. It would take all night, but after it was done, they would never be found.

The only business left would be my little sister. I turned on my heel and began walking into the living room. As I started to go up the stairs to tend to my sister, something caught my attention, something on our Christmas tree. My parents would never want to go overboard with Christmas decorations, seeing them as a waste of money and time. Our Christmas trees, therefore, had consisted of a good Christmas. Golden garland and classic silver glass ball ornaments. Nothing more, nothing less. Except now, there was something else.

Nestled almost completely within the tree was a dark red envelope. It had not been there last night, nor this morning. My curiosity peaked, I walked over and grabbed the card out of the tree. It wasn't sealed, and when I opened it, an identically coloured card slid out. I ran my fingers over the card and envelope looking for an inscription, barcode, something to identify where the card came from. Nothing. Cautiously, I opened the card. There was no signature, no seasonal greeting.

Nothing but a single phrase. Sweet to the sweet. Almost instantly, my back ran cold. I could feel the little hairs of my legs begins to stand up one by one. From some dark corner of the house I could feel something stirring Then I felt it Just a single cold breath down my neck

I could feel my heart flutter I counted to three my head Then jerked my head around But there was nothing In an instant the house settled And everything was as it had been before I looked back to the card But it had vanished

I searched around me but could find no evidence that it had ever been there. I cried from upstairs brought me back to reality. My baby sister. Mother had said she was running a fever. Fearing the worst, I darted up the stairs

and down the hall to my sister's nursery. My mother fancied herself a designer and insisted on the gaudiest Victorian-era nursery for my sister. My sister's crib was adorned with sheets of silk and sheer fabric. I pulled them aside and looked down at my beautiful baby sister.

I smiled at her, and she seemed to smile back. She would never know the horror of the family tradition. I would miss her dearly, but I knew she would be better off with another family, somewhere out of state, far away from our family's legacy of death and decay. Her rosy cheeks felt warm under my finger. As they moved across her face, a weird sensation came over me. It was something I had never felt around my sister. before. I couldn't

quite figure it out at first. I looked at her, puzzled. Then my eyes ran over her throat. Soon my mouth began to water. Pools of saliva now collecting inside. Then I knew.

I felt hungry. We stand, three of us, alone in the wilderness. The wind is wild and roars through the rippling wild grass wastes. gray-green plains beneath a wet, grim sky. The sounds of waves crashing and frothing against the distant coast are carried on the airs,

and the ground rumbles. The low hill that rises from the ground before us starts the shake. Guys, boots mutter to my right, shifting. What's, what's happening? We don't respond. This will be his first time down below. Boots, I mean, his first time. Seeing the subject.

The Secret of the Isles Boots is not what the lad is actually called He was so named for a moment of madness in his very first week here For some inane reason or other Nerves perhaps or a poor attempt at a joke He had complimented the boots of a passing officer Nice boots, he said And the officer had come to a stop at once

Turning to stare at the young man As if he were an alien from another bloody planet The boots are standard issued of course, they were all the exact same, and the name had stuck. Boots was Boots from that moment on. With a rumble and the grinding of old, weird gears unseen, the front face of the hill rotates around. A panel of fake grass slides to the right and out of sight beneath the edge of the hill, revealing inside it in a small, gloomy metal room. Rylund and I step in. Ryland is the soldier to my left. He's been stationed here for.

for as long as I have, six months so far. He's alright, a bit of a dick sometimes, but, you know, he's fine. After a second of hesitation, Boots follows us in, and the door grinds shut behind us. We are plunged for a moment into complete darkness, then a weak orange bulb attached to the rails and the upper right flickers weakly to life. There is another low crank from below, and the floor begins to vibrate. Our stomachs lurch as we feel ourselves drop And the rough earth and stone of our surroundings

Starts to rise up all around It's a lift, you see, an elevator And down we go Down, down, under the ground I'm looking straight ahead at the rushing rock Illuminated faintly in orange But in the corner of my eye I can see boots shift from one foot to the other

I sense him tense up He starts to feel it, for the first time, the waves of misery that emanate up from below, from the subject, and they only get stronger and stronger as you get closer and closer. I try to remember what it is like for me, and my first time down into the complex. It's all right, mate, I mutter. Just try to remember that it ain't permanent. It passes once you return to the surface. Boots nods but says nothing The lift rattles

And down we go The dark rock ahead rushes by And after a while we start to pass other materials too Steel bars and beams rusted panels Thick panes of glass that allows fleeting glimpses Into old and sterile corridors Of scientists and soldiers blurred and anonymous The lift begins to slow

The rock and the metal peel back and away like a parting curtain. The view ahead reveals us to be near the roof of an enormous hangar-like cavern and grants us a vantage point out and below. People shuffle from place to place far beneath like little toys. This is the centre of the complex, and it is vast. This is where they keep the subject. Boot steps forward. He puts a hand on the rail and peers out over the edge.

It's weird having him with us. It's like I'm seeing everything again for the first time through his eyes. Holy crap, he mutters, bewildered. The edge of the hangar are shrouded in darkness and stuffed full of various computers and generators, all interconnected with cables and wires. Scientists pour over the data. They take endless readings.

Soldiers march by, all shadowed. But the very centre of the hangar is brightly illuminated, perpetually held in the glare of a dozen floodlamps, all evilly spaced and pointed down at the complex's centrepiece. The subject. What is he? Boots asks. It, Rylan mutters. The higher-ups insist.

They want us calling it an it. But, I don't know, he looked so much like a it, Boots. For goodness sake, it's an it. Boots says no more and returns his gaze out over the scene, low. The subject, even as brightly lit as it is, is still quite far away from our current position and its features are not easily distinguishable. But I've been up close. I've seen what they're keeping down here. The subject stands slightly taller than your average man. It's about six foot seven or eight inches by my guess. Held in a rough X shape, the subject's

wrists and ankles are bound in heavy chains of a black and unknown metal. They are pulled taught and connected to the enormous, similarly metal giant circle to which he's held. The subject has the appearance and features of a Caucasian male. It is dark tan-skinned and completely hairless, but for two eyebrows of pure white, furrowed above a pair of eyes that are perpetually closed tight shut, sleeping. Its body is adorned with a series of curious and intricate tattoos, some in black, some bizarrely in white. A circle has been drawn across his chest and upper torso.

The circle has two great wings that burst from the top, and two that splay out from beneath them, spreading out across its ribcage. All down its arms are a series of eyes in various shapes and sizes, but all open wide, all staring. These are the only things I recognise, the only things that anyone recognises. No one has yet successfully identified the myriad of ruins and symbols

that cover its neck, its shoulder and back. Behind the subject stands a tall rectangular machine, a mechanical monolith, ever grinding, ever humming. It's a generator of sorts, their bottoms into a heavy tripod, and in its grip holds tight a burning shard, large and sharp and jagged at the edges, as if broken from a piece of an even greater hole.

The shard is glass-like and white-hot at the centre, mesmerizing patterns of fiery yet, yellow and orange, ripple paradoxically like water across its form. The shard is plunged into the subject's back, between two appendages that protrude from its shoulder blades like broken bones of diamond. The shard strikes out through the subject's chest, always rippling in its shades of orange and yellow and white, ever burning flamelessly. All quite necessary for his containment, they tell me, for its containment, I should say.

It's really difficult to not think of the subject as a heat. The lift comes to a stop at the base of the hangar, clanking down against the concrete. The rail unlocks, and we walk on out into the complex. The waves of despair are strong now. I see boots lift a hand to wipe his eyes, though I choose not to comment. The captain approaches. He's not in charge of the complex, but he could well be the highest ranked officer on duty today. The ones at the top don't like spending much time down here for obvious reasons.

"'Afternoon, lads,' the captain grunts. "'He's a broad-shouldered man, scarred across one cheek. "'Sir?' we reply, more or less as one, standing straight and saluting. "'About time you guys got down here, and who's this cry, baby?' "'Riland speaks before Boots has a chance to respond. "'As Boots, sir.' "'Boots, eh?' "'The captain scratches his chin.

"'Bad luck on the name.' "'He turns to me, and where's that little side?' piece of yours, eh, Lotsford? He makes a show of peering past me into the empty lift. Would have been nice for the lads at the top to send down a bit of eye candy for a change. She's already down here, sir, I reply. Has been for four days now. You what?

Why the hell didn't anyone tell me? Well, where the hell is she? I don't know, sir, I lie. Hmm, he grunts, then turns to her island. What's a bird like her doing with a waste man like this? Hey, Ryland, I bet you'd love to have a go on her, wouldn't you? Ryland, after a beat, and still looking straight ahead, replies, Not my place to say, sir.

The captain chuckles. Coward. So, where can I find it, then, Lottesford? Think she'll be interested in a go on this. He gestures to his crotch. Unlikely, sir, I reply, clenching my fist by my side. And why is that? She's an engineer, sir.

I imagine she's had a feel of attending to broken parts. Ryland snorts, and do his credit, so does the captain. How long are you down here for, Lodzford? Three days, I reply. Make it five. Yes, sir. All right, assholes, get to work, dismissed. We salute and leave the captain behind.

Yeah, he's a dick, you get used to it. Ryland disappears off to our station, and I direct boots to where he needs to go with a pat on the back. I watch him head through the app. appropriate door and disappear down the corridor. I shoot a glance over to the subject. I'll be needed at the station with Riland, but there's no immediate rush, I figure.

Time enough for a little detour. I pushed through the door and ascend the stairs. I walk tall and confident, so as to not attract any questions as to my destination, and ascend set after set of stairs through the sterile, peeling white corridors. A few floors up, I find her, more or less where I was expecting to find her, the girl I've been seeing, Taylor.

She's working on an enormous piece of weaponry. It's new, wasn't there the last time I was here. It stands at the very head of the corridor and is angled in such a way as the point-out and over the waist-high wall, down to the floodlit centre of the dome complex, aimed directly at the subject far below. I call out to the lass in greeting. Lott's fed, she says in surprise, her teeth showing. white in a warm grin.

It could well be the first time she smiled in days. It's brutal down here. I don't know why we call each other by her last names, by the way. It's just something we do. She stands and pulls me into a hug. I kiss her on the lips and then on the neck. Get her room, echoes a grouchy voice from the fire end of the corridor. She pulls me back a little, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

I wasn't expecting to see you down here. shift got changed. You know how the army is. And what about you? I thought you were due to return to the service like two days ago. She shrugged. You know how the army is? We share a laugh.

A welcome sound in the gloom of these sterile corridors. So, how long are you down here for then? She asks me. Five days. It was meant to be three, but Captain screwed me over. Rarland and boots are down here too. Oh, she muses. "'Rallin's here, too?

"'How long are the guy's going to be down?' "'Three days, same as I was meant to have.' "'I shrugged, and she put her hands out in and, "'Ah, well, what can you do?' kind of gesture. "'I nod to the enormous contraption she's working on. "'What's this then?' "'She makes a noise of exhaustion. "'This bloody thing is why I'm down here.

"'The upper boves don't want us to change shifts "'with the next lot until we've actually completed the work "'and at least one of these bad boys. It would be easy if they just let us test them a little more, but, well, they don't. What is it? I ask. It's a weapon, right? What is it fire? Taylor nods. Yeah, security measures for the subject.

Take a look at this. She leads me just around the corner to a pedestalled and plexiglass container. Based on what's held inside, however, I'm assuming that the material is a little more expensive than simple plexiglass. held precisely and carefully and two narrow metal prongs is a long bullet, made of the same shimmering, firing material as the blade embedded in the subject's chest. The bullet is ringed in two bands of what appeared to be dark and glistening wood. Whoa, I mutter. Yeah, she replies. No idea of how it was made, or even what it's made of, but I'm presuming as expensive as all hell.

Hmm, I murmur in agreement. My ears prick up at the sounds of running feet, and I take a step back and return round the corner into the corridor. One of the scientists that work here, a woman in a white coat, is hurriedly making away towards us. She glances anxiously back over her shoulder, tugging at her sleeves. And I am instantly alert. My mood hardens at once, and I feel all my senses sharpen and reflex. Some things not right here. Hey, I call out,

Excuse me, is everything okay? The scientist stops and attracts to stare at me. She stammers, frozen in place, as if on the verge of sharing some crucial information. Then we turn as one to stare down the corridor as a ripple of icy winds blows down it. Not possible, of course. There's no wind down here.

Nothing produces a sensation like that. And yet, goosebumps ripple across my skin. and my blood runs instantly cold. Eyes wide, I cannot help but stand stock still, staring down the long and gloomy corridor ahead. The overhead lights at the fire end fizzle out, and the furthest reaches are plunged into shadow,

and the shadows deepen. The entire complex, as it stands, could do with a little maintenance. Peeled paint and chipped glass tell a tale of laziness of idle neglect. But, looking down the corridor now, the sensation is all at once so much more noticeable. The disrepair that one would never even see on a normal patrol now reeks of rot, of sickness, of discord and disarray. Even though physically the outward appearance of the walls and the ceiling and the various doors remain largely the same,

the impression they give now is that they could collapse at any moment, and behind the scenes they are only barely held together by the thinnish of strands. I can almost hear the beams and the concrete crack, and a voice reverberates out from the encroaching darkness as the light start to fail one by one. Where is he? I know he is waiting for us, soldier. The voice is accompanied by the appearance of an appendage of what I can only describe as thick, void-like black ink, only barely visible through the shadows. It slithers around the far corner into sight and begin to leak and ooze across the floor to water. It is here where my training kicks in. Before I can even issue the order to my legs, I find them striding to the switch on the nearby wall.

My elbow rises up to smash the glass, and I grabbed a switch, slamming it down hard into an accompanying wail of a siren, one that screams overhead and blares through the walls. The white coat of the scientist is illuminated in the repetitive, steady beat of a flashing orange light, and I bring my radio up to my mouth, watching as the barriers start to appear. One of them grinds the life behind me, a sheet of metal, steadily grinding out from the ceiling and obscuring the aim of an enormous gun, blocking off the view over the edge and down to the subject and the centre of the complex below. Another starts to slide out from the wall a few metres ahead, a great grid of solid metal.

It shudders as it pushes out from a slot hidden away in the wall and rumbles as it gradually blocks the rest of the corridor from view. I catch a glimpse of a wet and inky black body, spilling the wall, spilling me. out around the far corner before the barrier jodders and fixes itself into place. Corridor D12 to H.Q, I shout into the receiver. Corridor D12 to HQ, we're facing a level one breach. I can't even believe I'm saying it. I never thought this could happen. Never in a thousand, thousand years. I may as well be dreaming. My voice, it barely even sounds like my own to my ears. But in the radio, I shout as loud and as clear as I can.

I repeat, level one breach. We're facing a level one breach. The siren wails. The radio crackles in response, but I don't hear what, if anything, is said. I dropped the device back to my belt and my gun is in my hands before I can blink. Get behind me, I roared to the scientist, still frozen in place like a deer in the headlights of an approaching car. Now! To her credit, she promptly does so, and my eyes widened in terror,

and something slams hard into the centre of the bottom. metal barrier from the opposite side, denting it in a way I would have considered impossible. Taylor, to my right. Lott'sford, she shouts in panic, above the silent scream. My gun. I don't have my gun. I shoot her an incredulous look over my shoulder. You what? Why the hell?

I splutter. For goodness sake, woman, what are you? Nothing's ever happened down here, Lott'sford. You know that, and the officers don't give a damn. I left it in my quarters. I swear beneath my breath As another dent appears in the metal barrier The four or five metres stretch of corridor between it and I

Has begun to shimmer with illogical and unnatural shadows Just get her out of here, the civilian Get her the hell out of here, Taylor! I shout back to her as I maintain my aim in the barrier Retreating step by step as I do so I just about hear their steps against the floor away And around the corner A low and terrible voice

one of many whispers shivers through the air beside me. We know he is close. We can feel him. Take us to him, soldier. Stay back, I shout. Identify yourself at once. But the only response to receive is a mocking laughter that echoes around the walls.

A third end appears with a bang at the center of the barrier, beside the others, and at last the cavalry arrives. To my left and right, the corridor fills with my comrades. Boots is one of them. He crouches down beside me and I crouch in turn, balance low near the ground. Lott'sford, he shouts over the siren. What the hell is going on? What is this?

Stay calm, boots. You've got this. We've got this. What's happening, Lottford? Is it the Argentinians? I shoot him a look. No, mate. No it isn't. Focus your mind. Just try to remember the training as best you can. The training we received for instances of the paranormal was scarce, as I'm sure you can imagine. But we did, to be fair, have some. No one took it seriously, of course.

Even those who had, at that point, already been down to see the subject for themselves. After all, what was he really? All things considered. Some tall, tattooed bloke with an unsettling aura and a piece of fancy glass shoved through him. We have our suspicions and theories, but that's all they are. guesses. The up aboves don't tell us Jack and the novelty wears off quick. Now, I'm wishing I paid a little closer attention. Practice the mind discipline exercises with greater care. The ground shakes. Too late now. Hopefully, I picked up just enough to get out of

this alive. An officer appears to our right. Engineers, he bellows. Make yourselves known. Two members of the crew that forms the corridor blockade raise their hands. and the officer nods to the weapon that Taylor had been working on. Engage with the weapon and get it active. Hold an aim of the barrier and await my signal to fire. The weapon is understood to be in an uncompleted capacity, sir. The closest of the engineer replies, it may not even work at all, and if it does, it'll likely be temperamental at best.

Get it done! The officer shouts as the barrier starts the crack and split in the centre. Now! They stand to a salute and hasten back through the corridor to the weapon at its head. One detaches a thick pair of iron tongues from the side and heads around the corner for the bullet, whilst the other starts turning a series of gears and levers on the machine's side, panels and inner mechanisms springing out as he does so. I turn back to the barrier, raising my own weapon in careful aim.

A voice of one of my superiors, of all of our superiors, blairs through the speakers and to the back and track of the siren. Attention, all personnel. Stand ground at your assigned stations. the intrusion must not be allowed to reach the subject. Subject must remain in stasis at all costs. Subject to remain in status as highest priority. Repeat, subject to remain in stasis as highest priority. A beat of sweat buds and trickles on the side of the officer's face. I don't rate them usually. Officers, useless bloody lizards. But credit where credits do, he's here with the rest of us. He's in the trenches of this accursed corridor. I carefully push a plug into each of my ears. The sound of the siren has muffled somewhat, and the barrier splits.

The metal peels back like paper, and all that is visible beyond is a swirling void. Soldiers on ground, fire! The officer roars, and the hall comes live with a brilliant white light of a long and rippling burst of gunfire. Bullets fly and rain towards the crack in the metal, and the ingy black substance behind it splattered across the floor and up the walls as it tries to push through. Something that looks awfully like a shadowy hand melts out from the crack

and falls to the ground, splattering into the same liquid as it makes contact. Cease fire, bellows the officer. Cease fire! We do so. It takes a moment for us to realize that, beyond the ringing of her ears,

the siren has come to a stop. It still flashes, casting its orange glow of warning across us all, but the noise has ceased with the gunfire. I do not know if this is a good sign or a bad one. A low hissing takes place. It reverberates through the air. I can feel its frustration.

Boots is shaking. I can see from the corner of my eye. He rubs a hand across his forehead. He's muttering to himself in fear. But I cannot tell what he is saying. Poor lad. He didn't sign up for this. Though none of us did, really.

I don't know what approaches from behind. this barrier. I don't know how it got in or where it came from. I've never dealt with anything like this. I never thought I would have to, but the thing seems to want to get to the subject. And as my duty as a soldier, I am tasked with keeping that from happening. Such is the way. Engineers, the officer mutters, glancing behind us to the head of the corridor. Are you in position to fire when called upon? As we can be, sir, comes to reply, and the officer nods. The hissing shivers into a sentence. The words are deep and sharp.

They impede our progress. We risk losing his state of easy influence. Scatter them. A surge of void black ink burst suddenly through the crack in the barrier. It forms itself into an enormous dark snake, one that winds from left to right, mouth open and fangs sharp as it slithers directly towards us. Damn, someone shouts. It could well have been me.

And again, the sound of gunfire fills the corridor from wall to wall. Flickering shadows of the blast from the barrel are sent dancing through our field of vision, and the snake is torn to pieces. It explodes and splatters, completely coating the broken barrier in a layer of the dark liquid. The gunfire stops with a motion of the officer's hand, and we watch the substance leak and pull when the floor blow. The liquid flickers and melts through. a series of colors, like light upon an oil spill, and images begin to flash across the coated

barrier as if projected onto a great, dark screen. The images are troubling and disturbing, though I struggle to hold onto them in the way one struggles with the memories of dreams. They twist and ripple and shimmer like light upon a dark lake, and the face of a man I do not recognize becomes clear, enormous, and blown up to fit the size of the barrier. We all stare, mesmerized and terrified as the face of the man morphs quickly into the face of another, a boy, and then into a woman, then another. It cycles like this from face to face with a growing, accompanying hissing all around. The face changes from that of an old man into the face of a young woman, and to my right, boots loads his weapon. I shoot him a glance and he stares at it, eyes wide and mouth open.

Mary? he mutters, and the shadowy image of the face stops changing at once. It fixes hastily in place, seeming to tighten and join the very walls of the corridor as it does so. Its expression loses its neutrality and comes live as he looks back into Boots's eyes. It speaks. You're my friend, and you let me down. How could you? Boots shakes violently. No, no, Mary.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You know what you did to me when I was drunk. I was drunk, too. You know I was. I wasn't thinking right. I swear. Boots shouts, pleading with a shadowed face upon the wall. I could barely stand. You knew I wasn't attracted to you, and you slept with me anyway. I trusted you, and you betrayed me. Mary, Boots chokes out. Please. You know what you did to me, don't you, James.

No, he shouted. breaks, breaking as tears blow his eyes. He raises his gun and fires, the noise shattering the spell. But he's only able to shoot for a second or so, before his gun simply drops from his hands and hits the floor with a clatter. He wretches as his body writhes, his veins bulge and his eyes roll over white, and then black. Going suddenly limp, boots as raised off the ground and into the air, as if pulled up on invisible strings.

Jesus Christ, someone shouts from behind, as boots his ankles and wrists start to contort. The veins all visible across his body throb violently. They darken, and then, after a moment, they burst. His lifeless corpse smacks to the ground with an outpouring of black liquid. And the officer, it seems, finally takes hold of his senses amidst the horror. Engineers, he bellows. Now, fire, fire now! The sound of a piercing whistle tears through the air above our heads,

and the briefest flashes of yellow, turned white, suggests that the fiery bullet from the weapon has connected with the inky mass that bulges through the crack of the barrier. There is a mechanical crash from behind, and an angry scream that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, clawing and tearing into our eardrums. I cringe and watch as the ink-like substance starts the crack and harden into pure, white, shattering like ice into tiny shards on the ground as it does so.

Fall back, the officer roars. Fall the hell back to your assigned stations. Engineers move to the next weapon. I staggered to my feet and back the hell away, watching as the white spreads and hardens and cracks the dark liquid, shattering it across the floor. But already, the void-like ink is regrouping, re-gathering. I see it swirl and spill beyond the crack in the barrier. I watch it make its next attempt to force its way through.

All around me, soldiers sprint off down the corridor to their assigned stations. They'll all be close by, presumably, but mine is on the opposite side of the complex. I'm not even supposed to be here at all. I only came to see Taylor. The officer claps me on the shoulder. Get a move on, soldier. Go, go, go! My heels bump up against the ruined remains of the weapon as he disappears around the corner.

The machine only had one shot, I suppose. I cast a final glance over to the corpse of boots, cold and ruined and alone on the corridor floor. I don't know if the images in the wall told the truth. I don't know if they were a trick, but he didn't deserve to die like that. I'm sure of it. James Rhodes was his name.

I'm sorry, mate. I mutter as I look down the two corridors available to me. The one to my right is the quickest route back. to my station, but the one on the left is where Taylor went with a scientist. My mind flicks from one route to the other. She doesn't have a weapon, Lodzford. She needs you. No, just get back to your station. She's a train soldier. She can take care of herself. This is Taylor we're talking about here, and she has no idea what's coming. What if something happens to her? There is no point in this debate. My mind is already made up. I'm going after.

to her, of course. I have to. So, I take the corridor to the left, sprinting down it as fast as I can, round corner after corner, until I am forced into a sudden halt. The way ahead is barred. The barrier has crossed the length of the corridor and is fixed in place. I slam my fist against it. Open up, hey, let me through. There is no response. I slam again, a little more urgently. open up you need to let me through i've been left behind identify yourself soldier comes the voice from beyond i don't have time for this i consider turning back and returning down the corridor to take a different path but when i glance behind me when i look back i watch in horror as a light at the firing go dark and there it is an icy wind rising and swirling malevolently the corridor seems to the grown length The length. Shadows ripple and deepen across the walls. Panic rising, I slam against the barrier. For goodness sake, just let me through.

It's Lottford. Ben Lott's Fitton. Military Intelligence, 25, 23,20. A loud bang from behind makes me jump, and I stutter an alarm, swiveling with my back to the barrier, raising my gun in shaking hands. And then, appears the ink. Frothing and bubbling like rushing waves, as it rounds the corner and spills steadily towards me. and across its surface walks three shadowy figures, roughly humanoid but featureless.

Bodies made of that same, oily, inky black murk. The mere sight of them is akin to being struck in the centre of my chest. The air leaves my lungs in a terrible gasp as I try to croak out a warning to stay back. But I cannot vocalise. I can only stare. The one to the left is missing a hand, the one to the right is missing an entire arm, and is marked by hard and ice like white, jagged blades and crystals across its empty socket

below its shoulder and down its side. But the one in centre, the closest, is unharmed. It cocks his head as it approaches, tilts it towards one of its fellows. This one was with her. He can lead us to where she awaits. She will create for us the chaos, and in the chaos we will reach him. It comes to a stop a few metres away And raises a hand towards me

Where is the woman, soldier? Take us to her I cannot respond I cannot speak I can only fire And fire I do Bursts of bullets firing out Into the abomination before me

The thing hisses But does not appear particularly daunted It barely takes even a single step back Some of the bullets are absorbed into its form some pass through, but any harm they might cause is marginal at best. Enough, it says coldly striding towards me. The air starts to freeze. And I hear from behind a clank of metal.

A hand grabs a hold to my shoulder and I'm hastily drawn back through the barrier as it closes tight shot behind me. The air is warmer here and I feel as if I can breathe again. I allow in great gasps as I stumble back between my comrades. armed and awaiting, guns held tight and aimed at the barrier. This is a new squad, I realise, looking around. New, but for two. One of these two is a man who'd been positioned a few rows behind me at corridor D12.

He shakes violently and his face is a ghostly pale, stark white and eyes wide unblinking. The other is the officer. He stands to my immediate left and was the one who dragged me through. Come on, soldier, he mutters grimly. Get to your damn station. I look around. There is no weapon here. No bullets of fire.

There is just corridor. What the hell are you doing? I ask him, bewildered. You need to pull the hell back. There was no hope against that thing. Not like this. You saw what happened to boot? The officer gets up in my face and shouts over the stirrings and murmurs around us.

Remember your rank. That thing must be wrong. prevented from reaching the subject. Highest priority order. Now get to your damn station. I look over the faces of the men and women in the corridor. They have no idea

what's coming. I make eye contact with a soldier from my corridor. What are you doing? Don't you realize you need to go? I plead with him. But he does not respond. I'm not sure if he can. He only stares.

Take aim. The officer roars. as I hear that terrible, familiar clunk of dending metal. And I take my leave. I'm not staying here. I run from corridor to corridor as fast as I can. Grab the radio at my belt and bellow into it. D12 personnel to HQ.

We need to evacuate. We can't fight this thing. We need to get everybody out now. The device crackles, but I received no response. For goodness sake, I mutter, trying to think through what Taylor was likely to have done. Did she head back to a quarters to grab a gun, or did she go straight to a station? She wouldn't do that, surely, not without a weapon.

Though, she is an engineer. Maybe she was tasked with the operation of one of the big machines. I tap my knuckles against my head. What if she tried to get the scientist the safety first? Ah, I grunt with frustration, failing to make a decision on where to go. Though, as fate would have it, my decision is made for me. I pass right by them. A blur of colour at the end of the adjacent corridor in my periphery has me pause and backpedal.

At its end, in one of the complex's control rooms, I see Taylor, and I see the scientist. Taylor, I shout in relief, blood pumping, turning at once and heading down into the corridor, the hall opening up into a domed room with almost every surface covered in screens, granting visuals of many of the corridor's most important junctions and pathos. ways. Taylor turns to look at me. She looks terrified. Ben! She screams at me. Stay back, run, please. And everything seems this low. Time becomes thicker as I feel myself take heavy step after step into the room. I notice a great many things at once. I notice that Taylor is suspended impossibly above the ground. She writhes and struggles as if suspended in water.

Her arms, I realize, abound in some way or another behind her back. My focus passes from her to the scientist. She taps away at the keys, looking up into one of the screens overhead. Her eyes are void black. Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, and the satanic markings that is branded on her forearm has begun to leak. It drips inky void liquid down onto the floor. Lutzford, telecries, her voice low and distorted to my ears.

but it is too late All I can do is watch as the scientist presses the final key and takes a step back and all across the screens all the barriers that are visible are instantly summoned back into their respective walls

I cannot hear them but I can see them the soldiers the officers panicking shouting the switches and in some cases trying to hold the barriers back with brute force

but it is all for nothing The barriers, as ordered, fall back, and the terror beyond flows through. Again comes that order, loud and commanding through the speakers. Attention, all personnel. Stand ground at your assigned stations. The intruder must not be allowed to reach the subject. Subject must remain in stasis at all cost. Subject to remain in status as highest priority.

Repeat, subject to remain in stasis. And the voice cuts off. The speakers crackle into a monotone buzz. Then, silence. I have done as you asked, my love. The scientist murmured out loud. I did it all for you. I've prepared the complex.

Gabriel is weak. He can be overcome now. Gabriel? Who is Gabriel? She turns to me, and I grimace in dismay as her eyes swirl with shadows. Her jaw dislocates from its hinges and falls down to her neck with a crack. as a black snake-like tongue starts to slither out through the air towards me. I return to my senses and raise my gun.

I take instant aim and fire. It takes only a second or two for the woman's legs to collapse from beneath her and she falls, smacking hard onto the floor. She quivers once, twice, then lay still. Her tongue and eyes melt steadily into a black ooze. Damn. Taylor loses a mid-air. suspension and despite the best efforts, let out a gasp as she trips and stumbles to the floor.

What the hell is going on? I manage as I rush over to help her up. Whatever it was that was keeping her arms bound behind her back seems to have dissolved, and she rubs her wrists in pain. She just flipped out, Lotsford. She started screaming that she needed to get to the control room and, I don't know, I didn't want to leave her alone. I'm an idiot. I hauler to her feet and I look over the screens across the walls. They show me the void-like abomination, spilling around corner after corner, in multiple places at once. Bullets fly, soldiers are lifted and crushed against walls by invisible hands, grasping at their neck as their veins turned black.

I cannot hear them through the screens, but screams echo distant and distorted down the corridor to the beat of vast and frequent footfalls. The creature seems to be many and one, all at the same time, Everywhere that the oil-like substance spills and slithers, the void-like creatures stride across. Great sticky strands of the liquid connect their limbs to the ooze below, snapping and reforming as they walk. One of the figures lifts a featureless face up towards the nearest camera, and, though the thing is eyeless, I get the sensation that it is staring directly at me, right and my soul. I curse and tear away my gaze. and against my programming for the first real time

I can't help but think to myself Why What is the subject truly worth to the upper buzz But they would so recklessly throw away the lives of their own soldiers like this Do they even realise the damage this intruder is capable of Don't they see what it's doing Come on Taylor we're getting the hell out of here I grab a hand and together we flee through an emergency exit

down and narrow and largely unused corridor. The ceiling shakes overhead as we run, dust and plaster rain down in bursting clouds. What about the others? she gasps. What about Ryland? He'll still be down there. I begin to doubt myself. Can we really just run away and leave all the others behind? The intruder is trying to get to the subject, and now that the barriers are down, it shouldn't take all that long for it to achieve its goal.

And what happens if the intruder makes it to the subject, Lodzford. What then? I don't know. I have no idea. But, I doubt, it'll be any good. Ah, you're right. Damn. Okay, okay, listen. Here's what we're going to do. I stop at a fork in the corridor and grab over the shoulders. I'm going to go to the middle, to the center. I'll try to draw the intruder down too. Get yourself a bloody gun and get in contact with the engineers, okay? We need every single one of the weapons manned. and aimed down at the complex floor below, aimed at the subject if they aren't already. I saw what it managed to do to the intruder.

It caused some serious damage. Those machines might be the only things I can stop it. I breathe. Do you understand Taylor? She nods and takes off at once, determinedly sprinting down the corridor. Is this a good idea, Lotsford, splitting up? You only just found her. Times running short.

He, who fails to make a decision in time. time will find that time has made all his decisions for him. I clenched my jaw and charged the opposite way, and the hall eventually opens up into a wider corridor, a few levels down from my first encounter with the intruder, and a single level above the complex's ground floor where the subject is kept, bound, and silent. I realize as I tear towards the nearest lift that I can no longer feel the waves of misery to which I'd been accustomed. I suppose I assumed that my panic had simply overridden it, but now I accept it has actually disappeared altogether, gone, but replaced with something new. I feel it wash over and threw me in great pulses, like the beating of a heart. It is passionate, but difficult to describe.

Not anger, nor fear, but it is rich with vibrant warning, with fiery determination. It provides me a powerful, if anxious, energy to keep going. It's coming from the subject. I know it, and I wonder if the others can feel it too. I crash into the booth of a little elevator as a dark, tentacled mass writhes around the corridor's far corner. Oe, freak!

I shout, firing a burst out into it. The bullets tear through one of the appendages and leaves broken streaks in the edge of the ink-spattered wall. My skin chills as I feel the intruder focus its interest on me. and I slammed my thumb into the closed doors button again and again. The oil across the floor changes direction, slipping and leaking quietly down the corridor towards me. The figure connected to the appendage slithers around the corner

as the tentacle reformed into a shadowy arm. Your girlfriend is dead, by the way, I taunt, referring to the scientist. I'm still slamming the button as hard and as fast as I can. I killed her. The intruder laughs. She was useful to me, it says, its voice a hiss that snakes through the air and shivers against my eardrums.

Another corpse on your conscience, soldier. Images flash across the intruder's body in the same manner that they appeared across the incoaded barrier back on corridor D12. They show the scientists as a young girl, laughing with her sisters, playing in a large green garden beneath the sparkling summer sky. No, I scream. tearing my eyes away. Close the damn doors for goodness sake.

I ordered the button. Doors closing, the robotic voice of the lift replies, and the two metal doors begin to slide together. Slowly, it seems. Far too slowly. The intruder strides towards me. This liquid spills between the doors and onto the floor by my feet. I raise my gun and fire again through the gap, heart pounding,

and finally the doors close, and I feel the welcome sensation of the lift descending. I back myself into a corner, staring down at the oil-like spillage that ripples and bubbles unsettlingly below me. My chest rises and falls as I feel my lungs with deep, ragged breaths.

I take the opportunity to reload, though my hands are shaking. What the hell are you? I mutter to the pool of liquid on the floor. Doors opening, chirps the voice, and, with a little ding, the doors slide open, Ground floor I am hit by a loud and terrifying chorus

Identify yourself, hands in the air, hands in the damn air! From all around, a dozen of soldiers, if not more, or were the weapons pointed directly at me, screaming from the shadows. For goodness sake, I shout back at them, squinting under the strain of the torchlight that shines right into my eyes. It's gloomy in the complex, grim and shadowed,

everywhere, except for the centre of the wide concrete platform that houses the subject. Ere was suspended in his circle of black metal and run through with the blade of the glassy fire. The great floodlamps washed their bright and perpetual light across his form. Beyond him, at the far style of the domed, hangar-like complex, is the open-sided lift that Boots and Ryland and I had descended down earlier this evening, back when I had assumed that this would be another regular shift. All around is panic and disarray. Soldiers scramble into hastily ordered positions in squads, aimed at the stairs.

I catch glimpses of their silhouettes in the shadows. Military Intelligence, 25232051. The guns and the lights are lowered. Get into position, soldier. Someone barks at me as I blink and readjusts to the gloom. Now! Where's the captain? I ask, blinking and returning my hands to my weapon.

I need to speak with him at once. The soldier jerks his thumb to a section of computers and machines, all wide up along the perimeter. I nod my head in thanks and hasten over as a rumbling reverberates through the walls. Captain! I shout, Captain! And I catch a glimpse of a scarred cheek turning towards me. There he is. Lott'sford, he snarls. Where the hell have you been?

Get over to that squad over there. We're taking the fight to the intruder. We're going to push it back. No, Captain. We need to draw it down here. We need to get the thing into the complex. Have you lost your mind, Lodzford? The subject, sir, please.

Tell is making the rounds on the upper floors. If everything is going to plan, then she's getting the engineers into position around the weapons. Bring the intruder down here and have them all fire at once. You didn't see what I saw, sir. The weapons do damage, but it's not enough. They all need to be fired at once. The captain hesitates.

I can see the gears turning in his head as the lights of nearby torches pass fleetingly over his features. He grimaces at me and lets out a sigh of frustration, but draws his radio up to his mouth. Peter to HQ, he says, requesting engineers to be distributed to the weapons, two on each over. The radio crackles and splutters meaninglessly in response

as he drops the thing back to his belt with a grunt. Useless, bloody thing, he growls. All right, Latsford, all right, we'll do your plan. but I ain't relying on your useless little sidepiece. Engineers! He roars suddenly, in a voice so loud that ain't compelled into taking a step back. A hush in the ranks ripple out from our position as the soldiers stop in their tracks. Identify yourselves at once, the Captain bellows.

All those with experience of the weapons make yourselves known to me. A smattering of soldiers stepped forward, and the captain disperses them, sending them out through various metal doors around the complex and back up to the layers of Above. More of that hideous, nightmare-like laughter warbles through the air. It emanates from the shadows that darken and deepen all around, and the oil-like liquid starts to spill down the stairs from the darkness. The sound of machine gunfire behind me bids me turn, and I see the lift light up with the gunfire.

Back up, the unit commander shouts. Back up! You better be right about this, Lottesford, the captain grunts beside me. To your position, soldiers, now, keep the intruder on the stairs. Don't let it get any closer to the subject. He turns to me. We keep it at bay. Then, when I receive the signal that the engineers are in position, we draw it into the centre.

Once I can confirm that all weapons of direct sights on the intruder, we fire. I nod. And I take up my position. Lott'sford, shouts a voice nearby. I look over and see its source. Rylund, beckoning me over. Ryland! I laugh, despite everything. Never thought I'd be so glad to see your ugly mug.

What the hell is this thing, Ladsford? He asks as the intruder descends the stairs as not one, but as many, absorbing the rain of bullets that pour into its bodies. I don't know, mate, I don't know, I reply through gritter teeth, though I think about the demonic symbol I saw carved into the scientist's forearm. I glanced behind me to the subject, silent and bayed. in the glaring floodlights. There is something far greater at play here, something that terrifies me on a deep and primal level,

and one that hurts my head to even try to comprehend. The intruder's closest body suddenly stops and throws out his hands. Two great and curled black horns burst from the side of its head as it grows and careens forward, and the soldiers in the front row retreat hastily back into the formation with cries of alarm. The horn figure keeps falling and smacks into the lowermost steps, bursting into a huge, writhing mass of the oil-like substance, spilling and swirling and splashing across the stairs and up against its sides, ebbing and flowing like the tide. The liquid is splattered across the soldiers, and they watch in horror as they find their hands stuck to their weapons, unable to release their grips. The image of an alien eye flickers in bright and distorted lights across the liquid surface, and they watch in the water. and it focuses its gaze upon a soldier near the front at the side.

A boy, made entirely a void-like ink, rises up from the center of the black pool that leaks like a poison waterfall down the steps. Up he rises, his features flashing across his body as if projected. The soldier that the eyes fixed upon steps forward. She lowers a weapon in a daze. Adrian? She murmurs, weaponed by his sides, but still very much affixed to her hands. And Ryland tries to push through the squadron to grab her by the shoulder, but he finds his feet

stuck to the ground. He staggers and falls, crashing to the floor. With effort, I managed to help him up, and we watch in horror as the boy before us. Starts to cry. The sound is piercing and heart-wrenching. You never called me Adrian in school, Samantha. The boy splutters in distress. Why did you choose to bully me over everyone?

What was it about me that you hated so much? I'm so sorry, Adrian, the soldier cries out over the fruitless gunfire. I didn't hate you. I only picked on you because I was weak and I saw you as an easy target. A stream of dark liquid rises up and forms in a narrow pole just behind the boy. It comes to a stop a couple meters above his head and it juts out to a little bit of his head. and it juts out towards us at an angle and then a thin black snake emerges

and starts to unravel itself from the ewes slithering through the air towards the boy's head I just wanted to be your friend Samantha I just wanted to be seen I thought you were the coolest person in the world and you made me feel like nothing Adrian the soldier screams trying and failing to reach him slipping and sticking to the oil

and the snake wrapped it as a itself around the boy's neck. He does not fight back and allows it to jerk him up into the air. His body writhes and his legs kick in automatic reaction as this sick little performance comes to a close. The boy's body stops moving and after a pause the entire apparatus melts once again into nothing more than black liquid. The soldier is raised up into the air as it does so and thrown against the nearby wall by invisible hands. She chokes and splutters and screams as her eyes go white, then black. Her veins bulge, and from her neck they explode in a thick burst of blood and inky oil. Her corpse is cut loose and cracks as it hits the concrete floor.

The intruder reforms into the dark, horned man, and he approaches. Terrified soldiers part like water to allow him to pass. I pull my feet from the floor and haul wriling back as I do. so. Shooting a glance over my shoulder, I shout out loud. Captain! Captain, are they ready? I look up to the levels above. It's difficult to see in the shadows, but I think I can make out three or four of the weapons primed and pointed down into the complex. Again comes that terrible laughter. Yes, marks the intruder. Are they ready? I stare right at it, right into its face. The face of the beast, featureless, swirling shadow,

and lifts its gaze to look at the subject, as do all of its myriad of terrible bodies, standing on the stairs and all around. Gabriel, we have found you, at last. It whispers with a hiss. Engineers, comes the sudden roar of the captain. Now, fire now! I brace for the whistling shrieks

for the explosive blast of the fiery bullets for the intruder to screech in pain and panic. But there are no such noises. Silence falls, thick and heavy, as if the complex were blanketed by a layer of freezing snow. For a while, the only sound that is able to breach this tort silence is the steady thumb of the generator that keeps the blade a light in the subject's chest,

like a heartbeat, deep and steady. And then, there comes to him. hissing. Movement in the levels above catch my eye and I look up. I look up to see the weapons fall uselessly to pieces one by one. Mechanical parts rain down from above, clattering noisely against the equipment below, and the heads and shoulders and chests of inky, void-like creatures appear alongside their ruins. They raise in great tentacle-like arms the bodies of the engineers, lifeless and struck with bloated black veins. No, I murmur in dismay.

Taylor. And the figures, or the intruder, as I should say, as I'm convinced that every figure is part of a greater hole, dropped the engineer's corpses over the side, and one by one, their bodies fall through the air. As if in slow motion, I follow one of my former comrades down with my eyes, watching as he crashes into the computers below, with a burst of electricity, a flurry of sparks and an outpouring of that same, god-forsaken,

black liquid void. And blind terror strikes itself into the souls of every soldier still standing in the complex. Order breaks down completely. Panic and fear takes total hold as lights flash in the darkness all around. I watch as stray bullets punch through the ink of one of the intruder's bodies and straight into another soldier's chest and neck on the opposite side. Ryland, we have to take cover. We have to get the hell out of here. I shouted him, but Ryland has vanished into the chaos.

I cannot see where he has gone. I sprint to a position near the floodlights. The subject stands bound a few metres away, and I crash behind the computers that operate the generator. One by one, however, as the intruder strides closer and closer, raising its many arms, the lights start to go out. With a bright flash and a shattering of sparks, the enormous eternal light of the floodlamps that surrounded subjects begin to go dark.

Look at you, Gabriel, the intruder taunts. What happened to you? You have allowed yourself to become captured. You're weak, and your day of reckoning has finally arrived. The truth becomes suddenly plain. I don't know why I didn't realize sooner. The intruder does not want the subject to wake up at all. It was never its intention.

I think about what the scientist said in the control room. Gabriel is weak. He can be overcome now. Gabriel. Is that his name? The subject, Gabriel. I look around at the disarray. Many of the intruder's bodies are playing their sickening and torturous games amidst the soldiers.

I watch as my colleagues are raised up in the disarray. into the air and then struck violently down in all corners of the complex. Did he get to Taylor? Is she already dead? A terrifying but powerful thought occurs to me. I could wake him up. The subject. I could wake him up right now at this very moment.

The mere thought sends shivers of Frisans running through me. Would it be a wise move or an incredibly foolish one? I move my hand to the switch on the computer board, the switch that will power down the generator. It is one of two, but the other is cracked and broken, torn up by rogue gunfire. But it's not just about the intruder, is it Lottford, the upper-abovs, your own commanders. They don't want the subject to wake either, do they? I hesitate. Subject must remain in stasis at all costs.

Subject to remain in status as high as possible. priority. For goodness sake, I mutter. I don't know what to do. I cringe as another of the great flood lamps goes dark and a little more of the complex is plunged into shadow.

And the voice of the captain, not far to my right, calls my name. I turned to stare at him. He staggers towards me from the shade. One of his arms, I notice, is blooded and hanging uselessly at his side. He holds his gun in his good hand, shooting a terrified

glance to the intruder as he approaches. I know what you're thinking, Lodzford, he croaks. But don't do it. You can't. Don't wake it up. Please. My hand quivers by the switch. Sir.

Don't do it, Lodzford. The captain begs. Don't you know what he is? After all this time, haven't you worked it out? He. The things we can accomplish with this creature. Gabriel, I murmur, as the captain winces, but nods. Aye, Gabriel, and he is ours, under our control, our influence, the power that he wields,

the things we could do with that power, for everyone, for mankind. Sir, I reply, my voice hoarse, but the captain interrupts again. He's an angel, Lottford, an angel, as I live and breathe, I swear it, I swear it! and I know in my heart of hearts that he is telling the truth but if we awaken him we lose him forever for humanity's sake you cannot do it you cannot wake him up I shake my head I can't deal with this this is insane but for goodness sake everyone in the complex is going to die

I shout despairingly that's a price I'm willing to pay Lotsford the captain's eyes are wide and bloodshot I've never seen him like this. I would gladly give my life for the good of all mankind. Would you not do the same? I hesitate, and in that hesitation, the captain raises his gun. And in a swift motion, he aims it at my chest. He does not get the chance to fire, however, because I fire first.

As if in a dream I watch him expel his final gas with air, and he crumbles uncerimoniously to the ground, breathing steadily over the floor. I look down at my hands in horror. What have you done, Lotsford? What the hell have you done? You killed him. You just killed your commanding officer. I'm committed now, as committed as I've ever been.

So there is nothing left for me to do. Nothing left but to turn the switch. There is a shattering of glass, and then, There remains only one lone floodlight still active. It is the one that points directly down and onto the subject's form. The shadows he casts are long and shimmering. Let this work. I pray to no one in particular.

Please, just let this work. With the smallest of clicks, the generator behind the subject starts to power down. It clanks and grinds with a low chuttering. The fiery blade dims and slows its rippling. And the intruder panics. I can feel its panic in the air. It lowers its arms and looks around. It spots me, and every one of its dozens of dozens of heads swivels to stare at me as one.

Energy ripples out from the subject like water, and I stare up at the face of this thing beyond comprehension. The muscles in his neck start to twitch. His brow creases. And... He opens his eyes. The subject's eyes are ocean blue and ever-swirling pools of green, shining and glittering. The tattoos across his chest and arms and torso are light at once. The intricately drawn eyes all move with the ones that sparkle in his head.

He grimaces and bears his teeth as he looks down to the broken blade embedded through his chest, and the skin around the wound starts to thrum and shine in brilliant white. He turns his head to look at the shadowy form of the intruder, and a fast and near-invisible sphere of energy pulses out from his body, rippling like a wave through the complex and shuddering the walls with great clouds of dust and drawing forth burst of sparks from the computers as it does so. The intruder cow is in fear, snarling in dismay, yet still it taunts. How far the chosen has fallen, embedded with your own blade, held as a perplexity in a

mortal prison. We've followed the scent of your shame, Gabriel. Intruder's speech comes as a hiss, one that shivers repulsively beneath the skin, but the subject rings loud and true like a great and ancient bell. His is a voice as cold and commanding as a clear blue winter sky. I do not deal in shame, Legion, only action and consequence. The intruder and all his forms cringe back at the mention of his name. All gunfire within the complex is ceased, and from the shadows the soldiers watch the exchange in silence, transfixed with terrified awe. One of Gabriel's hands begins to glow at the wrist, and, with a bellow of anguish, he shatters

the restraint that binds him, and he holds the hand above him, clenching and unclenching his fingers. Legion, perhaps sensing that his opportunity is slipping away, launches one final, desperate attack. He swells up to twice his original height, the horns aside his head, grew. rowing and curling around as he does so. He casts out his arms, and all his many bodies throughout the complex do the same. Enormous black snakes writhe up from the spillage that is soaked the concrete floor,

and splattered themselves against the walls in a frenzy. Twisted images and pictures flash up across the inky surfaces, and, all around us, soldiers find themselves ensnared by oily tentacles, or slammed against the walls and hoisted into the air by invisible hands and strings. The beast steps forward, and the snakes slither from the substance of his form and up the platform to where the subject is bound. Gabriel's eyes flash bright, his muscles tense as he moves his free arm through the air. The spectacle is curious. It is as if he is dragging it through a dense body of water.

He raises his head and opens the fingers of his fist, and the images all around us begin to change. As it stands, the projected pictures on the walls of the ink, show dozens of different scenes at once, different faces, different places of time. But they all change to show the same sequence now. They become clearer and less dreamlike. The scenes ripple and change to show a drove of pigs, snorting and grunting and squilling in distress as they race towards the edge of a cliff. Their eyes are black. Then the clouds roll in the sky above as one by one the pigs topple over the edge, and down they fall, down, to the frothing and churning waves of the sea below.

I do not understand the meaning behind this vision, nor what it represents, but Legion shrieks and recoils as if struck by a terrible blow. He seems to the diminishing size as the oil that comprises his body leaks and drips from his arms and sides, and a wind rises in the complex. With nowhere to go, it circles round and round, round and round, warmer than the intruder's own and more fierce. Many of the soldiers are dropped to the ground, choking and clutching at their necks as they suck in welcome mouthfuls of air. You and us are not so different, Gabriel.

It could be another way. We know the sting of the mortal emotions. We know the pain of abandonment. Gabriel does not respond. He only stares the intruder down, rippling the air around him as the concrete beneath his feet begins to rumble and crack. I know that I need to escape. I need to get the hell out of this place. But...

But I can't take my eyes away. I can't stop watching. Legion hisses as he starts to lose his shape in the winds. Pieces and globules of the murky black are lost from his edges and since spinning around the complex. I command you back to the waist, Legion. You have no further role to play in the great plan. Gabriel says,

Liar! Legion screams in response from all his voices at once. You will regret the choice you've made here today. If you want rid of us, Fallen Star, then know this. You'll be adding to your burden of souls of the mortals who fought in your defense. Legion throws out his arms for a final time, and with them come two great and terrible wings of black shadow, bursting from either of his shoulder blades.

The intruder explodes from the inside out, as does every one of his bodies into wet clouds of ink and murk. They splatter malevolently up the walls and across the paths of equipment and carrying soldiers. I grimace as I feel the substance stick to the skin of my neck and my nearest forearm. It bubbles and flows across the concrete, and I watch in horror as it pushes his way into the mouth and noses of many of my comrades. Ryland, to my sudden anguish, is amongst them. I watch his eyes roll over white, then black.

I watch with horror as he shivers and squirms. I watch his veins bulge and darken. Sons and daughters, the subject says, calmly but firmly, go now, go if you can. Some of us can still move. I am one of them. The ink of the intruder clings hungrily to my boots, but I pull myself away and stagger through the shadows towards the lift. The open-walled lift that can take us back up to the surface.

and carrying round a corner only a few metres away. Is Taylor? Relief floods through me. Taylor! I shout to her. Taylor, it's me. It's Lottesford. She stares at me, but does not respond. She only shakes as a run over to her and haul her up onto her feet. And together we run to the back of the complex into the lift,

which quickly fills up with soldiers. I can't believe it, I mutter into her ear. you're alive, you're okay. I'm sorry, Latsford, she whispers. I couldn't do it. I couldn't go round to all the weapons. I only spoke to a couple of engineers. I saw the intruder and I just lost my nerve.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It's okay, I reply. It's okay. It would have killed you anyway. I squeeze a tight, but can't help, casting an eye out over the corpses of the engineers, dropped so viciously from the levels of

above and now strewn in heaps around the complex's far edges. The mechanisms in the elevator were and grind, and it lets out a groan of discomfort under the strain of all the people it holds, but dutively it begins to rise nonetheless, the complex floor dropping steadily away beneath us as it does so. Gabriel roars as he pulls the burning blade right out of his chest, an enormous sword flickers into sight in his right hand as he tears his wrist free from the shackles, and it burns like fire. The gargantuan glass like blade, but broken. The shard that the angel has pulled from his chest, it would seem, is the final missing piece. He slides the shard into place,

and the sword glows all the brighter, sending great pulses of orange-yellow light out over the complex, bathing the walls in rippling gold. The echo of the intruder tries for one final vision, one final series of flickering images across its form, but Gabriel does not wait to see what they will show to him. Instead, he bursts entirely free from his bindings. The generated behind him is cast back and away in a shower of parts and gears, and the subject's humanoid form, to which we had become accustomed, is lost in favour of another. The fiery swords hang in place in the air as Gabriel becomes an enormous wheel of ghost-like wings, all rising and falling and drifting, rippling with energy as colossal rings of fire and gold rotate independently

within and outside each other at the centre, intersecting impossibly with the wings on their cycles. The rings are covered in eyes, eyes which stare out towards everything at once as they spin. The complex shakes all the more violently, and the walls, at various intersections all around, start to crumble in on themselves. Fiery pulses of energy shower down like meteors

in sudden explosions of light. flee for your lives comes the final command of the angel below as our view of the collapsing complexes lost to the walls of concrete and rock into which we ascend do not look back nor stop anywhere on the plane flee the island lest you be swept away do not look back and he vanishes from sight we stand together huddled in terrified quiet as the rumbles rise up from beneath The orange lamp in the uppermost corner of the lift flickers weakly, casting us in its faint glow as the lift climbs upwards through the darkness. Up and up it rises, steadily back to the surface. And eventually, it jodders to a halt. The face of the hill grinds to the side,

and we step out onto the grass, illuminated silver by the stars that shines so brightly in the night sky. Taylor and I are the first to move. we are still deep in our days that much is clear we can still feel the ground shaking beneath our feet but we begin to walk we begin to walk

steadily and quickly and I can hear the others doing the same we begin the long walks across the plains to the port that will take us back to the east island here there is nothing but wilderness Ryeland Taylor murmurs suddenly releasing her grip on my hand

Rylan. She's overcome by panic. She screams. Where is he? Taylor, I reply, startled awake by her outburst. He didn't make it. I'm sorry. I tried to draw her close, but she pushes me away.

She pushes me away, and she turns to look back. I stop, dead in my tracks. I tried to say Taylor's name, but no voice escapes my lips. I stare in horror as Taylor is lost right before my eyes. The entire ordeal lasts no more than ten or so seconds, I'd say, but in the moment it feels like a hell of a lot more. As Taylor looks back, I watch as the skin hardens and cracks into white stone. She freezes, struck totally in place as a muscles tighten

and a body is metamorphosized into an intricate, powdery, chalk white statue. and as quickly as she changes, she is just as swiftly blown away on the wind. From head to toe, she's caught in the gale and scattered across the plains as billowing clouds of moonlit dust. There she was, right next to me, holding my hand.

And then, just like that, she was gone. She is gone. Ashes in the breeze. We continued to walk through the night, our survivors. There was nothing else to do. We walked until we made it to the port and were sailed hastily back to the base.

We were questioned, not for particularly long, I should say. It was a brief affair. After a day or two, we were released and sent back home to the UK. I don't know how they tried to explain it to the families of the deceased. It's all kind of a blur, really. We were sworn to secrecy and all that, so, you know, don't tell anyone I told you. After clearing out the personal possessions of both Taylor and Ryland, it became clear to me that the two were engaged in an intimate relationship behind my back. It really makes you wonder what the point is, the point of everything, of life.

The conflicting emotions and feelings are simply torturous. There's no other way to put it. The affair seems likely to have been going on since the moment the three of us arrived in the Falklands. Why would she bother? Why wouldn't she just end it with me before being? breaking my heart. Is that why she looked back, Lodzford, because she couldn't let him go? I don't know. I don't particularly care, I guess. But I saw Gabriel one last time, a few hours before my flight was due to leave. I was standing on the stony beach, looking out to sea at the sunset

against the horizon. And he came up alongside me, in his human form, I should add. I couldn't bring myself to look directly at him at first. I felt the energy of his presence, though. It took a great deal of effort to even speak to him at all. Did she need to die, Gabriel? I asked, eventually. Her fate would have been the same, with or without my warning. I am sorry. I've had a lump rise up in my throat, then reach down to pick up a smooth, flat stone by my feet. I threw up my aim, flicking my wrist, ever so slightly as I did so, and the rock skipped across the face of the water, once, twice, thrice,

and then vanished beneath the surface with a series of ripples. Where will you go now? I managed to ask, my voice barely more than a whisper. My mission draws to a close. My brother remains trapped beneath the southern ice, but now I have found the final piece of my sword,

and long last I can move to save him. The cost has been. been immense. He let out a long, sad sigh, then stepped forward under the surface of the water. He began to walk across it, and it rippled gently around the soles of his feet. I looked at the bone-like shards that protruded from his shoulder-blade, glittering like diamond, broken but beautiful. There were so many more questions I wanted to ask, but in the moment I simply could not give

them voice. Why was I spared when the intruder attempted to take us all down with him? Would the captain have been taken had I not killed him first, and was I justified in ending his life? Is my suffering a part of the penance I must pay for my sins? Was I even wise to awaken Gabriel at all? Should Taylor and I have just fled from the complex when we had the chance? It was her who suggested that we stay, Wadsford, and all things considered, at the end of the day, did I deserve to live, really? Gabriel stopped for a moment. He tilted his head and spoke over his shoulder. My wings were taken from me. For a time, I was angry. It was the first time I'd ever felt as such, and in my weakness I became imprisoned. But I am free now, and I trust that one day my wings will be

returned. Farewell, child of Adam. And Gabriel strode off over the water. He walked for a while towards the sunset, then altered his course and began to walk steadily southward. He grew smaller and smaller as he disappeared into the distance, until he was no more than a shining sparkle on the surface of the sea.