CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 5 SCARY Reddit Horror Stories Compilation to put in the background while you cook or clean

Episode Date: March 20, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "Facility 112 : Containment Wing- C" Creepypasta►39:03 "The man who painted the end of the world" Creepypasta►1:12:16 "I purchased a journal at an Algerian Market. The final entries told a horrific tale" Creepypasta►2:45:58 "My Great Grandpa Was A Medic During The War. He Told Me About An Undying Soldier" Creepypasta►3:18:03 "I Took a Job as a Park Ranger. I Was Given a Strange List Of Duties" CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"-    • "I wasn't careful enough on the deep ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creep...  ►"Long Stories"-    • Long Stories  FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter:   / creeps_mcpasta  ►Instagram:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Twitch:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Facebook:   / creepsmcpasta  CREEPYPASTA 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

Most people don't know about the ICD, the integrated contamination division, and that's exactly how they like it. They've been around forever, quietly cleaning up the world's loose ends, the things that don't make sense, that don't belong. They're scooped up, blocked away, and forgotten. Officially, the ICD handles biological hazard and experimental preservation. Unofficially, they're in the business of making the impossible disappear. I worked for them long enough to know better than to ask questions. Facility 112 wasn't my first assignment, but it was the last. Places like that aren't for the curious.

It's a simple job. A good fit for someone like me. I was used to it. You don't work for the ICD without learning to accept the strange. You hear things. Rumors of living shadows, creatures with too many teeth. Things are vanish if you look directly at them. You don't get attached.

You don't wonder. And you definitely don't ask what's in the sealed containment pods. You just keep your head down and follow. the rules. The facility has tucked away when no one would think to look. It's not glamorous, and it's where they send the most dangerous and valuable finds. My job was to keep people out and things in. I'm not a scientist or an analyst, just one of the guards who patrols the halls, checks, badges, and watches security feeds. The day they brought it in, the whole place felt wrong. Facility 112 was usually quiet, sterile almost. But that day, there was this heavy

tension in the air, like everyone was waiting for something bad to happen. I was stationed at one of the checkpoints when the transport team rolled through. Eight people in hazmat suits wheeled in a massive containment pod and no one was talking. It wasn't the usual protocol. It was full. It was fear. Even the scientists who normally treated these things like interesting puzzles look like they'd rather be somewhere else. I wasn't supposed to see it. My job was to check their clearance, make sure the path to containment wing C was clear and move on. But I lingered just for a moment, and when they opened the pod, I saw it. After that, I couldn't stop staring. The thing was enormous, at least 12 feet tall. Its wings folded against his body like dark, shimmering curtains.

The surface caught the light in strange ways, shifting like oil on water. Its body was covered in thick, dark fuzz, almost soft-looking. But its eyes, its eyes were alive, black, unblinking and endless, like staring into a void that stared back. The moth didn't move, not once, not even when they locked it in the chamber. I hated looking at it. The longer you stared, the heavier it felt, like the air around it was pressing down on your chest. It was beautiful, but not in a way you could admire. It was the kind of beauty that made your stomach twist that lit up some deep instant.

distinct in your gut telling you this thing wasn't right, that it wasn't supposed to exist. I told myself it was just another anomaly. That was the only way to get through it. You pretend these things don't matter, that they're just part of the job. But the moth wasn't like the others. You could feel it even from a distance, like it was waiting for something. You weren't supposed to care about the things that. brought in, that was rule number one.

But the moth made that impossible. I couldn't stop thinking about it, even when I wasn't on shift. It wasn't just the size of those unblinking eyes. It was the way the air felt heavier around it, the way it seemed so perfectly still but alive at the same time. I'd seen plenty of weird things come through Facility 112, but this was different. It wasn't just contained. It felt like the moth was letting us hold it. Like it wanted to be there.

It started to bother me more than it should have. On patrol, I passed by a containment wing C, glancing toward the reinforced doors like I was expecting something. A shift in the air has sound anything. The moth never moved, but his presence was constant, oppressive. I couldn't stop myself from wondering where it had come from, how the ICD had managed to capture something so alien, so massive. Curiosity got the better of me, and I broke my own rule. I asked questions.

It wasn't a big direct interrogation, just quiet conversations off the record when no one else was around. I started with the other guards, guys I knew wouldn't report. me. Most of them shrugged it off, muttering things like big-wig orders and above my pay grade. But then I got lucky. Henderson, one of the transport team members, was still stationed on site. He'd been part of the group that brought the moth in. He wasn't supposed to talk about it, but he liked the sound of his own voice. You really want to know, he asked one night. leaning in conspiratorially during our shared break.

His voice was low, and the hum of the vending machines was the only other sound in the room. This one's a special case. Came from deep in the Appalachia, hillbilly country. You wouldn't believe the mess they found it in. He didn't wait for me to answer before launching in. Henderson never needed encouragement. Couple of hillbillies caught it, he said, smirking like the whole thing was a little. a joke. They found it just sitting there in the middle of the night in their barn. Can you believe that?

As big as it is, just perch there, wings all folded up. Didn't move a muscle. They thought he was some kind of demon. Chained it up and threw a tarp over it. Didn't even fight back. I frowned. It didn't move at all. Not once, he said. Not when they tied it up, not. when they started poking it with sticks. They were trying to see if it was alive, you know. Even when we got there, it just sat there. The locals didn't know what to do with it, claimed it was some kind of omen, said it showed up after the livestock started getting bigger.

I hesitated. Bigger, how? Faster, stronger, muscles bulging. The farmers thought it was the feed or something until the horses started disappearing. Then the family started acting weird, didn't want to leave the barn, wouldn't eat anything that didn't come from the farm. By the time we got there, they were half feral, dragging raw meat into the barn in the middle of the night. The word stuck in my throat. And the moth?

It just let you take it? Folded its wings up real neat, like it was helping, Henderson said, shrugging like it was no big deal. Didn't resist, didn't make a sound. Weirdest damn thing I've ever seen. He said it so casually, but his words churned in my head long after. Creatures brought to Facility 112 were usually terrified or aggressive. I'd seen things thrashing containment pods and heard them screech and wail as the icy adhesive handlers wrestled them into their new cages.

But this. This was different. The moth hadn't been captured. It had let itself be taken. Why? And the family? I asked after a long pause. Ennis and Smirk faded.

His tone shifting like he realised he'd already said too much. Scrambled, he said quietly, tapping his temple. Wiped clean like everyone else in that town. They didn't remember a thing. Just thought the horse is. got spooked and bolted, no arm done, typical ICD work. But, I started, but he cut me off with a sharp shag of his head. Look, man, you're better off not knowing the rest.

They handled it, okay? The local was the farm. All of it. His gaze darted toward the door as if someone might be listening. Forget I said anything. He stood up, brushing imaginary crumbs off his pants. and left the break room without another word. For a moment, I sat there in silence,

staring at the empty chair he'd left behind. I wanted to stop thinking about it. I wanted to convince myself he was exaggerating, or at least that it wasn't my problem. That night, I didn't sleep. I couldn't shake the image of a 12-foot creature calmly folding its wings, letting itself be captured. There was something wrong about that.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those black, endless eyes staring back at me, unblinking like they already knew how this would end. Facility 112 always had this sterile, chemical tang in the air, like bleach and burnt circuits. You got used to it after a while, to the point where you didn't even notice it anymore. But lately, there was something else, faint but persistent.

A metallic edge, sharp and clean, like the coppery taste you get when you accidentally bite the inside of your mouth hard enough for it to bleed. It hung heavier in the corridors near containment winged, subtle enough to ignore it if you tried. But it was there. People noticed it. I could see it and how they paused for just a second too long, nose twitching, glancing around like they couldn't place it.

Then they'd shake it off, keep walking, keep pretending. Many of us had been at Facility 112 for years, and you don't last that long without learning how to pretend. But pretending only worked for so long. I noticed other things too. subtle at first but impossible to ignore once you knew what to look for Wilson was the first he wasn't exactly subtle he'd always been a loud guy the kind of person who filled the silence with stories about his kids

or the lake he was building a dock for but over the past week something about him had shifted it wasn't like he stopped talking it was how he spoke His voice was steadier, more deliberate, like he'd stripped out every unnecessary word. It was natural, it was efficient. And it wasn't just his voice. One day I caught him hauling a crate of equipment that usually took two people. He carried it like it weighed nothing.

When I pointed it out, he gave me this tight smile. there was something about the way he looked at me, like I was the one being weird. Feeling good lately, as all he said, before setting the crate down with a soft thud and walking off. His stride smooth, almost too smooth. Then there was Ramirez. She was sharp, always had been, but lately her sharpness had taken on a different edge. She moved faster, quieter, like she'd been practicing. I caught her during a patrol, walking the corridor outside containment wing sea.

Normally, you'd hear a boot's echo against the concrete. But this time, I didn't hear her until she was right in front of me. She nodded as she passed, and I nodded back. There was this brief moment when her eyes met mine. It wasn't a look exactly. It was more like she was assessing me. Even Henderson, the guy who never stopped talking, wasn't the same. He still ran his mouth, but there was an intensity to him now, a cold energy that hadn't

been there before. When he spoke, he leaned in too close. His words clipped and precise, like he was trying to convince you of something without outright saying it. And then there was me. I felt it too Not in the same way Not yet

But enough to make me uneasy Every time I pass by the observation window I'd catch myself slowing down Like my feet were stuck in honey Staring at the monitor feed The moth never moved But it didn't need to Its presence was enough

Its wings shimmered under the lights the patterns on them twisting ever so slightly like they were alive. And those eyes, black, bottomless, seemed to pull you in if you looked too long. One night during a patrol, I heard them. Voices, low and urgent, coming from the storage room near containment winged sea. I paused outside the door, my heart hammering and listened. Henderson and Ramirez, their words muffled, but clear enough to make out pieces of their conversation. You felt it, haven't you? Henderson was saying, his tone sharper than usual.

It's like, like it knows you're there. Ramirez replied, her voice tied, almost breathless. And when you're close enough, she cut herself off, her words breaking into a low laugh. It wasn't the kind of laugh I'd heard from her before. It was soft and warm, like she just told a joke, only she understood. Don't fight it, Henderson said. You've seen Wilson. He's better, stronger. You will be too.

I stepped back, careful not to let my boots scrape the floor. Even a tiny squeak threatened to reveal my location. My chest felt tight. my pulse thudding in my ears. I didn't know what they were talking about. Not exactly. But it was enough to make me realize I wasn't imagining things.

Something was happening. That night I kept seeing them. Henderson and Ramirez, walking down that corridor in perfect step, their faces calm but unreadable. It wasn't just strange. It was wrong. in a way I couldn't put into words.

My mind kept circling back to Henderson's words. You've seen Wilson. He's better, stronger. You will be too. Stronger. I've been trying to ignore it, but it was true. Wilson had changed. They all had.

I kept replaying the moment he lifted that crate like it weighed nothing. The way his movements were so smooth. almost efficient. It wasn't normal. None of it was. By the time my next shift rolled around, I'd convinced myself to stay out of it. Whatever was going on, it wasn't my business.

I'd seen what happened to people who dug too deep at Facility 112. You didn't get answers. You just disappeared. I told myself to focus on the routine, patrol the whole halls, check the monitors, and keep my head down. Nothing more. This is how it's always been, but it wasn't that easy. Not when the signs were everywhere. My next shift started at midnight, and by then I was exhausted, the kind of tiredness that makes you jump at shadows and second-guess every sound.

My patrol route was the same as always, down the main corridor, past the labs, and then a sweep of containment wing C. I'd started dreading that part of the route, but skipping it wasn't an option. The moth

was always there, motionless behind the thick glass, its wings folded neatly against its massive body. It never moved, but the air in that corridor always felt heavier, like walking through water. A metallic tang was stronger there too,

clinging to your skin long after you walked away, but tonight. Something was different. I caught Wilson again in front of the observation window to containment wing sea. He wasn't supposed to be there. His shift had ended hours ago. But there he was,

staring into the chamber, like he was waiting for something. something. His hands were by his sides, fingers twitching slightly. I hesitated watching him from the end of the hall. For a moment, I thought about calling out to him, but before I could, he turned and walked into the chamber. His steps quick and purposeful, as though he'd known I was there the whole time. I followed him. I shouldn't have, but something. about the way he moved, so deliberate, so precise, drew me in. He didn't stop until he reached one of the storage rooms.

The door clicked shut behind him, and I crept closer, staying in the shadows. The observation window for the Moth's chamber came into view, and I froze. Inside, the lights were dim, casting long, flickering shadows across the walls. Henderson, Ramirez and Wilson were there, standing in a loose circle around the moth. His wings shimmered faintly under the low light, the patterns on them seeming to ripple as if they were alive. I should have turned back, I should have called it in, but I couldn't move. I stayed there, my breath caught in my chest, watching as Wilson stepped closer to the moth. His movements were slow, deliberate, almost graceful.

He reached out his hand brushing against the mothed thorax. For a moment, nothing happened. Then I saw it. A thick golden drop of liquid welling up from the point where his hand made contact. It clung to his fingers like honey, glistening in the dim light. Wilson raised his hand to his mouth and drank. I bit down hard of my lip to keep from making a sound. My heart was pounding so loud I was sure they could hear it.

Ramirez was next. She knelt before the moth, her head tilted back as she reached for another bead of that golden liquid. Her face was lit with something I could only describe as bliss. It made my stomach churn and vomit threatened to crawl up into the same. my mouth. Henderson went last. He didn't hesitate, didn't pause the thing. He stepped forward, his movement smooth and practiced as though he'd done this dozens of times before. When he drank, his body shuddered briefly, like a ripple passing through him, and then he straightened, his face eerily calm. They stayed there for a moment, silent. Silent.

The head slightly bowed. It was like watching a ritual, something sacred. The moth didn't move, didn't react. It just was. It's stillness more commanding than any motion could have been. I step back slowly, my head spinning, my pulse racing, but I couldn't let them see me. If they knew I was there, I didn't want to think about what they'd do. Once I was far enough away, I turned and hurried back to the break room.

My hand shaking. I kept seeing it. Wilson drinking from his fingers, Ramirez kneeling like she was in a prayer. Henderson's face as calm as stone. In the liquid, that golden, syrupy drop that seemed to glow in the light. I sat down, my mind racing. Whatever was happening in that room It wasn't just them

The moth wasn't just sitting there It was feeding them And whatever it was giving them It was changing them I didn't know what to do Reporting it felt useless If the higher-ups didn't already know They wouldn't believe me

And if they did Well They probably just erase me Like they erased me like they erased everything else that didn't fit. I glanced at the clock. It was just past 3 a.m. The rest of my shift dragged on,

but I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd crossed the line, that there was no going back now. Whatever was happening in containment wing C, it wasn't going to stop. And part of me wasn't sure if I wanted it to. The next few days were unbearable. I couldn't look at Henderson, Ramirez or Wilson without seeing them in that chamber, kneeling before the moth, their hands slick with that golden liquid. They weren't trying to hide it anymore.

Not really. Wilson, who was hauling equipment meant for forklifts, his movement smooth and effortless. Ramirez had an intensity about her now. Her eyes were sharper and her reactions were faster. Henderson had taken on a strange authority, his voice steady and commanding, like he knew something the rest of us didn't. And the changes weren't just physical. They moved together now in unspoken coordination. No words, no signals, just a silent understanding that made my skin crawl.

If one of them started walking, the other followed without hesitation. If one turned their head, the others seemed to already know what they were looking at. It was unnatural. The moth's chamber became the center of their world. They spent more time there. Sometimes even during shifts they weren't scheduled for. No one questioned it. Maybe they didn't notice.

Or maybe they were too afraid to say anything. I couldn't blame them. I didn't want to talk about it either. But the thing that scared me the most, was the way they started looking at me. It was subtle at first, a glance that lingered too long, a faint tilt of the head like they were studying me. But then it became more obvious. Henderson would brush past me in the corridor, his eyes locking onto mine just long enough to make me break out in a cold sweat.

Ramirez started showing up during my shifts, leaning against the wall near the observation window, watching me instead of the monitors. And Wilson. Wilson smiled. Not the warm, easy smile he used to have, but something else. Something empty. By the time I realized what was happening.

It was too late to stop it. It was a little after midnight when the alarm went off. A low droning sound that meant a breach in one of the containment chambers. I was halfway through my patrol when it started, the red emergency lights casting long, flickering shadows across the walls. My radio crackled, voices overlapping in the chaotic mess. Wing C compromised, containment failure. I didn't need to hear the rest. I knew exactly where the breach was.

The moth's chamber. I ran, my boots pounding against the floor, my chest terned. tightening with every step. The corridor leading to wing's sea was empty. No guards, no texts, no one responding to the alarm. The door to the moth's chamber was

wide open and the reinforced glass observation window shattered. And inside, Henderson, Ramirez and Wilson were no longer themselves. Their bodies had changed. Their limbs thicker, covered

in the soft, dark fuzz that shimmered faintly under the emergency lights. Their eyes were black now, endless pools that reflected everything and nothing, and their movements. They weren't just coordinated. They were precise, mechanical, like part to the same machine. The moth stood in the center of the chamber, its wings fully opened for the first time. They, would, were massive, filling the space with patterns that seemed to shift and ripple in a way that made my headache just looking at them. Its long tongue extended, dripping that golden liquid, feeding into something at its feet, the cocoons.

There were three of them, each the size of a person, wriggling faintly as the moth's tongue dipped more sap into the surfaces. The air in the room was thick, buzzing with an electric hum that made. my skin crawl. I stepped back, my hand shaking. I didn't know what to do, run, hide, report it. But before I could decide, Henderson's head snapped toward me, his black eyes locking onto mine. Ramirez and Wilson followed, the movements perfectly synchronized. For a moment, none of us moved. The only sound was the low hummed. of the moth's wings, a sound that seemed to vibrate in my bones. Then Henderson smiled.

The same, empty, knowing smile Wilson had given me days before. You shouldn't be here, he said, his voice low and steady. It's not your time. I didn't wait to find out what he meant. I turned and ran, my legs burning as I sprinted down the corridor. My breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Behind me, I could hear their footsteps, perfectly in sync, echoing in the empty halls. I didn't stop until I reached the security room. I slammed the door shut, my hands fumbling with a lock and turned to the monitor feeds. When I saw, may my stomach drop, the cocoons were splitting open.

Thick strands of golden sap dripping onto the floor, there's something. inside began to emerge. The moth loomed over them, its wings fluttering faintly, stirring the air in the chamber. One by one, the cocoons tore open, revealing creatures that were almost human. They had the same dark fuss covering their bodies, their limbs elongated and strong, the black eyes shining like mirrors. They moved with a terrifying grace, stepping forward in unison, the heads tilting as they took in their surroundings. The moth moved for the first time, its wings spreading wide as it led out a low, resonant hum that shook the walls. The hybrids turned toward the sound, the heads bowing in perfect synchrony. The radio crackled to life, a panicked voice shouting orders I couldn't make out.

The bigwigs must have seen what was happening because the chamber was flooded with gas a moment later. The hybrids didn't flinch. They turned toward the door, moving as one, and I realized with a sinking feeling that they still remembered the access codes. They stayed frozen in the security room for what felt like hours, staring at the monitors as everything spiraled out of control. The hybrids were everywhere now, moving through the facility like they built it themselves. They weren't rushing, weren't scrambling. No, they moved with purpose, room to room, hallway to hallway, methodically and terrifyingly precise.

It was like they didn't even need to check. They already knew where everyone was. I could feel the air tightening around me. It wasn't just the hybrids or other. the alarms. It was the moth. Even from here, I could feel its presence pressing down, like it was watching through the cameras, through the walls, through me. My hands were shaking so badly that I could barely keep them steady on the console. I couldn't stay. The ICD would be sweeping through soon, probably trying to gas the whole damn place, hybrids or not. And if I

stuck around, I'd either end up dead or with my memory scrambled. Just another loose end tied off. I scanned the monitors, searching for anything, anywhere that wasn't crawling with hybrids or swarming with clean-up teams. That's when I noticed it. The maintenance tunnels. They were old, barely used, and not part of the standard patrol routes, yet untouched by the hybrids. I slipped out to the security room, My heart pounding in my chest. The corridors were bathed in that eerie red glow from the emergency lights, shadows flickering along the walls. My boots barely made a sound as I moved,

but every little creek, every faint hum of the facility's systems made me flinch. I could feel my pulse in my throat, thick and heavy, drowning out everything else. The air was different down here. The facility's usual sterile tank was still. still there, but that metallic edge was stronger and sharper. It clung to everything, the walls, the floor, my skin. My head was spinning, my stomach churning, but I kept moving. The access ladder to maintenance level three was just ahead. When I reached it, I hesitated,

my hand hovering over the cold metal rungs. Climbing down felt like stepping into a great, But what choice did I have? I gripped the ladder tightly as I began my descent, the faint squeak at my boots and the rungs echoing in the shaft. Every sound felt too loud, like it was bouncing back to me tenfold. The maintenance tunnels were worse than I remembered, tight, damp and dark. My flashlight barely cut through the blackness, the beam wobbling as my hands shook. The air was thicker down here, heavy with the smell of rust and stagnant water, and the faint hum of the pipes sounded like whispers.

The service hatch wasn't far, just at the end of the corridor, a faint sliver of moonlight visible through the cracks. I quickened my pace, my boots splashing through shallow puddles that sound too loud in the oppressive silence. My breath was ragged now, every inhale sharp against my chest, but I kept my eyes locked on the hatch. I could see it, my way out, so close I could almost taste the fresh air waiting on the other side. Then, I heard it.

A soft clicking sound, faint at first like nails tapping on metal. My flashlight swung wildly toward the noise, my beam catching on a shadow that shouldn't have been there. My stomach dropped as one of the hybrids stepped into the light. Its black, mirror-like eyes caught the beam, reflecting it back in a way that made my chest tighten. Its head tilted, slow and deliberate, like it was studying me, deciding what to do next. I didn't want to find out. I ran. The hatch was only a few feet away, but it felt like miles.

The clicking behind me grew relaxed. louder, faster, almost rhythmic, like it was matching the beat in my panicked footsteps. My lungs burned, my legs screamed, but I didn't stop. I hit the hatch with full force, my hands fumbling for the release lever, my fingers slick with sweat. The hybrid was right behind me. I could feel it, his presence crawling up my spine like static electricity. With a desperate heave I yanked the lever.

The hatch swung open, the cold night air hitting me like a slap. I scrambled through, hitting the ground hard, my palms scraping against the rough dirt. My breath came in short, ragged gasps as I twisted around and slammed the hatch shut, twisting the emergency lock into place, just as something heavy slammed against the other side. The metal groaned. The hatch vibrating under the force of the hybrid's blows. I stumbled back, my legs barely holding me up, and turned toward the forest. The trees loom like shadows, the branches clawing at the sky, the moonlight barely breaking through the dense canopy.

I didn't wait. I didn't think. I just ran. It was at a flea market, of all places. The kind you go to wonder aimlessly, pretending you're looking for something very specific, knowing that chances are you will probably leave with nothing. Rows of mismatched tables stretched over the cracked pavement under the afternoon sun, piled high with old tools, scratched up yellowing furniture, and junk people had dug out of their garages.

The air smelled like kettle corn and cheap sunscreen, with a faint tang of rust from some vendors' collage. of scrap metal. My apartment was still mostly empty. I just moved in, and the empty walls and bare corners were starting to really bother me. I wasn't on the search for anything specific, just something to make the place feel less like an abandoned storage unit and more like a home. A lamp, maybe, or an interesting piece of furniture. Cheap preferably. It didn't take long to find something. At one of the stalls, tucked behind a pile of well-worn tools and broken frames, I saw a bunch of mismatched furniture. A side table painted with white, with chipped corners,

a small stool, and an old couch that needed a wash or two. It was a random assortment tied together with fraying twine, but it was solid enough for what I needed. "'Hundred bucks for the lot,' the vendor said, catching me looking. He was older and looked like he'd been sitting in a folding chair for his entire life. Before I got a chance to respond, he added, Take it, and I'll even throw in that painting over there. I followed his nod and saw it propped against the back of the chair leg. The painting, it was half hidden behind a stack of dented cans,

its edges were frayed and its frame was stretched. A woman stood up. alone in a vast field of wheat, a figure poised in a strange way, almost reverent. The wheat behind her stretched endlessly, but it wasn't as golden and vibrant as you might expect. It was grey, lifeless and brittle, burnt to a crisp. Each stalk bowed under a phantom wind. The texture of the wheat was so vivid that I almost felt the dry rustle of it brushing against my fingertips. The sky roiled with movement, as still as it was.

A violent storm of colours crashed into each other, waves of pigment and brushstrokes. Deep purples melted into streaks of orange and crimson, shot through with veins of sickly yellow. The horizon was blotted with heavy, bruised-like clouds, threatening to open and bleed. Yet, despite the chaos of it all, there was a balance to it. Each hue blended seamlessly into the next, like the canvas had been alive once, and was now frozen mid-motion, like pausing a video. And then, there was the woman. Her pale dress rippled faintly, as though caught in the dying breath of the wind that had long since left the wheat around her motionless. The fabric clung to a frame in a way that should have made her seem fragile, yet she didn't look it.

She was still, a statue carved from soft light. She stood with her back facing me. Her face was turned just enough to reveal some of her profile, the curve of her cheekbone and the point of her chin. But her eyes held me. It wasn't fearful or defiant. It wasn't pleading either. Her gaze was resigned, mellow and accepting.

It's part of the bundle? I asked. Sure is, the vendor said, tipping back a can of soda. Take it all for a hundred. The painting stayed tied up in the bundle until I got home. I carried it all into my living room

and untied the twine, letting it all tumble onto the floor. The painting was the last thing I pulled free. It was lighter than I expected. I set it against the wall and stepped back, letting myself take it in fully again. The details came into sharper focus. I hadn't really wanted the painting to begin with,

so I placed it against the corner of the wall and left it there. Truth be told, I didn't like it too much. It was eerie to look at, but couldn't bring myself to throw art made with such care away. It wasn't to my taste, but maybe I could find a home for it to someone who could appreciate it. For three days, the painting sat in the corner. I couldn't bring myself to hang it, but I didn't want to hide it either.

Every time I passed by, I caught myself glancing at it. Then, on the fourth day, I finally decided to hang it above the couch. The news came a couple of days later. I was scrolling through my phone over breakfast, my TV murmuring something in the background. When I saw the headline, wildfire ravages Kansas farmland, one fatality. I tapped the article, and the image of the blaze filled my screen. The fire had consumed acres upon acres of farmland, leaving nothing but ash and blackened stalks of wheat in its path. The sky above was hazy, streaked with deep,

purples and reds as smoke billowed and faded, leaving behind traces of yellow. I stared at the photo. It looked eerily familiar, but it wasn't exact. There was no woman, no dress, just an empty field and the fire ravaging it. I shook my head and put the phone down. It had to be a coincidence. Fields burned all the time. The painting wasn't unique.

It was probably just an artistic take on a generic disaster. All the stress that had been building up over my move and my all-new long commute to work was just making me over think things and making the painting more special in my head than it actually was. Still, I didn't like it. I put the painting back in the corner, thinking of disposing of it as soon as possible. The second painting arrived about a very much. a week after the wildfire.

This time I didn't find it at a flea market. I didn't look for it at all. It was delivered straight to my mailbox. The container, a tube, was unmarked. There was no return address, post its stamp, or anything to suggest where it had come from. But there it was, in my mailbox, sitting among the pile of junk mail like it belonged there. I almost didn't even open it. I considered throwing it away. I got the first painting by pure coincidence, but now I was getting it in the mail. I thought about going back to the

vendor I had initially gotten the first one from, but the flea market was seasonal, so I had no way to find him, even if I wanted to. So I unrolled it. It showed a train. The perspective was striking, painted from the inside of some sort of vehicle looking toward a train, but the location was not discernible, and train tracks were laid out in the distance, with a silhouette of a train sat derailed, its frame twisted and broken like a crushed can. Cars careened off the rails, some split, others piled on top of each other in jagged heaps of metal. Flames spat from the wreckage, consuming wood and broken glass, thick and black smoke curled into the sky, blocking out the pale blue above. Yet the focal point wasn't the wreckage,

but the figures. A woman in a red scarf was on her knees at the edge of the tracks. She was close to one of the train cars, her arms stretched out toward a child, dangling, from a broken window above. The child's miniature body teetered on the edge, tiny fingers reaching desperately towards her. But she was stuck. The fire illuminated their faces with painful clarity. The woman's face was painted with desperation,

her mouth half open in a cry I could almost hear if I strained hard enough. Her scar fluttered in the heat. The child's expression was frustrated. frozen in wide-eyed terror. She was so close to the woman, yet so far. And the scariest of all, the train car seemed as if it would tip over at any moment. The details were so vivid and precise that it did not feel like a painting, but a picture of a moment.

It happened the next day. I was driving home from work, dragging myself through the moment. traffic on a suburban road when I heard it. At first, it was just a distant sound, a strange screech that didn't belong in the hum of rush hour at all. Then it became the screech of metal against metal, a sound that would make your teeth ache. The sound was distant still, but it grew louder with every passing second, raw and visceral, cutting through the air.

The railroad ahead was already crowded with cars, and brake lights glowed in the evening haze. Beyond, the train barreled toward the intersection. I watched as the train swerved violently, sparks flying as the wheels left the tracks. The first car tipped sideways, dragging the rest of the train with it in a cascade of catastrophe. I stopped the car instinctively, gripping the steering wheel as the chaos unfolded in front of the, to me. The derailment was horrific. Passenger cars crumpled and people flew out to the train cars as they collided with one another. The force of the crash sent debris flying into the air. With a loud bang, the engine smashed into the support beam near the crossing,

igniting an explosion that lit up the sky with orange and red flames. It was chaos. And then There they were. The woman in the red scarf and the child. She was kneeling by the edge of the wreckage. Her arms stretched out in a feeble attempt to rescue the dangling child. It was exactly what I had seen from the painting. The firelight danced across their faces, their expressions frozen in the same raw clarity. I sat frozen in my car.

hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly I could hear it groan in protest. I wanted to move, get out and help somehow. But I couldn't, and then it happened. The train car, which was balancing on its side, tipped over in slow motion, and I watched as the child was eaten up by the flames, and the woman's legs crushed, now trapped as the fire ate her away. I couldn't look away. I felt tears running down my cheeks as I finally regained my senses, the screaming around me, breaking me out of my trance. The painter hadn't just known this would happen.

They'd known where I'd be, and what I'd see. I don't remember driving home. The crash broke something in me. I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the woman and the children. child, frozen in that terrible moment, just as the painting had depicted it. The fire's light, the scarf, the desperation and the reaching out. It was all burned into my mind, replaying over and over, like a punishment I could do nothing to escape from. I was in purgatory.

I didn't go to work the next day either, or the day after. At first, I called in sick, telling my boss I had the flu, until I stopped answering my phone altogether. I threw the painting away, but it did little to numb my thoughts. I let the dishes pile up and clothes scatter across the floor. Everything in my fridge went bad, and the stench of rotting food filled the apartment, aiding in my misery. I didn't care about it. All I could think about was how to have. Even though I knew I was powerless, I blamed myself for not at least trying to save them.

But then I realized, I owed it to them at least. I needed answers. When the fog of guilt finally eased a little, I was consumed by the need to know why this was happening. I scoured the internet, searching for everything and anything that I could explain the paintings. I posted on obscure forums and searched for artists and local galleries, but I found nothing. Even the paintings themselves offered no hints. I still had the original painting of the field, so I picked the first one up from the corner and inspected the entirety of it.

I looked for a signature, a date or a stamp, but still, there was nothing. The more I searched, the more questions consumed me. I kept asking myself why I was the one who had to find these and how they accurately depicted things unseen. I tried putting a stop to the next painting I received. To no avail. When it arrived, a flood sawling a small street, I tried memorizing every detail.

The crack sidewalk, the cars in the middle being subpoenaed. merged by muddy water, a bent stop sign in the corner. I sifted through maps and my memories, searching for streets that matched the one in the painting. I spent hours driving around, hoping to stumble across it. But I never found it. I hadn't even stopped to consider how I would prevent a flood of that scale, because if I did, it made me feel all the more powerless. Days passed, and the dreaded.

dread gnawed at me, growing heavier with each day that passed in weight. When the flood finally happened. It was nowhere near me. I dreaded the rare times I would receive a painting, but soon they started appearing everywhere. In my mailbox, propped against the front door, even in the passenger seat of my car, they all came without warning. A bridge collapsing into a river, cable snapping like aged threads as cars plunged into the waters below.

The faces of passengers visible in their final moments. A tornado ripping through a tiny farmhouse, a roof torn away to reveal a petrified family huddled inside. The aftermath of a sinkhole appearing below an apartment building. The details were always painfully vivid. I could almost feel the heat of the fire. smell the smoke and hear the screams. Each one stayed on my mind like a deep scar. I woke up to find one leaning against the foot of my bed. I felt the tube before I saw it. As I got out of bed,

my feet brushed against something and tipped it over. Another painting, except this one was not a disaster. It showed a small and dilapidated house with a sagging roof and a and boarded up windows. The yard was overgrown and the porch steps were broken. In the foreground stood a figure. The man wore a jacket

identical to mine. His hands were shoved in his pockets and his posture was stiff. His face was obscured but there was no mistaking who it was meant to be. Me. In the corner of the painting

was a street sign. Ashwood Lane and in the bottom right corner scrolled in the dark paint was a signature. E.V. The signature seemed to be there purely to mock me, a final taunt from the person who had been controlling my life without permission. This wasn't a prediction. It was an invitation or a trap.

I was furious at finding a painting in the sanctity of my room. The guilt and fear had built up and exploded into a rage that stripped me of rational thinking. Ashwood Lane wasn't hard to find. It was on the outskirts of the city. A forgotten road choked with weeds and lined with houses that looked like they'd been used in the set of a bad zombie movie. Regardless, it was still on my car's GPS. So, I took this invitation as a challenge, and I wanted this all. to end. The house was exactly as it had been on the canvas. The roof sagged in the middle and the windows

boarded up. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and petraca. I pulled the car to the curb and stepped out, my legs unsteady beneath me. In my dash to come here, all the emotions that were running through me were now fading, replaced with a sense of unease. I was about to face with who ever had been doing this. I knocked thrice, and with each knock, the door opened wider. The inside of the house was horrific. The walls were lined with canvases, some stacked two deep, some stacked six deep, some leaned against the furniture and others piled on the floor.

They were all disasters, hurricanes, earthquakes and wildfires. Each was as vivid as the ones I'd seen, the colors raw, violent and impossibly sharp. At the center of the room was a person. E.V. He sat hunched over, his back to me, a brush moving steadily across a canvas. It was still taking shape, swells of black and crimson dancing in an abstract chaos that I could not decipher nor care to. His frame was thin, almost non-existent, his hair wiry with spots of grey. He didn't turn when I stepped inside, didn't seem to notice me at all, or simply didn't care. You found me, he said without turning. His voice was dry and ashy.

I stepped closer, anger taking hold of me. You knew I would. Of course. He dipped his brush into a smear of grey, dragging it across the canvas. Everything follows a pattern. You are always going to end up here. Why me? I demanded, my voice starting to crack.

Why send the paintings to me? He finally turned, his dark eyes locking onto mine. Yet there was no malice in his gaze, no insolice. no insanity, just the cold, detached clarity. Because you were paying attention, he said matter-of-factly. Most people don't, you see. They go through their days blind to the cracks in the world, ignoring the inevitable until it happens to them.

But you couldn't look away. You saw the patterns, even though you could, could not understand them. I refused to flinch. You're saying all this was inevitable, that nothing I did could have stopped it? Exactly. He finally set his brush down, falling his hands in his lap. The world is unraveling, one piece at a time.

I just record it. There's no magic here, no divine inspiration. You people are just so stupid. that it makes me seem prescient. He continued. Record it, I repeated. My voice starting to rise and my anger building. You paint people dying, children falling into fires, buildings collapsing, and families getting wiped out.

You call that recording. What would you have me do? His tone remains steady, his calmness, maddening. Stop painting. Would that save anyone? Would it change something? My work makes it all visible, finds the beauty in it all. I clenched my fists and fumbled with a zipper in my pocket.

You could warn people, do something. Evie chuckled softly while shaking his head. Warn them, you can't fix what's broken. And even if you could, do you think they'd listen? People don't want to see the end. They'd rather stumble into it blind, believing they have the control. I thought to the woman and the child, the fire and the crash. There has to be a reason for all this.

There really isn't. Evie leaned back, his bony frame casting long shadows in the dim light. You want there to be meaning, a purpose behind it all. because the alternative is too much to bear, but the truth is simple. And you already know it. The room felt smaller and the air heavier. My gaze flick to the painting surrounding us, each one laced with despair. I thought back to the things I'd seen again and my inability to take action.

His voice cut through my thoughts. You just can't accept. it. You've spent your life believing you're in control and that your choices matter. But they don't. You're just a witness, just like everybody else. You think you're angry at me, but you're just angry at the truth. Stop it, I muttered. The only question is how long you'll keep fighting before you accept it. "'Stop!' I repeated, louder. "'You think you could change anything?' he mused.

"'You're wrong,' I growled. "'You're just a coward that sits here, painting misery while the world falls apart.' Evie smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth barely twitching. "'And yet here you are, watching, just like I knew you would.' That was it. My hand shot into my pocket, pulling out the zippo. My fingers trembled as adrenaline rushed through me while I thought about what I was about to do. You think I'll just let you do this?

You think I'll let you keep making these monuments the suffering? At this point, he wasn't even looking at me. He turned back to his work and kept painting. I grabbed the nearest painting off the wall. tsunami ravaging homes and families and held it over the flame. The canvas caught quickly. The edges curled as the fire spread, licking at the vivid colours. The smell of burning paint filled the air around us, sharp and acrid, but I was not

going to stop. I tossed the painting onto the floor. The fire spread as I tore more canvases from the walls. by one, I fed them to the flames, floods, fires and earthquakes, all of them consumed, as Evie kept painting. You really think this changes anything? He asked quietly, his voice now barely audible over the crackle of the fire. I don't care, I spat, tearing another painting from the wall.

I'm done watching, I'm done letting you use me as an audience. Evie tilted his head, but still didn't look at me. You can burn the paintings, but it's all still there. I ignored him. The heat of the fire scorched my skin as I grabbed another canvas. It wasn't until I turned back toward Evie that I saw he had completed it. The painting on the easel he was working on. It showed what I thought.

No, what I knew was the end of the world. Not a single disaster. Not one moment of tragedy frozen in time. But everything. The sky was fractured, great jagged tears ripping through the heavens. The endless skies folding into each other, exposing a blackness so deep it felt like staring into an open grave. The earth was in chaos, split into monstrous, gaping chasms that bled molten fire and bellowed smoke. Entire cities tipped and crumbled into the abyss, their skeletons of steel and iron twisting as they fell.

The oceans boiled, great clouds of steam rising into the air as colossal waves slammed against crumbling coastlines. Ships torn in half were capsized in their entirety. dotted the horizon like discarded toys. In the foreground, what was supposed to represent a vast forest was reduced to an expanse of blackened stumps, each one smouldering. Between them, the skeletal remains of animals lay scattered, among the wreckage, pressed against the shattered windows of the crumbling cities, floating lifelessly in the boiling oceans, where thousands of faces frozen in terror. The mouth's open in silent screams. And in the centre of it.

The audience was me. I stood on a jagged outcrop of rock, my silhouette illuminated by the fiery abyss below. My posture was slack and my hands lay limply at my sides. But it wasn't just me. Around my feet were smaller figures, clutching at my legs. A child reached upward, her tiny fingers brushing against my hand. And I knew who that was meant to represent. You see now, Evie said, you are the audience.

Everyone is. I turned away from him. The fire was everywhere now, climbing the walls, defaring everything. The heat was unbearable. Despite how fast the old wood of the house carried the fire. flames, there was always time to get out. Nothing physically locked him to his chair. Yet he remained there, carrying on with his magnum opus without a care. You're still a witness. You failed, Evie said with finality. He was wrong. As the flames roared, he would fail to

predict anything ever again. So I turned and ran, the heat chasing me out of the house into the cool night air. I didn't look back as the flames consumed the building, the firelight flickering against the darkened sky. I reached my car, slumping into the driver's seat and gripping the steering wheel like it was tethering me to reality. I stared through the windshield, the house on Ashwood Lane burning behind me. It didn't feel like a victory. I drove home in silence, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me. My apartment was still how I left it, empty and silent.

I entered my bedroom and picked up the house painting once more. I inspected it one last time, the weight of my actions sinking in. but before I had time to think about anything, when I flipped the painting over, I saw another one, a silhouette running from a burning house. The perspective was distant but unmistakable. My figure was small, silhouetted against the inferno. The flames roared behind me, consuming the house and everything inside. It was proof that once again

I had failed to change anything The house was burned Because it was always meant to burn I ran because I was always meant to run Everything played out Exactly how it was supposed to play out And I Was the witness

I travel a lot Without getting too in depth About the particulars of my life and career, I will say that my job ends up taking me all over the world. I've been to just about every continent on the planet, with the exception of somewhere like Antarctica, and the number of countries I haven't stepped foot in rapidly shrinks every year. It's absolutely amazing, as I've been able to see and partake in so many different customs, cultures

and lifestyles. And one thing I always love to do is purchase a superiors who've been able to do. to take home with me, a sort of keepsake to mark my first time in a new country that I can take down from the shelf and look at when the nostalgia hits me. It can be anything, whether an ornamental figure, a glass, or a book. That's where the reason I'm posting here comes in. You see, a few months ago, I was sent to Algeria to help oversee a business deal that a client was involved in. The main dealings had wrapped up, and after a few days of exploring the capital city of Algiers,

I decided to take a final stroll through one of the many bazaars I had come to a door perusing in my off-time the day before my flight left back to the States. I'd already had it in mind to find something to buy as a memento, and so I strolled past the vendors selling fruit and various foods, looking for something interesting. as I passed the table which was selling various bits and bobs. It caught my eye. It was an old leather-bound journal, clasped tightly shut with what appeared to be a belt closure of some kind.

The leather looked extremely weather-beaten and worn, as if it had sat in the burning desert sun for decades, and the edges of the pages I could see were yellowed with age. My curiosity peaked. I pointed to it and asked the same. seller about where it had come from. Rather strangely, he seemed wary of saying exactly where and when it had come into his possession, instead only saying that he stumbled across it during his travels. My curiosity, now firmly in the red zone due to its mysterious nature, I inquired to its price.

He had no sooner quoted me a price than I was pushing the money into his hand. It was practically a steel. However, I admit one thing which unnerved me, to say the least. As I hurried back in the direction of my hotel, I chanced a look over my shoulder and found that the man was watching me leave, a strange, almost intense look on his face. That night, my bags packed and lying in bed, I found myself unable to sleep. After trying to tempt the Sandman for a few hours, I finally gave up. And wanting something to pass the time, I picked the journal up, unbuckled it, and opened it to the first page. To my surprise, I found the entries were in English.

The journal had belonged to a British explorer and adventurer, whose name, according to the inscription on the back cover, was Liam Wentworth. The date inside ranged from the late 1940s to the early 50s, and I read each page with rapt attention, extraordinary images swirling in my mind as Liam narrated to me expeditions which ranged from continental Europe to Africa. I couldn't help but smile as the infectious excitement in his writing pulled me further and further into the past, and I almost wished I could be transported back in time to join him. That was, until I began to read the last expedition log in the journal. From the very first entry, I could tell there was something different about this particular

journey. Something about the man's words filled me with an unexplainable sense of unease. And as the entries went on, I felt any sense of excitement and wonder wash away like a flood victim, the initial uneasiness first replaced with tension, then a strange sense of paranoia. And finally, as much as I hate admitting it. Fear A palpable sense of fear and existential dread I've never felt before, one which raised all the hair in my arms and, even in the safety of my hotel room, made me turn on every

single light banishing away any shadows in the corner. especially because the final written pages are stained with long-dried liquid that. God, I still hope, isn't what I think it is. And when my plane took off from Huairi Bermadeen the next morning, my window giving me a clear view of the sprawling Algerian desert stretching out away into the distance. I involuntarily shuddered. For months, I was unsure what to do.

I considered taking the journal to a journal to a distance. a historian or museum to verify its authenticity, but I'm worried that it will be simply written off as a hoax or a forgery. A few friends and acquaintances of mine I have shared a little of the contents with have met it with the same response. It has to be a stunt, just something to scare whoever bought it. Worse still, I've had some of the worst nightmares of my life. Horrible dreams that wake me up covered in a sheen of sweat even months later. Finally, though, I've decided to just share it. This is transcribed exactly as originally written

and are all relevant entries from Liam's last expedition. Let me know what you think of it, and if there is any shred of truth to what is written here, as much as it might cost me work in the future, I may never step foot in the future. that part of the world. Again. Monday, 23rd of June,

1952. After a four-month rest, another adventure is at hand. A fortnight ago, I received a call at home from a wealthy American, a business magnate by the name of Talley. Apparently, Mr. Danvers had boasted of my qualifications,

an invaluable help during his expedition to Maritania, at luncheon with him, and when told of a sense, similar endeavour that the man wished to embark on in a nearby country of Algeria, he instantly recommended me to him. I was already interested when he told me of his intentions, and after he quoted me the fee he would pay, I hastily accepted. The amount of money offered is the kind that not even many film stars in the country receive. Indeed, it is triple what Diana Dawes was reportedly paid recently for a part in the last page, and with my dear sister's health always in flux,

it is an amount I would be a fool to refuse. And so, after much planning and subsequent connecting flights from London, I am now in the city of Algiers, where the rest of our party have assembled. I first met Talley as he met me just outside the airport. A tall lanky chap with thinning black hair. He instantly struck me as inexperienced with such expeditions. It set me a little on edge, if I may be frank. Too many parties have tragically failed due to such sponsors. Yet, as I was taken to a nearby cafe and introduced to the rest of the team, I felt somewhat relieved at the faces that greeted us.

Three of the expedition's nine members are ones I've worked with before. Soren, a hulking giant of a Dane. Richter, a quiet yet intimidating German, Anne Moretti, whose boastful demeanour sometimes hides how brilliant of a leader the Italian can be. Three of the four, excluding myself and Talley, are people who have heard spoken of in similar circles. Blake is the group's archaeologist, a fellow Brit and a luring brunette who seems as if she should be on a movie screen instead of here.

The group's medic, a bloke who earned the scars on his face from his time in the war, and Samir is one of our two guides, a man whose wild hair and beard doesn't seem to match the intelligence that I see behind his eyes. The final member of the group is our second guide. An almost gaunt young man no older than 20, whose name I was told, is Tarek. He did not speak when introductions were given. Instead, he merely nodded at us. I find he gives me an uncomfortable sort of aura,

but according to both Talley and Moretti, he is indispensable to our ultimate goal, which is when discussions shifted over to our ultimate aim. In a hushed tone, Talley leaned in and told us of a tale he had stumbled across during his dealings in the area. He had hinted about a great treasure lost in the desert, it decades ago over the phone.

But as I listened to him extrapolate, I felt my jaw drop open. According to accounts, a decade and a half or so ago, a group of soldiers belonging to the French Foreign Legion searching for a safe haven had stumbled upon a fortress built into a vast mountain range.

Centuries old, the structure had been abandoned and after discovering that a pump connected to an underground water source, of some kind, the soldiers had set up a base camp, complete with radio and arsenal. They stayed in contact with their superiors for approximately five months, reporting back periodically and requesting supplies. Then, on the sixth month, the fort went silent. No matter how long it was hailed, no one ever answered the radio calls. A reinforcement group had been sent to try and ascertained what had happened.

to them, but they seemed to disappear into the desert as well. Eventually, all of the men were declared lost in action. It wouldn't have been the first time that soldiers had met their end on the receiving end of the local swords and guns after all. Fearing further casualties, the fort was declared a hostile zone and any further attempt to reach it was forbidden. As the years went by and with the outbreak of the war, the fort's location and the reports on it were lost in the shuffle, further hampered by the fact that it seems someone in a high position had stricken it from all maps and public record. But somehow, after hearing the stories, Talley had used his connections to obtain one of the only remaining maps which marked its location. As he finished,

I cocked an eyebrow and asked him how this all connected to what he had lowered me. with here, the reports of a vast, lost treasure. An almost childish smile spread across Talley's face. You ain't hurt the best part yet, my dear boy. That was when the penny dropped. According to a radio report that the fort's commanding officer had made, they had found in the bowels of the fort, a room which, when breached, had revealed a staggering amount of jewels. coins and other treasures. The exact monetary value it had, had never been calculated.

But seeing how most of the horde was dated back to the Ottoman Empire, it had to be a tremendous amount. By this point, our sponsor had our undivided attention, and dreams have been forever logged in the history books, danced in our heads. That's when Talley let us in on the most important fact of this expedition. If we locate the fort and find the treasure was only a tale or fail to find it at all, you will all be paid the exact amount I quoted you.

He began, his eyes twinkling. But if we do find it, each of you will receive an equal share of the treasure, in addition to your names forever written as the finders. To say that you could have heard a pin drop amongst us would be a grievous understatement. For a moment, nobody spoke. I was the first to open my mouth. Yes, bloody hell, yes! As if my words had been a sort of catalyst,

everyone else piped up with their own agreement. Tally beamed. He knew he had ensnared us, and he revelled in it. He told us that we would board a plane bound for Sala in the next day. From there, we would continue on Land Rover's into the desert itself, and with that he bid us goodnight, retiring with Moretti to their hotel. After a few drinks, the rest of us disbanded as well.

And now here I sit, staring out the window at the rising moon with my pen in hand. I am beyond thrilled, the prospect of becoming wealthy beyond my wildest dreams of being able to afford all of my sister's medicine and procedures, to say nothing. Something of my own frivolities and fantasies is intoxicating. And yet, I can't help but feel a strong sense of trepidation over what I was told as well. The fact that two different groups of soldiers seem to simply disappear without a trace, it gives me pause. Even though I attempt to push it away, a small whisper of dread climbs over me.

I picture the men carrying at night. guns frantically aimed into the darkers, something moves towards them. But surely anything that happens to them so long ago, any people who did them harm surely have moved on. Which means, we should be perfectly safe. I worry too much. Tuesday, 24th of June, 1952.

I wrote this entry by the firelight next to my tent. and the only thing that banishes away the almost impenetrable darkness that stalks the edges of the flickering embers. Early in the morning, just before the sun rose, our team boarded a chartered plane and flew south to Insula. There we found two land rovers, paint shimmering and fresh off the production line in Solihull. They had been specially ordered by Talley for the journey. Supplies and enough fuel to last as a fortnight were loaded on board, And, after wedging ourselves inside the space that remained, we set off in a westerly direction, following the road past towns with names such as Gar and Olaf. Finally, we passed the Rigaunay, and after a last look back at civilization, we left the road and headed out into the desert itself.

Saying that the intense heat would rival the flames of hell itself would not be much of an understatement. The sun beat mercilessly down upon our vehicles, turning them into saunas, and as we were attempting to conserve our water supply, soon we all felt the first inklings of heat exhaustion. After stopping to quench our thirst quickly, and following the blessed liquid with lunch, we continued on as the sun dipped lower into the sky. As I was riding with Talley, I had the opportunity to ask him about Tarek.

The man still gave me a bad feeling, and I inquired as to why he was so important to our expedition. After all, I asked, would simply Samir not make a decent enough guide? It was then that he revealed to me the secret surrounding the man. Tarik was one of the few men left alive who had seen the fort with his own eyes, or so he claimed. He had told Talley how the time as a small boy, traveling through the desert with his father and grandfather and spying on the horizon, perched the top of mountain range like a sentry, the imposing structure. Both of his elders had warned him away from it, telling him that it was a cursed place.

Load of local superstitious bull, Talley said to me, waving a hand as if to physically repel the words. For my part, I too did not believe in such things. And yet, at his words, I was unable to suppress the shiver that flew up my spine slightly. It felt too coincidental, too close to the feeling of dread that fell over me last night. A second thought came to mind, as if pushing away the emotions. I asked, with not knowing if the young man was telling the truth, how he could be sure he was not simply luring us into the desert for a sinister purpose. With a small, almost concealed wink, he raised his shirt, revealing a hidden pistol underneath in a holster.

He informed me that several others were armed as well, and a shotgun and ammunition were among our supplies. Liam, my boy, relax. I have thought of everything. We'll be ready whether the locals have any surprises in store for us, or either of our guides do. Just enjoy the trip in the meantime. I pray that his confidence is not misplaced. We are a long way from where anyone could help us if things were to go belly up. And that isn't all. I'm the only member of our group still awake.

All the others have retired to their tents, or in the case of Tarik and Samir, into the land rovers to sleep. The only sounds I hear are the crackling of fire and the soft, almost lonely sound of the wind whistling in the darkness. And yet, I can't help but feel watched. Even though we are certainly the only people for miles, I feel as though eyes are upon me, upon all of us. It is a feeling that is most unwelcome, and it makes me again wonder about the fate that befell the French soldiers. I find myself shooting looks out into the dark every few lines I write, almost convinced

I will see eyes staring back at me from the blackness. As much as I don't want to, I must retire to my own tent. Dawn will be here soon enough, and we will need all of our strength for the next few days. Thursday, 26th of June, 1952. After a second day of driving straight and following both the map and directions that Samir tells us Tarak had given us as the man speaks no English, we seem to have finally arrived at the base of a mountain range. According to Tarak, these are the mountains in question, and we are not far now, less than a day away. I crane my neck to look at the imposing walls which rise higher over our heads.

I'm not a good estimator of such things, but I would not be surprised if the top lies hundreds of feet above us or more. If the fort is real, then how are we to get to it from down here? All questions that will have to be answered soon. For now, though, I will go and sit with the others, eat supper and go to sleep. If we are being told the truth, tomorrow will be the day. Friday, 27th of June, 1952. It's real. I find that even as I write these words,

I feel I'll suddenly wake up from a dream. And yet, right there in front of my eyes, is the bloody thing. Terrac was indeed telling the truth, and it looks exactly as Talley heard. The structure is perfectly nestled atop, and similarly among the mountains, surely built there by some Ottoman architect or soldier with a perfect idea of strategic planning. The fort has a clear view down the desert where we stand below, and is set far enough back that the surrounding land act as a sort of natural shield. It is the perfect choke point, to say the least.

Churchill himself would be impressed. According to Blake, the style and architecture is indeed indicative of the Ottoman Empire, either Arabic or North African. The three front turrets rise imposingly above the rest of the complex, their windows dark and unrevealing of their secrets. surprisingly and thankfully as well there will be no need to worry about climbing tarug pointed us to a set of steps carved into the mountains themselves they are fairly steep but they surely beat the alternative as it is late we will make camp here at the base tonight and in the morning we will pack all our supplies and make the climb to the fort itself

Admittedly, I must admit that the feeling I had in the desert two nights ago remains. In fact, it almost feels stronger in a way. But with the excitement palpable amongst all of us, I refuse to let it sour the mood. It'll be stored away in the recesses of my mind. Tomorrow, we begin to take a step towards both history and possibly fortune. Saturday, 28th of June, 1952, I write from inside the central courtyard of the fort itself. I was correct in my assessment that it would be a steep climb, but aside from a few scrapes among all the bloody knuckles suffered by Soren, we reached the top uneventfully.

From there, we found a path already made, albeit almost hidden by the ever-sweeping sands. but the cracked wooden rail that marked the edge of the cliff showed the way. After a trek of about a quarter of an hour, we found ourselves at a gate which marked the outer rim of the complex. The top was wrapped in barbed wire and an unlocked gate sat half open in front of us. Richter, feeling that we would be better off closing it behind us, walked into a neighbouring guard post and lowered a barrier to prevent anyone from entering when our backs were turned. Together, we made our way up a steep path to the front of the fort itself. At the front gates, we discovered a relic from the First World War, a French F.T tank sitting empty and half buried in sand.

The turret faced away from us, back the way we'd come, and I wondered both how it had gotten up here and what it had been put in place for. With a last look at the armament, we pushed open one of the two three, colossal wooden doors and entered the fort. We found ourselves inside an expansive courtyard that stretched out before us to both sides. To the right was what appeared to be a smaller courtyard of some sort, embellished with a few small bushes and date palms. Wondering over to it, I found that the far end of the smaller space was a fountain, a rusted pump set into the back corner. Tentively, gathered some water from the fountain and raised it to my lips.

The water tasted somewhat stagnant, but otherwise was fine. Reaching out and operating the pump, I found it readily supplied fresh water. Turning, I found Moretti beside me. He smiled. It's a water garden. Well, then this solves any concerns of running out of water. There must be an underground lake or river somewhere beneath us. I agreed with him, and after a last look around at the peaceful scene, we returned to the others.

After telling them of our discovery, we set our supplies down and began as a group to explore. Aside from the Water Garden, there were two main buildings inside the fort. The largest building, according to the rickety wooden sign hung by the front door, declared it to be the living quarters, while the seconds, sunken building was designated the arsenal. After a small deliberation, we chose to enter the main building first. The interior showed that nature had taken its toll on the fort. Beams had collapsed from their upper levels and sand rose up in small mounds, making us have to navigate around the debris. The rest of the quarters were in much the same condition, though with much more signs of life.

pillows, rugs and other furniture were around. There were also plenty of candles and lamps hanging from beams above, all of which we lit as we passed. We located the radio room, which I noted with a pang of unease had been vandalized. Both the radio and telegraph machines had been destroyed. Clearly, someone had not wanted anyone to send any messages or calls for help. What made the scene worse was the obvious signs of struggle which were ever present throughout the whole building. Some of the group didn't notice, but I saw that Soren and Richter, along with myself, the three who saw the most combat in our lives did. The spilled chairs, crumbled blankets, and broken glass and wood all told a tale, and it was one that made the feeling of dread rear its head in my mind.

and worse, the feeling of eyes on me was at a feverish pitch. As we made our way through, my head swung about like an owl, looking not only to the shadows, but up into the rafters as well. At one point, as I brought up the rear of the group, I felt as though fingers had slipped along the nape of my neck, and my pulse quickened, my breathing going shallow as I froze on the spot. terror filling every fibre of my being, I whirled around, and found no one. All I could hear was the soft creaking of the building and the whistling of the wind outside.

Not wanting to remain alone, I hurried after the others. After leaving the main quarters and with daylight fading fast, we made a quick pass through the arsenal, where we discovered a grisly scene. In the fort's jail, we discovered the remains of a man dressed in one of the old uniforms which designated him as part of the French Foreign Legion. His body seemed to cower in the far corner of the cell away from any of the bars.

Stranger still, Samir pointed out that he had locked himself inside. A set of keys could be seen by the desiccated corpse's hand. From what we could tell, the man hadn't died of any injuries either. Moretti summarized he must have either perished from hunger or thirst. We retreated back to the courtyard afterward, where we set up camp in the water garden. For this, I'm eternally grateful. While the living quarters may offer more shelter from the elements than the tents,

I would not be able to sleep a wink inside. I feel constantly on edge after what has been seen today, and I pray to the Lord that, in time, they will fade from memory. And I still feel we are watched. In fact, the feeling is stronger than it ever was, as if whatever is doing the watching is almost directly over us, staring down. I wonder if the feeling has anything to do with the corpse in the air. arsenal jail. After all, what could drive a man to such terror that he would rather face a slow death from lack of food and water than it? Perhaps, I hope to never find out, nor where the rest of the soldiers disappeared to. I hope we can find the fable treasure quickly and be gone from this

place. As much as I love adventure, I long for being back in the bedroom of my home in Maidenhead. Monday, 30th of June, 1952. Two days have passed since my last entry. We've continued to work to locate any hint of the treasure, but have failed to find any trace of it anywhere in the fort. I'm beginning to think it may never have existed. Talley is trying to bolster all our spirits, but I can sense him begin to grow weary. Like the rest of us, a foreboding feeling that has hung over my head like a noose seems to have spread among the expedition. I see it in all their faces. It increased when we found more signs of a struggle around the fort. Fingernail marks etched into the walls as if someone were dragged away, spent ammo casings and

more. I catch others swinging around erratically as though they had sent somebody near them. I caught Samir, Tarak and Corrin huddled together, whispering softly to one another. When I approached, hearing words about leaving spoken, they stood up straight and gave me a strange look before moving quickly away. I also find that Blake tends to stick close to me now. She says it's because she feels safest with another from Britain, but I know there's a deeper reason she would not admit. Back in the war, my sergeant had told me that paranoia is one of the forces that whittle men down the quickest. I do believe he is right. Tuesday, 1st of July, 1952.

We are trapped. During the night, I awoke to hear a thunderous crashing sound, but in the darkness, I didn't know what it was. When daylight broke, we said, out for the steps down to the Land Rovers. We found that, during the night, something had caused a large section of them to give way. Whether it be a crack in the rock which caused the landslide of some sort, it doesn't matter. The section is too vast to be able to safely jump down from. A gap of over 200 feet.

And without rope, we couldn't climb down. We are stuck. hundreds of feet above the desert floor with no signs of people anywhere. Fortunately, Tarak informed us through Samir that he believed as a boy he had seen a way down further down the ridge. After a quick deliberation, it was decided that Samir, along with Richter, would set out and try and find it. The weapons we had brought were finally broken out from our supplies and the two men were given

a pistol each, along with a small supply of extra ammunition and two torches. They said they would attempt to return at nightfall if they could not find a way down. It is dusk now, and they have not returned. I worry that they might have slipped and fallen to their deaths, or worse, may have successfully made it down and bolted. While I may have worked with Richter before and heard good things about Samir, in a situation like this, even the most rational men can do the wrong things, I... Wait.

I thought I heard something. The silence has fallen again over the fort, but for a second, as the winder died, I almost swore I heard a cracking sound in the distance, two, three times, then nothing. But it sounded too small to be gunshots. It can't have been. I hope they come back soon. Wednesday, 2nd of July, 1952. Samir and Richter never returned.

At dawn, I volunteered to try and set out to find any trace of them. Blake asked to accompany me, as did Corrin, who said if they were injured, they would need his training. So, gathering the medical kit, we prepared to leave. When Marathi started, us. I want you to take this, he said, reaching into a supply bag. He withdrew the shotgun, when I instantly recognized as a Winchester Model 1897. Handing it to me, he also pulled out a box of shells and passed them to Blake, who placed them in a pack.

Be safe, and God be with you, he said. I nodded, and holding the gun tightly in both hands. The three of us stepped out of the fort and, after locating two sets of footprints, set out following them. None of us spoke a word as we followed the trail along, occasionally having to navigate around boulders and pass treacherous narrow paths, in what I hoped would lead to our compatriots, our friends. But as we continued on, the footprints seemed to endlessly continue.

I began to feel as though we three had, like them, seemingly slipped into an alternate reality where we would be trapped forever, alone. That was when we discovered the end of the tracks. I don't mean to say that they led to a way down, or even to the edge of the cliff. Rather, both sets came to a halt in the middle of an open space, dominated by low hanging cliff faces behind us. This, this doesn't make any sense, Corrin said as he looked around. Where the hell did they go? Neither of us could answer him, but as I focused the gain on the tracks, I noticed two small details I hadn't before,

ones which made my heart begin to beat quicker in my chest. The first was that the footsteps, once so oddly and in rhythm with one another, suddenly began to erratically dance around each other, almost as if the men had begun wildly spinning around, looking in all directions. The second was the glint of brass I saw hidden among the sand. I reached out with one hand, and, brushing away the top layer that had settled over it the night before, found myself looking at several spent bullet casings.

There were approximately three or four of them, all clumped together as though someone had emptied a revolver on the spot. I picked one up, rolling it over in my fingers. The beating sun made it almost too hot to handle, but I could instantly tell they were fresh. Wearyness and dread began to gnaw at my insides. Something had happened here. That was when I heard Blake gasp. Turning, I found a staring at a section of wall behind and to the left of us, a section which had been obscured by an overhang before.

Her face had gone as white as a sheet, and her eyes wide as saucers. With a trembling hand, she pointed at something and moaned out three words. Mother of God! A single smear of blood ascended the rock face. It wasn't a lot, but it was enough to spite my dread into full-blown terror. Quickly arching my neck, I could see where it led to. But it was obvious that its owner had been dragged upwards and in a violent manner. Instantly, I raised the shotgun, feeling my hands go cold and clammy.

Blake and Corinne huddled behind me as we looked around rapidly, both at the overhang above us and farther down the path. All I could hear was the whistle of the wind. Nothing more. And that fact alone terrified me to no end. That whistle, that silence, it all seemed to hold her threatening edge to it now, a prelude to something horrific to come. I motioned silently for the others to begin to back up behind me, alternating the shotgun's aim between the area above us and in front of us, trying not to make any noise.

We slowly began to move back to the fort. As we retreated, I swear I thought I heard a small pit. pitter-patter sound of pebbles moving. I thought I saw a slight blur of motion just beyond my line of sight. My heart was racing in my chest and my mouth turned as dry as cotton. In my time during the war, I'd bore witness to many horrific sights, many atrocities. More than once I was sure I was about to die, and I swear on my sister's soul that I never felt as terrified as I did in those moments, my hands holding the gun beginning to shake.

Despite feeling as though whatever had taken, Samir and Richter were lurking just beyond our field of view, we made it back to the fort unharmed. As soon as we were inside, I dropped the shotgun to the ground, and I found what must have been the board to barricade the doors. I picked it up and slammed it into place in the large metal hooks. As I did so, the others raced out from the water garden, demanding to know why we were sealing them inside. Corrin turned to them as we finished, his eyes wild and face ashen in the fading light. Because Samir and Richter are dead, that's why.

His tones slammed the words home, and I saw horrified looks cross everyone's faces, even Tarex, even if he couldn't understand us that well. Trying to remain calm, I stepped forward and, with as much rational clarity as I could muster, explained in crystal clarity everything we had seen, everything we had come across. As I finished, a deathly silence settled over us all. In those moments, all we could hear was the wind, which had now risen from a whistle into a howl. The sun was beginning to set on the horizon, and it cast down. eerie shadows over the fort's courtyard.

Nobody dared speak as the implications of our predicaments sunk in, until I began to hear a low whine. For a moment, I was unable to discern where it came from. But as I looked around, I realized it was coming from Tarak. The Algerian looked, if possible, petrified to death and be able. beyond. His face held the expression of one which had just had a death sentence passed on. The wine intensified, and he suddenly began to babble, speaking rapidly strings of sentences I didn't understand. What is he saying? Talley demanded.

Moretti, knowing a little Arabic, raised a hand to silence him and stepped forward, asking a question to the panicking man. In response, Tarrick babble. to more at him, and after a moment I saw Moretti's brow furrow in confusion. He asked another question and received another panicked response. Talley stepped forward. What did he say? Please tell me. Moretti continues to look at Tariq for a moment, then turned towards us.

I'm not sure, but I think he says that they are in the mountains. They hunt in the mountains, and they are why his father and grandfather warned him to stay away from here. Suddenly, and without warning, Tarrick turned and bolted for the fort's living quarters. I saw Moretti begin to take a step after him, but then stopped. We watched as the man slammed his shoulder into the door, rushing inside and slamming it shut behind him. Fortunately, we did not hear it lock. After a moment, Talley turned back to us. He took a deep breath.

Right, everyone. We need a plan. The man's words seemed to bolster us, and we quickly and quietly began talking among ourselves. We decided it was no longer safe to stay outside, and following Tarrick's footsteps, we would shelter at night in the living quarters, barricading ourselves inside.

We would also try to repair the broken radio to try and send a call for help. Blake, in addition to being an archaeologist, was also proficient in repairing equipment. Our plans set in motion, we grabbed our supplies from the tents and moved inside. And now we all huddle, trying to sleep in shifts in one of the main bunk rooms. Blake sleeps beside me. I can hear her uneasily rolling over as I write. Corinne is doing the same a few cuts away. Sorin and Moretti patrol the halls of the building with two of our four remaining guns.

Talley holds on to the third, and in the meantime, I've traded Moretti the shotgun for a pistol of my own. I know I should try to rest. My own patrol shift will be in a few hours. And yet, I cannot. I feel as though my dreams will be worse. Dreams seeing what happened to Samir and Richter, seeing them dragged upwards to a fate, I feel it is a blessing not to know. And I'm terrified that if I close my eyes,

I'll open them to find something looking at me, half hidden in the shadows from the dull light of the lamp over our heads. ready to leap and in my existence in a blister of pain and horror, please save us. Thursday, 3rd of July, 1952. I write today with what feels like for the first time in an eternity a shred of good news. Blake has given an initial inspection of both the radio and telegraphs and has come to the conclusion that, while it will take a small amount of time, the damage dealt to both is within her means to repair.

She told us that it will take, with a combination of supplies found within the living quarters and from her own bags, a maximum of two to three days to get them back up to snuff. I can also report that during Soren and Moretti's watch as, accompanied by Corin, my own, we saw and heard no trace of whatever lies out there. I hold no delusions that they may have left though

All throughout the night I could feel their eyes upon the fort Especially when I passed the window Several times I would stop in front of them Swinging my head around and squint into the blackness Of course I saw nothing But the hair that rose in my arms every single time assured me that If the night were able to withdraw

And allow the secret it covers debiless to be be visible. I would have borne witness to a sight both blood-chilling and macabre in its appearance. In the past, I often wish that God had given us the night vision that large predators were bestowed with. But now, I'm beyond thankful. He did not. For the most part, we have remained inside the living quarters, only venturing outside for brief periods of time to fetch water from the water garden. The fear and tension felt when doing so, though, is palpable enough to slice with a bloody razor, especially as it sits directly next to the main wall of the fort.

When it was my turn to refill our canteens, my head swiveled around in my neck, not unlike an owl, turning this way and that, and feeling that if I allowed even a second to glance away from a particular spot, I would turn to find the last thing I would ever see gazing into my eyes. Fortunately, due to the material the fort was built with or its position against the mountains, the interior remained relatively cool, even as the noonday sun beat down to the point I could see both up close and in the distance the air itself shimmering from the temperature. I do have to mention one thing. Ever since Tarak fled inside the building the other day, he refuses to try and help us in any way. When asked by Moretti, all he would do is

shake his head and repeat the words he spoke to us the other day, the words about the ones who live in the mountains before retreating into a supply closet. He remains there, only coming out briefly for food or water before returning to it. One other important thing to note. As we had some free time on our hands, I used it to further explore the living quarters, thoroughly checking every lockbox and supply case for anything we could possibly use. In most, I found only medical supplies and, in the upper levels of the building, two cannons along with fuses, gunpowder, and half a dozen cannonballs. However, as I further explored the upper areas, I found a metal lockbox that,

after breaking the H-lock with a bottom-eye revolver, held two flare pistols within. Each one has a single flare already loaded inside with no sign of additional flares nearby. I showed them to Moretti and the others, who agreed that they should be stowed away to be used if any sign of life was spotted in the desert below. These may be what end up saving our hides, Talley said. The sun is setting now, and with the descent, of the orange, almost blood-red sun over the horizon. It feels like whatever safety we felt in the daylight is disappearing before my very eyes. I pray we make it through the night.

Friday, 4th of July, 1952. The screams. I find it a struggle to put ink to paper, the object horror and shock that I feel this morning. But I must, if only to try and help preserve the fleeting sanity that almost seems to precariously cling to me. Last night, Soren and I were tasked with taking the first watch, patrolling the halls and rooms until half-past one in the morning, when we would rouse and be relieved by Moretti and Corrin. Saurin carried the shotgun while I remained with my pistol. Slowly, silently, we moved through the building, occasionally convening to confirm no sign of

trouble and poking our heads into the bunk room to check on the others. The only sound I could be heard, aside from the whistling wind and creaking of the ancient building, was the soft ticking of the watch on my wrist, its unstoppable march seeming to bring a little comfort to me. That was when I heard it. At first, I couldn't identify the sound. It was too far off in the distance and too muffled to pull. properly make out. It barely carried on the wind, almost being whisked away completely. But as the moment spilled over into minutes, I realized that it was slowly grown louder, which meant whatever it was. It was getting closer. Feeling my heart began to race in my chest,

I raised my revolver and pulled back the hammer, my eyes straining to see in the darkness. The sound continued to increase in volume, and for a moment I froze. For a moment, I'd almost recognized it. A shiver passed through me as I gripped the window sill tightly in one hand, the other shaking slightly as I aimed the gun into the black. That was when a hand fell on my shoulder. I nearly jumped out of my skin, whirling around to find Sorens standing. standing beside me, the shotgun raised toward the ceiling in his free hand and an intense look upon

his face. He looked at me. I hear her too, he said simply, in response to my unspoken question. For another moment, the two of us stood there, straining our ears as we held by the window. The sound continued to grow nearer, and I felt another shiver passed through me. I couldn't I didn't understand why, but I almost swore I recognized the sound. Finally, I whispered back to Sauron. What is that? He remained silent for another moment or so.

Then I saw his face go slightly pale in recognition, his expression changing from stone to clearly unnerved, screaming. There was another stretch of silence between us as we both strained our ears. I prayed for a moment that he was wrong. But as the wind fell for a moment, I felt the blood in my veins turned to ice as it came again, clear this time. It was indeed screaming.

What's more, the source was unmistakably human. I had heard far too many men to count scream on the battlefield during the war. Heard men shriek their last after they had stepped on a landmine, and lay, blown apart, and rapidly bleeding out on the ground, with it too dangerous to try and retrieve them. I heard the screams have captured Germans in the bunkers, as operatives went to work extracting information on them. These screams not only rivaled them, but surpassed them.

They were the most horrible, panicked, and pained sounds I'd ever heard a human being otter. It sounded nothing less than if the screamer were being flayed alive, feeling every single cut and peel of their skin. And then the terror I felt compounded as the second rose up. A second scream, one which rose and fell beside the first, occasionally overlapping it, until it sounded as though we were hearing the damned souls of hell itself crying out for release. His eyes wide, Soren turned to me and said only three words. Rouse the others. Soon we were all standing by the window.

Every expression and mirror of fear on the other, as we listen to the infernal sound that, now almost sounded as if it were coming from just beyond the sealed front doors of the fort. Blake clasped the hand over her mouth, closing a rise and leaning against me. I wrapped an arm protectively around her, pulling her close to me as I looked at the others. Corrin looked as though he were about to faint from terror. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he breathed. I saw Talley swallow hard, but it was the look that swept across Moretti's face that drew my attention.

It was one of recognition. He fought to find his voice for a moment, then softly spoke. His voice almost lost to the shrieks outside. Samir. Everyone turned to look at him at this single word he uttered. I felt a small wave of confusion wash over me. Then, if possible, I saw Saren's face grow even paler than it already was. God Almighty, that is Samir.

Another scream. I remember how Ritter yelled as he broke his ankle a few years ago. That's him. Fresh waves of horror rolled over us like the sea as the information sunk in. I had been on the same expedition with the two men when Richter had broken his ankle climbing a rock. I prayed to the God I hoped was listening that they were wrong. But in my bones, I knew they weren't. I knew we were hearing the screams of our two lost compatriots.

Talley suddenly began to turn towards the stairs to the lower floor. floor yanking his own pistol from his holster. We have to help them, he yelled, beginning to sprint away. Just as quickly, Soren and Moretti began to chase after him, telling him to wait. Still holding on to Blake, I jerked my head for Corin to follow and hurried after them. When we descended the stairs, we found Sorin restraining Talley, his face enraged in the flickering light of the lamp above. "'Let go of me, damn you,' he yelled, attempting to kick the larger man to free himself. Moretti leaned forward towards him.

Use your brain, you stupid fool. There's a reason why it's coming from just outside the fort. It, they, whoever or whatever is out there wants us to go out there. It's a trap,' Talley kicked at Soren again, but this time it was weaker. You don't know that, he protested. They could have fought their way back, Sorin shook his head. After what Liam and the others found. No, they couldn't, especially not after two days.

I'm sorry, Mr. Talley, but Alessandro is right. They are counting on our emotions to get the better of us. It's designed to lure us out into the open. Talley closed his eyes and turned his head away, almost in denial of what I'd realized was true myself. but I could see the word sinking in. He slowly slumped, Zarin releasing the man and allowing him to crumple to the ground,

pulling his knees towards him and wrapping his arms around them. Standing in the narrow hall, we all listened to the screaming of our two friends continue outside for a few minutes. Then, as he began to feel as though the sounds would drive us all mad, they slowly began to move away. The screaming grew fainter, the sound of the wind beginning to mask it again, until finally, he couldn't hear it at all. For a moment, nobody moved. I glanced at my watch, seeing that it was a quarter to three in the morning.

I hadn't realized how long the terrifying ordeal had really lasted. Finally, Talley stood up. He refused to meet any other eyes and slunk back upstairs. Karin followed closely behind him. I felt a sense of worry at what I saw in the second man's eyes. The look was akin to one at a cornered animal wears and revealed that he was close to the edge. Soon all of us had returned to the upper levels, Moretti relieving me of my watch and ordering me to try and rest. But sleep is the last thing I feel I could obtain right now, not when the horror of what we'd

experienced is still so fresh in my mind. Blake has somehow managed to drift back off, though I can tell her dreams and nightmares by how she moans and wriggles on her cot. So I write, not knowing what else to do. I pray for the rising sun to come soon and banish away the small taste of hell that I witnessed tonight. One last thing. I only noticed once who returned from upstairs, but not once during the entire ordeal did Tarak join us. I only saw him when we returned upstairs, peeking out from the closet to stare at us with wide eyes. The look on his face is one I remember well from the medical tents, on the faces of wounded soldiers who knew they were about to die. It was the lock of a man who has resigned himself.

to his fate. Saturday, 5th of July, 1952. Whatever lives in these godforsaken mountains, it will not allow us to make a call for help. Blake finished repairing both the radio and telegraphed today. For a few moments, we clung to a tiny scrap of relief, like a shipwreck victim to a life ring. We crowded around her as she began to send a distress call, tuning to the proper frequency. Something answered us, but not what we had hoped. Almost as soon as she hit the transmit button, a sound spilled from the speakers. At first it was too soft to make out, but soon grew in intensity until we could clearly

recognise it, whispering. Voices, dozens of them or more, all whispering in a language none of us could ascertain or understand. It was not Arabic. I doubt it's a language any human has spoken in a millennia, if ever at all. The sound made chill after chill shoot up my spine. I could see horrified looks in the other's faces. The whispering continued, soon joined by screaming. And I swear, I heard Samir and Richter's screams among the others, the same screams we heard the other night. Finally, the radio just seemed to die completely, the glowing dial dimming to black. No matter how much Blake fiddled with it, she couldn't get it to turn on again.

And no sooner had she turned to the telegraph using Morse code to type out an SOS than we received an answer, far quicker than anyone could possibly respond. I remember the look of confusion on her face as she reached out and she reached out. pulled the small piece of paper from the machine, raising it to her eyes and reading it. When she lowered it, she looked to be on the verge of tears. What does it say? Moretti asked her gently. She took a moment before answering, swallowing hard.

No saving. I find myself terrified now. Not just for my life, but my very soul. Sunday, 6th of July, 1952. Sorin is gone. I was roused shortly before dawn by Moretti, who gazed down at me with an expression which shocked me. Throughout the entire ordeal, the man had attempted to remain calm. Now, as he pulled me to my feet, I found myself staring at an almost panicked face.

Trying to keep his voice level, he explained that when he had not seen Soren, crossing his path after doing so thrice before he had gone looking for the man. He discovered the shotgun leaning against the wall near one of the cannons with no sign of him at all. What's worse, as there was not a single sign of a struggle. It was as if he'd been ambushed and simply lifted up and out of the world with neary a splash of blood or a scream. He handed me the shotgun, asking me to help secure the building with him. Quickly, and with the worried eyes of the others turning on us as they awoke, we swept through the living quarters, our guns at the ready and eyes darting around.

To my dismay, we discovered that the door to the courtyard was still bolted from the inside, indicating that Sorin hadn't walked out, which meant whatever had happened to him had happened in here. Every shadow cast by the flickering candles and lamps now seemed threatening. Whatever safety we felt inside torn away like a favourite blanket from a child. I wanted to say my eyes were playing tricks on me, but I fear that as I moved through the living quarters, my eyes occasionally would spy something moving swiftly and silently among the rafters over our heads, only stopping for a moment to watch us before darting out of sight. One storm broke, and despite the door being locked, we left the living quarters and moved out into the courtyard.

We still found no trace of the man, and the front doors were still barricaded. We made a quick pass through the armoury, still finding nothing, before quickly stopping to refill our canteens. While water is obviously not an issue, we will soon begin running low on food. But I fear It is not starvation That will be the end of us Sunday 6th of July

1952 addendum The screaming is back It came just after nightfall It is still Samir and Richter screams sounding almost exactly as before Only now I hear Sorens deep Gatorial cries among them

God I don't want to die here. I don't want my fate to be whatever theirs are now. Monday, 7th of July, 1952. Tarik is dead. At first, when we awoke, nothing new seemed out of place. The same creaking of the building could be heard, but nothing more screamed of the change

until I went to try and bring the Algerian some water and food. I found the door to the supply closet standing wall. wide open, and when I peered inside, it was empty. Feeling tension suddenly erupts from my body, I turned and began calling for the man, attracting the attention of Moretti and Talley, who were on their patrols. Once I showed them the empty closet, the three of us fanned out, all calling the man's name, and Moretti calling out what had to be soothing words in Arabic. But there was no response at all, aside from the confused calls of Corrin and Blake as they awoke and joined us. That was when I saw the open front door.

The sight of the living room's door hanging wide open, gently waving in the breeze and showing the sand outside, the sun just beginning to spread across it filled me with a sense of dread. Quickly I called the others, and after a quick discussion, Maretti and I moved outside, while Talley clobiles. closed and bolted the door behind us. We internally spotted a set of footprints in the sand, moving away from the building out into the centre of the courtyard.

We followed them, seeing that they'd stopped near the steps of the armoury, as if the man had contemplated running to it, before turning and headed towards the front doors of the fort itself. Even from here, I could see the board had been pulled down. It now lay haphazardly on the ground, and one of the great wooden doors had been pulled slightly open. Gripping the shotgun tightly, the two of us moved and looked outside. Nothing moved in the stillness, and beside the wind, no sound could be heard.

I looked to him, and he gave a short nod before stepping outside. Instantly, I felt far more vulnerable with other buildings around me. Just as when I had gone looking for Samir and Richter, my hands turned to. cold and clammy, and I nervously eyed the still shadowy areas around us. Every sense was on alert. We followed the man's footprints as they continued forward, and with a sinking feeling, I realized that they were heading for the edge of the cliff. Meretti seemed to have realized it as well, and I saw him tentatively take a few steps forward, putting one hand on the rickety wooden rail and peering over the side. For a moment, he seemed to have realized it as well, and I saw him tentatively,

said nothing. Then, he closed his eyes. Bloody hell. Quickly, I hurried to his side and looked over. A small sense of vertigo overwhelmed me, and I felt dizzy looking down at the straight drop, but I instantly spied what the other man had seen. Terrick's body lay far below us, his arms and legs spayed out in various directions. Bright crimson blood splashed out to around his body. Even from here, I could tell he had not landed on the sand, but had instead slammed into one of the boulders at the base of the cliff. The man had jumped, knowingly taken his own life. I whispered a silent prayer for the man, hoping that God would have mercy on him for such a terrible sin. Then I looked at Moretti. All he could do was shake his head. As we

stood there, attempting to process it all. The noise behind us caused us to turn around. The pit batter of sand and small, loose rocks being shifted aside. Instantly, all thoughts of Tarrick vanished as the sensation of eyes on us returned with a vengeance. Terror began coursing through my system, and we aimed at just about everywhere possible. Nothing moved now, but I knew he could do that. feel us being observed, being stalked. Without delay, the two of us ran for the fort, rushing inside and pushing the door closed,

before again setting the barricade. Just as quickly as we moved to the door to the living quarters, banging on it and yelling to be let inside. To our relief, the door emboldened, revealing the ashen face of Blake as she yanked the door open. We hurried inside as she closed and redid the lock. Before we could tell her what we had found, she pointed back towards the hallway to the stairs. You need to see this, she said, before leading the way back towards the main bunk room.

Moments later, we found ourselves at the supply closet that Tarak had hidden in. The others crowded around it, and I noticed something I hadn't before. In my haste to locate the man, I hadn't noticed that, using a small, sealed can of black paint and a brush which had been left inside. He had written something hastily on the wall in Arabic. Tally turned to Moretti, asking him if he could read it. He stood in silence for a time, either unable or unwilling to answer. Then he turned towards us, his face grim, roughly translated.

It says that death is better than what fate awaits those who are taken. It is dark now. Night has fallen again, though mercifully the screaming has not returned. All I can think as I sit here writing is that whatever lies out there, whatever watches us from the shadows in here, up in the rafters that I now know isn't a trick of my eyes. It is slowly toying with us and picking us off one by one. They have taken our strongest members first, a strategic move. that reveals their intelligence, and drove possibly the only person in our party with any knowledge about them to the point he chose to take his own life rather than face them,

whenever they are. They will not stop. Until we are all dead. Tuesday, 8th of July, 1952, I saw them. Dear, sweet, merciful God, I wish I hadn't. I wish I hadn't decided to take a torch with me when I was roused by Talley to take a second watch with Corrin. I wish I'd ignored the urge I'd had to turn and look out the window.

I wish so much. But if wishes were horses. It happened just a little before four in the morning. I'd just finished speaking briefly with Corrin. Ever since yesterday, I grew more concerned for the medic. The man looked nearer and nearer to insanity. and I fear with a loaded pistol he may do something brash or violent if he snaps, but he assured me that he was still as sane as he could possibly be in such a situation,

and feeling somewhat relieved, I moved off to patrol the outer hallways again. As I passed a window which looked out over the courtyard, the ceaseless sensation of being watched suddenly spiked. I felt the biggest shiver yet shoot up my spine, and I reached down for my belt. I chose to take a torch with me to light up any dark corners. I flicked it on,

turning and aiming it out toward the window into the dark towards the armoury. And I saw it, it crouched, almost feline-like, on the roof of the armoury, arms and legs wrapped around a section of stone for support. As my light fell upon it, it looked towards me before quickly leaping out of sight, but not before I had time to see the details.

The sunken eyes, sunken so far back, that it almost looked as if it had none. The recessed nose, almost entirely erased from its face, the mouth filled with jagged, razor-sharp teeth, that could easily tear a man apart. All of this filled me with an existential horror I only ever felt when hearing about hell during church sermons. But it was the one additional detail that slammed me like a freight train, the torn, tattered, and decaying uniform that hung of its emaciated body. It was a uniform I instantly recognized. I had seen an identical, albeit much more intact one, on the corpse of the man in the armory jail. The uniform won by the soldiers in the French Foreign Legion during the First World War

and into the 1930s. As my mind scrambled to process the information, another shape darted in view of my torch beam, and this one nearly caused me to scream because it wore a different, much fresher uniform. The same one that Richter had worn when he set off with Samir that day.

It is midday now as I write this. I have not told anybody what I've seen. I know I must And yet I cannot I cannot I cannot bear to share the horrible truth that I now know

What Tarek almost certainly knew And what made him choose death by his own hand over it Even though I now know that none of us Will leave this mountain alive I feel that it would be too cruel for them to know Those things out there They may have been hidden in this mountain for Lord knows how long.

When the fort was first built centuries ago, they may have watched as it was constructed, but the horrible part about them was that when they came for them, the same as they came for the French soldiers stationed here decades ago, as well as the rescue party. Is that they did not kill them, they did not devour them, as horrific a fate as that might have been. It would have been a mercy in comparison. They dragged them off, and they changed them.

They somehow turned them into more of their own. And they have done the same thing to those of our team who they took, Samir, Richter and Soren. That's why the screams we heard always came back, because even though they're not the same men anymore, they're not even human anymore, their souls have been stripped away, leaving what I can only describe as demons spewing from the mouth of hell itself to wear their bodies, they still retain enough of their intelligence to know how to lure others to them, like a duck hunter with a call to draw their prey out into the open. Talley says he wants to try and use one of the flare pistols to signal anyone who might be nearby. I haven't had the heart to tell him that even

if anyone human is nearby, they know better than to approach this place. They know it is cursed. It is only a matter of time before they come for the rest of us. God have mercy on all of our souls. Wednesday, 9th of July, 1952. These will be the final words I'll ever write. The others are all gone and I'm the only one who remains. Night is coming fast and if I do not act quickly,

I know they will return. turn for me as well. So even if nobody finds this journal of mine, I feel I must put to paper how it ended, if nothing more than to serve as a warning for anyone who hears the tale of this accursed place and finds themselves one part brave, two parts fool to try and reach it. What awoke us was not the hellspawn that lay in wait for us. It was the sound of arguing, of babbling screams. And finally, the sound of the sound of the sound of of a weapon of some sort being discharged. I remember the look on Blake's face as she awoke, looking at me with wide, dull-like eyes.

I snatched up the shotgun from beside me, seeing Moretti pulling his pistol from his waistband as he shot to his feet. In unison, we sprinted for the hallway outside the bunk room. When we opened it, it was to a truly grisly sight. Talley lay on his back on the floor. A shocked look was permanently affixed to his face, his wide eyes glassy and forever staring at the ceiling. The sparks from the flare that had been shot into his mouth still spewed from inside, the

horrific smell of burning flesh filling the hallway. Standing in front of him, still pointing the flare gun, was Corin. When he turned towards us, I instantly knew the man had snapped. An insane grin was plastered on his face and his eyes flew about in their sockets. Instantly, Moretti and I raised our weapons, but before anything could be done, Corrin had shoved past us and raced down the stairs. We heard him unbolt the front door and running to the windows saw him sprint across the courtyard to the armory, disappearing down the stairs.

A moment later, we heard the faint sound of the door slamming shut. could speak. When I turned back, it was to find Blake standing over the body of our sponsor, unable to stop crying. Quickly, I raced to her and embraced her, allowing her tears to soak my shirt. After a few minutes, her crying had reduced her sniffles, and she pulled back, wiping her nose with her shirt sleeve. I looked to Moretti. The man looked beside himself with shock and confusion. he hadn't realized how close to the edge his medic had been. Then he regained his composure, looking towards me with a steely edge in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was deadly calm.

We have to go after him. I was unsure as to why. After murdering our sponsor, the man wanted to pursue him, whether for a twisted sort of retribution or a sense of duty to those under his leadership, even in such extreme cases I'll never know, but I didn't dare argue with him. I knelt down, gently prying the pistol from Talley's hand and trying not to look at his face. Standing up, I handed it to her. Can you fire a gun?

She looked at me and nodded after a moment. Nodding in return, I quickly retreated back to the bunk room, picking up the pack with a still-held shotgun shells and slid. lingering it over my shoulder. Returning at the others and together we headed downstairs and out the front door. The wind howled as fiercely as a banshee as we made our way across the courtyard, all three of our guns shifting around aim. I remembered what I'd seen the night before and felt my muscles tense, gaze shifting to the

tops of the ridges high above the fort. I felt I would see the demons climbing quickly down towards the wall. us. Thankfully, I saw nothing. Reaching the steps, we descended to the front door of the armoury and found it unlocked. Stepping inside the gloomy interior, we moved slowly, occasionally calling out Corrin's name. Not a soul answered. And for a moment, I wondered if the man had been taken as well when his back was turned. After all, we had barely explored the building choosing to huddle inside the living quarters. As we rounded a corner, though, I saw signs that it was still here.

Barrels of gunpowder lay on their sides, the black grain spilling out onto the floor. A workbench had its tools scattered about. That was when I noticed the hole in the floor, one I hadn't seen previously. I would have ignored it completely if it hadn't been for the sparkle that came from something lying next to it. As we approached, I realised it was a diamond, one of the largest I'd ever seen in my life. And when I peered into the hole, I couldn't help but feel my mouth drop open as I saw precious gems and gold coins that filled the entire hole piled into what I could tell was a hidden room below. The treasure had been real, even in our predicament.

the three of us couldn't help but look at each other and laugh softly. Well, at least we know that the stories of the treasure was true. Talley was right, Blake said softly. For another moment we stared, and we slowly tore ourselves away from the treasure, moving on and calling out Coren's name. Still, nobody answered, and I began to feel that we should simply leave the building. As much as I understood to a degree Moretti's reasoning, this was being dangerously foolhardy. But I never had a chance to voice my thoughts. As we rounded the final corner to the jail, a shot rang out.

The bullet striking the wall, not a foot from Moretti's face. The three of us leapt back, pressing up against the wall for cover. Another shot rang out, then another. For a moment an eerie silence fell over the hall. Then I heard Corrin scream, the insanity audible in his voice. Stay away, I found the treasure. It's mine. Mine, not yours. Ranty chanced to look around the corner, snapping his head back as the third shot rang out. He's managed to get the keys from the dead man in the cell and locked himself inside.

He told us, and he's got some of the treasure scattered around. around him. He looked at us, and I already knew what he would say before he opened his mouth. Screw him, we have to go. Quickly, the three of us backtracked through the armory to the front door. We slipped outside and began to run across toward the living quarters. They were waiting for us. We had barely made it halfway across the courtyard, when what I can only describe as a blur of motion flew down from the window of the living quarters. I saw Moretti look up with a shape rocketing towards him, screaming,

saw him raise his pistol to fire. He never even had a chance to let of a single shot. The creature slammed into him, knocking him to the ground and sending the revolver tumbling from his fingers. The beast looked at me and with a horrified realization, I recognized the blue eyes set deep

in the already recess sockets. Then, gripping Moretta's shoulder with one of its clawed hands, it leapt off the ground, pulling the screaming man with him as it rapidly climbed the rock and out of sight. We had no time to grieve or process any of it, because the rest came for us. Everything blurred together in those moments, much as it does in war when adrenaline and reflex takes over.

I cannot remember anything clearly, Only faintly recall the sounds of deafening gunshots as we fired at all we could see. The motion of reaching into the pack for extra ammunition for Blake and myself, the sound of the two of us shouting and screaming, and the pained, enraged cries of the creatures as our shells and rounds slammed home. I was dimly aware that we were moving towards the water garden. Next thing I can recall is the silence. I found Blake, and I slumped against the wall near the fountain.

She pulled me closer to her, and she'd cup some water in her hands, using it to sprinkle over my brow and drip into my mouth. The refreshing blessed liquid brought me back fully, and when I asked what had happened, she told me, after a time, they had all retreated. None had died, even after we fired at them, but they still retreated. As I looked around, wondering for a moment if we succeeded in frightening them off, my eyes fell

in a sight which wrenched whatever hope I had left from my soul. The sun was beginning to set in the sky. I instantly knew that the only reason they had retreated was the wait until darkness fell again. It had been a strategic move. They would wait until night blinded us when they could still. see perfectly, and then they would come again, either to kill us, or drag us off like the others, like I'd seen the B-surin had done to Moretti, to make us like them.

In those moments, any remaining thoughts of surviving fled from me. I said nothing, however. I climbed to my feet, looking around, then I looked down at Blake. She gave me a strained smile. Even still, it made her look beautiful. I smiled back. Finally, she sighed and pushed the mousy hair behind her ear before looking up at me. What do we do now?

I didn't answer her. Instead, I simply shook my head to indicate I didn't know. I waited until she had lowered her head and closed her eyes. Then, before she could open them again, I swung the barrel of my shotgun and aimed. I find a sort of peace in that she never knew what was about to happen. And now that I am done writing my account of all this, I have but one thing left to do. I refused to let the demons change Blake into one of their own. As much as I know, my soul is damned to hell for the unforgivable sin I've committed against her.

And it is the same mercy I will give myself. I am going to follow the same path that Tarek took. I will jump from the cliff. I will face my own death at the hands of the rocks below, rather than the fate that is befallen the others. That is, beyond all shadow of a doubt, a worse fate than any death imaginable. I pray for my own soul.

I pray for blakes. I pray for tallies. I even pray for Corrans. I hope that, like the soldier before him, it is thirst or hunger that takes him. Please heed the dire warning this journal contains. While those treasure above you, do not attempt to climb and retrieve it.

You will not live to spend a single bloody shilling of it. The beasts above have claimed it, and the fort is their own. Let it be if you value not only your life, but your humanity and very soul. For if you don't, you will find yourself facing a fate that is more horrific than written about in any tomb.

And please, if you find this, get word back to my sister in Maidenhead. Tell her I'm sorry. God forgive me. My great-grandfather was the kind of man who always seemed unshakable. He had lived through a world war, raised four kids of his own after his wife passed and ran a small town diner until arthritis stole his grip.

He was a figure of quiet strength with the eyes of someone who'd seen the world and survived. Growing up, I knew he'd served as a nurse during the war, but that was about all I knew. Most of his stories gathered dust in his memories, just like the medals that stood on the living room shelf. He'd sometimes joke about trading cigarettes for coffee while patching up cowardly soldiers who shot themselves in the foot. But there was a line he would never cross. He always kept the heavy memories locked out of sight. It was late, past midnight,

and the house was quiet except for the hum of the old refrigerator in the kitchen, accompanied by a grandfather clock. Great grandpa and I sat at the table, the dim yellow light above us casting long shadows across his worn, weathered face. He poured himself a whiskey, the one indulgence that remained, and handed me a Coke, a gesture that made me feel much older than I was. He was quiet at first, staring into his glass like it held something he'd been trying to figure out. Then, without looking up at me, he spoke.

You ever wonder why something stick with you, boy? He asked with a low and steady voice. I blinked and adjusted my posture, caught off guard. What do you mean? He took a sip from his glass and set it back down carefully, his hand lingering on it. The war. I've seen a lot of things. Fixed a lot of people up.

Buried more than my share too. He paused and glanced at me before setting his gaze back down to his glass. But there's one man I've never been able to forget. He leaned forward, careful not to break the moment. Great grandpa rarely talk like this and I respected him too much to even think about interrupting. Private Andrew Mallory

He said, his grey eyes sharp but distant as if reliving the memory in front of me. I waited, letting him find his words. He came to us in the winter of 44, Grandpa began. We were stationed at the hospital just behind the front lines. It was freezing, the kind of cold that would kill you

if you stopped moving for too long. The air stank of smoke, blood, mud and gunpowder. He paused. his jaw visibly tightening. The hospital wasn't even much of a hospital, he said with a dry chuckle, a few canvas tents and a whole lot of desperation. We worked with no breaks,

patching up the ones we could and making the others comfortable until they no longer needed the comfort. He picked up his glass again and took a slow sip. That's where I first met Mallory. They brought him in late one. One night, carried on a stretcher by two boys who didn't look much older than he was, Shrapnel wound to the gut.

It was bad son, real bad. We tried to save him, but... His voice trailed off and his hand tightened around the glass. He died on the table. I was holding his hand when it happened. I remember, clear as day, the way his grip loosened. The look in his eyes when he realized he wasn't going to make it.

He was just a kid, scared, alone, dying in the middle of a frozen hell. He fell silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the table between us. What happened after that? I asked quietly. Great Grandpa exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping as he leaned back in his chair. The same thing as all. We cleaned him up as well as we could, tagged him, and sent him to the morgue tent. Then we moved on. There wasn't time to dwell on anything back then.

Too many men coming in and not enough hands to save them all. We had no time to mourn. We just did what we could and hoped it was enough. I nodded, even though I couldn't imagine what sort of pressure he must have felt. The next morning, he continued, his voice softer now, almost ghostly. I walked into the triage tent, same as always, and there he was. I frowned. Who?

Mallory, my great-grandfather said, his eyes meeting mine, standing there like nothing had ever happened. It was fine, better than fine even. No wounds, no blood, not a scratch on him. Just standing there, confused as hell, but in better condition than anyone in that hospital. A slight chill ran down my spine. I never heard my great-grandfather tell a story like this. I didn't even think he believed in anything supernatural. And, what did you do?

What could I? He said. I thought I was losing. my mind. I went over to him, my eyes wide as dinner plates. I clearly scared the kid with the way I walked up to him, but I have expected him to collapse or disappear into thin air the second I touched him. But he didn't. He was solid, as real as the kid I'd watched die the night before. He rubbed his hand over his face. The other nurses thought it had to be a mistake that we'd misidentified the body or mixed up the tags.

It wasn't too uncommon. But I knew. I held his hand when he died. What did Mallory say? I asked, curiosity gripping me tightly. Not much, he admitted. He was confused, disoriented, said he didn't remember anything after the explosion.

The doctors checked him over and he was fine, with no wounds or signs of trauma. They got him ready and sent him back to the front. Just like that? I asked, my voice rising. Just like that, boy, great-grandpa said with a bitter tone. Orders were orders, and he was a soldier. If he could stand, he could also fight, and that's all that mattered.

He fell silent again. his gaze drifting toward the darkened window to our left. The kitchen felt colder than it had a moment ago, and I realized I was holding my breath. I couldn't let it go, he said with a subdued tone. After I saw Mallory there, alive and well, I couldn't just move on. I tried to talk about it.

Hell, I had to. Who did you talk to? I asked. Mary Ellen, he said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. She was one of the senior nurses. She was hard as nails, but she had a good head on her shoulders. A damn fine woman she was. I figured if anyone would listen, she'd be the one.

He let out a long sigh. I caught her between shifts. She was smoking behind the supply tent, trying to get some minutes to herself before the next truck pulled up. Great Grandpa's voice softened once more, and I could also see the scene in my head as he described it. She stood there, leaning against the tent pole, staring at me like I told her the world was ending in just a few minutes.

What do you mean he walked back in? she asked. I told her everything, just as I had told you. What did she say? I asked, louder than I'd meant to. She laughed, he said flatly, the kind you give someone when you're too tired to deal with nonsense. I told her I wasn't crazy and I knew what I saw. I said, Mary, that kid was dead. He died in front of me. But she just shook her head and said,

Dead men don't walk, Harold. Maybe you tag the wrong boy. We've all made mistakes. His hand trembled slightly as he reached. for his glass, the liquid inside never seeming to end. I asked her if she'd at least take a look at him, see for herself. She took one last drag of a cigarette, blew the smoke out and said, We don't have time for this. There's a truck coming in with 20 more boys, and a doubt half of them will make it longer than a night. I frowned, trying to picture the situation in my head. That's it. She just shrugged it off like that.

War doesn't leave room for questions, kid, he said, with a heavy voice. Not questions like that. Anyway, I knew that myself. We were barely keeping up as it was. Soldiers pouring in faster than we could treat them. Supplies running out. When you're drowning, you don't stop to wonder why the water is rising. He set his glass down hard.

that sounds sharp in the quiet kitchen. She told me to get back to work, and that was that. Mallory was just another name, another body. Nobody cared where he'd been or how he came back. They just cared that he could hold a rifle. The bitterness in his voice cut deep, and I didn't know what to say for a moment. Did he come back?

I asked finally, already knowing the answer. He nodded slowly. Yeah, he came back. He stared at the ceiling for a moment before looking at me with kind eyes. But that's enough for tonight. I'm tired. I open my mouth to protest, to ask just one more question.

But I realized great-grandpa wasn't asking. He was telling me the conversation was over for now. I'll tell you the rest tomorrow, kid, he said, rising from his chair, followed by the faint creek of the old wood. That night, sleep didn't come easy. I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, replaying Great Grandpa's words over and over. The gravity in his voice since shivers down my spine. I wanted to know more. Images of a war-torn hospital filled my mind, the smell of antiseptic and blood, the groans of the dead and dying, the frantic shuffle of nurses trying to save lives.

And then, Mallory. The thought continued to gnaw at me the next day at work. I tried my best to focus, but my mind kept drifting. I ran through everything great-grandpa had said, wondering, how it could be possible. I was still lost in thought when my phone rang. The vibration in my pocket snapped me back to reality. The voice on the other end was rushed and panicked. Your great-grandfather has been hospitalized, the woman on the other end said. Heart attack. My stomach dropped. I barely remembered grabbing my keys,

talking to my boss and driving to the hospital. When I got there, He was lying in bed, pale and hooked up to more machines than I could count. His eyes opened when he heard me enter, and he gave me a weak smile. Great Grandpa's hand trembled as he reached out, beckoning me closer. The hospital room was quiet, save for the rhythmic beeping of the monitors and the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. His voice was hoarse and strained, but it's earth. urgency left no room for argument.

Didn't think you could get rid of me that easily, did you? He rasped. I laughed softly. You scared the hell out of me, Grandpa. Sit, he said, his eyes locking onto mine. I need to finish the story. Grandpa, it's fine, you need to rest. No, he interrupted, his tone firm, unexpectedly so.

I don't know how much time I have. Just listen. I nodded, pulling the chair closer to his bedside. His hand gripped mine, the warmth contrasting with the cold sterility of the hospital. I listened without saying a word, leaning forward to catch every syllable. Something in his tone demanded my full attention. After Mallory came back the first time, Grandpa began once. more, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. I just couldn't stop thinking about it. It made no sense.

I tried to keep going, hoping the world would explain itself later. His fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket. I tried thinking back on what Mary had said, that it was just a mix-up, a mistake. But deep down, I knew better. He paused, his chest, rising and full. He paused, his chest, falling in shallow breaths. Time went by, weeks passed, and I didn't see him again. I figured that was the end of it. But then, they brought him back. He shifted slightly, wincing as he adjusted his position.

I remember the look on the medic's face when they carried him in. They said he stepped on a mine. His leg was gone, blown clean off. Shrapnel had ripped through his chest and his skin was burned so badly he didn't even look human. What happened then? I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. Great Grandpa shook his head. We tried to stop the bleeding. Pulled the shrapnel, did everything we could to keep him alive.

But it was a losing battle from the start. We all knew it. His heart gave out halfway. through, and he died again. His voice trembled, and he turned his head to look at me. Do you know what it feels like to fail someone twice, boy, to watch a kid die in your hands knowing there's nothing you can do? I was unable to find the words. We cleaned him up, tagged him again, and sent him to the morgue tent. It had to be over, and I hoped it was, for his sake. The next morning, Grandpa said, his voice growing quieter. I walked into the triage tent to start my shift.

And there he was, again, his expression darkened. The first time I saw him come back, I thought I was losing my mind. This time, I didn't quite know what to think. He was sitting on one of the cuts, staring at the floor like he didn't know where he was. And he looked fine, just like before. Did you talk to him? I asked. Grandpa exhaled, his hands clenching the blanket tighter. I froze. For a moment, I just stared at him.

Part of me wanted to run up to him and ask what the hell was going on, but... I didn't, because the tent was a moment. madhouse, he said Petley. More men had been brought in overnight and there were too many fires to put out. I didn't have time to sit and ask questions as much as I wanted to.

His eyes clotted over, his voice turning softer. I did manage to catch his eye though for just a second. And you know what I saw? Fear. He was scared out of his mind but confused.

They sent him back to the front line later that day. Grandpa said, I could feel the frustration radiating off him as he spoke. I wanted to stop him, he admitted, to pull him aside and make him tell me everything. But I didn't get the chance. I didn't even see him for a long time after that. The war moved on, unrelenting.

He looked at me then, his eyes heavy. But I couldn't stop thinking about him. Every time I closed my eyes, I'd see his face, the fear, that confusion. And I kept wondering. Wondering what? Grandpa hesitated. His lips pressed into a thin line. I kept wondering where he went when he died, what he saw, what it was that scared him

so much. The door opened suddenly, and a nurse stepped in. Her voice soft. I'm sorry, visiting hours are over. Wait, I said, turning back to Grandpa. You said there was more. What happened next? Did he come back? Grandpa lifted a hand, his fingers weakly waving me off. Later, he murmured, his voice barely audible. I'll tell you the rest. Later. Grandpa, go home, he said, his eyes fluttering shut. We'll finish tomorrow. The nurse gave me a sympathetic smile as she ushered me out. But something about Grandpa's final words left a pit in my stomach.

As I walked out of the hospital, I couldn't shake great-grandpa's words, and a small part of me began to question it all. His story about private malory was by all means impossible. People do not just die and come back, let alone multiple times. Maybe, I thought, it was his way of coping with his own mortality, a metaphor for something he couldn't quite explain to me. Or maybe he was trying to teach me something about resilience and sacrifice. Still, the way he spoke and the emotions in his thoughts. voice all felt real. It was a sincerity to it. The morning after, I thought about calling the hospital

to check on him. He was old and tired and needed rest, but I planned on seeing him after work. Given the seriousness of the story, he would prefer to tell it in person. I had just gotten home from work. When my phone rang, the number was from the hospital. Your great-grandfather has just passed away. It was sudden but peaceful, the voice on the other end said. I'm so sorry for your loss. She sounded comforting, but with so much unanswered, I was distraught. I asked them to repeat it, hoping I misunderstood.

But I hadn't. My great-grandpa was gone. I went to the hospital to sign off documents and pick up his remaining things. Deep down, I hope to find some clues to the ending of his story, or maybe even a manifesto explaining the rest. But all he had with him was the clothes on his back. I left the hospital feeling lost, both emotionally and physically. One way or another, I ended up at the diner where great-grandpaer and I,

used to go when I was a kid, the one he used to own back in the day. It was a place that felt safe and familiar, a setting to remember him by. I slid into the booth where Grandpa and I always sat, and I stared at the familiar chipped laminate table as the hum of the diners' lights buzzed faintly in the background. I did not even notice the waitress asking if I wanted coffee, I just nodded along. When two mugs hit the table, I looked up and froze. Sitting across from me in front of the other mug of steaming coffee was my great-grandfather. He looked tired, his face exhausted and withdrawn, but there was no mistaking it.

He raised the mug slightly. like a toast. Don't panic, son, he said in a calming tone. I internalized my reaction to scream and got up slowly, keeping my eyes on him as I slid into the sea to cross from him. You're a light... I know, he interrupted as he sipped his coffee. You wanted to know what happened the third time Mallory came back, he added.

I kept staring at it. him my mind a swirling pit of confusion and disbelief how I got the call you they they said you died grandpa said finishing the sentence for me I did son that's the problem it's my second time now so this is when things change before I could press further he leaned in the last time Valerie came back. He was different. They carried him into the tent, half dead, with burns, shattered bones, and parts of him barely held together. But he didn't die. He should have. God knows he should have. But something did not let him. Grandpa slumped back in his chair, his expression turning dark. But he hung on, barely. The damage to his body was he was. Grandpa trawled off, shaking his head. Everyone said it and knew it. The other medics looked at him like they were waiting for his heart to stop, but it just never did. He

laid there, breathing shallow, his eyes wide open. I stayed quiet. They got him stable eventually. He continued, stable enough to move him to a recovery tent. I had to know more, son. I couldn't get it out of my head. The look on his face when we were working on him, it wasn't just pain. He scratched at his forearm, wincing slightly. I couldn't sleep that night. I kept thinking about him, wondering if he was still alive, still hanging on.

So, I broke protocol, slipped out of my bunk, and went to see him. and went to see him. Grandpa's voice dropped lower, and his hands tightened around the mug. When I got there, I saw it. His wounds, they weren't healing.

They were getting worse. But it wasn't just blood and burns anymore. There was something else. This black goo, seeping out of his injuries, spreading over his skin like it was. was alive. I felt a chill creep up my spine. He saw me standing there, Grandpa continued, and his eyes locked onto mine. He looked at me like I was his last chance. He reached out,

barely able to lift his hand and said, you have to end it. Please, I can't go back again. I can't let it take me. Grandpa swallowed. hard, his voice trembling now. I told him I couldn't, that I wouldn't. I was there to save people, not kill them. But he kept begging, tears streaming down his face, his voice breaking. It's in me, he said. It's going to take everything.

Please don't let me turn into it. My chest tightened. What did you do, Grandpa? I didn't want. to do it, Grandpa admitted, but I knew he was right. Whatever was happening to him, it wasn't natural. He wasn't going to stop. It was spreading. I didn't have a choice. I had failed to save the kid twice. I wouldn't fail again. Grandpa looked up at me then, his eyes filled with quiet, terrible guilt.

I pressed my hand over his nose and mouth and held it there until he stopped breathing. Grandpa leaned back in the booth, his hands trembling slightly as he rested them on the table. I thought he was over after that. I thought I'd done what needed to be done. Whatever was in him was tenacious. It didn't want to go with him. What seeped out of him like a news fizzled as Mallory's heart stopped. And before I could get away, it burst into a mist.

I managed to back away from it, but I breathed a bit of it in. Only a bit. But it was enough. A look of the feet crossed my grandpa's face, a rare look to see. I was found still, declared dead on the spot. When I walked in the next day, there was too much chaos to investigate, so it was just reported as a clerical error. No marks were found on me, so my medical records just show an undetected heart murmur.

That was my first. Grandpa sighed. Since then, I've lived carefully. I don't know how many chances I have. but this heart attack was the second. I can't risk you or anyone around me. Before, I was desperate to know what Mallory knew. But seeing it myself, I now know why he craved death.

He lifted his arm slightly, pulling back the sleeve of his shirt. Just above his wrist, a small patch of black, oily substance clung to his skin. It got to me, he said simply. Whatever was inside Mallory passed to me. And now, it's waiting. I can feel it spreading little by little, but I don't know what I'll turn into. But I know it won't be me. I was stunned. Hearing the story was just words, but But seeing the strange substance in person made it all too real. I'm sorry, kid, Grandpa said, his voice breaking. I didn't want you to know, but I couldn't leave without telling you the truth.

You deserve that much. I stared at him, my pulse pounding in my ears. There, there has to be a way to stop it, Grandpa, I pleaded. Grandpa gave me a sad, tired smile. Maybe, son, but it's not a risk I'm willing to take around you or anyone else. He pushed back from the table, his movement slow. Take care of your siblings and your mother for me. It was the last thing he said.

I wanted to stop him, to say something, but the words caught in my throat. I could only watch as he walked out of the diner and the weight of everything that had transpired came crashing down on me. Working as a park ranger was a big deal for me. I've always loved the outdoors and getting paid to patrol hiking trails and check on campsites felt like a dream.

It was only a seasonal job but I was still content with the allocated time I was given. I'd been assigned to a remote national park, miles from anything resembling civilization. My station was a tiny cabin in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dense forest. There was an even cell service most of the time. First day in the job was pretty standard. I met Ed, my supervisor. He's this older guy, maybe in his 50s, with a kind of weathered face that says he's been out here way too long.

nice enough but kind of distant. He handed me a basic book full of protocols, how to check the trail damage, what to do if you encounter a bear, how to handle lost hikers, stuff you'd expect. But then, tucked in between the normal sections, there was this page titled Special Procedures.

The front looked older, like it hadn't been updated in years, and it stood out immediately. The rules on the page. Well, they were different. Ignore the screaming after midnight. Never acknowledge the lake when it reflects the moon. If you hear footsteps behind you, do not turn around.

I actually laughed when I first read them. I thought it was some kind of joke the older rangers played on the newbies. But when I asked Ed about it, He didn't laugh. He didn't even smirk. He just said, Follow them, and you'll be fine. That's it.

No explanation, no elaboration. I even tried pushing him a little, asking why these rules are in there, and if this was some kind of hazing thing. But he just shrugged and said, You'll see. So, I put the book down and figured maybe it was just some weird tradition or super-sumption,

superstition the park staff kept alive for fun, maybe a way to freak out new hires. Whatever, right? But my first few nights of the cabin started to change my mind. You ever stay somewhere so quiet that it almost feels loud? That's how it was out there. At night, it was like the forest itself was holding its breath. Sometimes the only sound was the wind pushing through the trees. Other times, I wasn't even that.

The stillness made me jump at every creek of the cabin, every rustle in the bushes outside. And then there was this feeling, like I wasn't really alone, even when I knew I was. It was my third day in when I first heard the scream. I was sitting at the tiny table in the cabin, halfway through a lukewarm cup of instant coffee. My eyes were glued to the book of rules again, trying to make sense of it all. It was late, past midnight, but I wasn't tired. Something about the cabin made it hard to relax. Maybe it was how the floor creaked randomly, even when I wasn't moving, or the way the

wind outside never quite sounded like just wind. I was flipping through the rules. When it started, at first it was faint. I thought it was the wind again. But then it got louder, a sharp, piercing scream that cut through the stillness like a knife. It sounded human. A woman, maybe, or a kid. My stomach dropped.

I froze, my hand gripping the edge of the table so hard my knuckles turned white. My eyes darted back to the rules, to that stupid yellow dress. page. Ignore the screaming after midnight. Ignore it. Easy to write, harder to do when it sounds like someone's out there begging for help. I sat there for what felt like forever, just listening. The scream would rise, hold for a few seconds, and then fade. Then it would start again. My heart was raising, and before I knew it, I was standing by the cabin door, my hand on the knob. I told myself it had to be something explainable. A hiker in trouble, maybe, or an animal that just sounded like a person.

I mean, I'm a park ranger. It's literally my job to check these things out, right? I stepped outside. The cold hit me first. It wasn't a normal. cold. It was biting, the kind that sinks into your bones. The forest was pitch black, except for the faint cone of light from my flashlight. The scream came again, louder now, and I swung the beam in its direction, trying to see through the trees. My throat was dry,

and every step I took felt heavier than the last. Then, it stopped. Not just the scream. Everything. The wind, the rustling of leaves, the distant sound of nocturnal animals. It all just cut out, like someone hit the mute button on the world. The silence was so thick I could hear my own breathing, quick and shallow. I don't know how long I stood there, frozen in place. But eventually, I turned back toward the cabin.

Whatever I thought I was going to find out there, it wasn't worth it. My skin crawled the entire way back, like something was watching me, just beyond the edge of the flashlight's reach. When I got inside, I locked the door twice. The next morning I asked Lisa about it. She's another ranger, works the main station closer to the visitor center. is the kind of person who always seems upbeat, like nothing rattles her. But when I brought up the scream, her face changed immediately. She went pale and her eyes darted around the

room like she was checking to see if anyone else was listening. You didn't follow it, did you? She asked, her voice low. I hesitated, not sure how much to admit. I stepped up to admit. I stepped up I said, finally. Didn't go far, Lisa's expression darkened. She looked at me like I'd just signed my own death warrant. That's how it starts, she muttered. Then she stood up and walked out of the room like I wasn't even there. Later that day, I went out to patrol one of the popular trails near the cabin. It was my first time on that route, and for the most part, It seemed normal, just trees, dirt, and the occasional squirrel. But about halfway through, I noticed something odd.

The ground had these scuff marks like someone had been running off the trail. The branches on the bushes nearby were broken and the dirt was churned up like they'd been a struggle. I followed the marks for maybe 20 feet before I found it. A single boot. Muddy, torn, just sitting there in the middle of the forest. There was no sign of its owner. My stomach twisted as I stared at it. It wasn't just the boot itself.

It was the way it was sitting there, like it had been dropped deliberately. It didn't feel like something someone had just forgotten. It felt wrong. When I got back to the station, I told you. told Ed about it. He barely looked up from his paperwork. The forest takes what it wants, he said, shrugging. Then he went back to his coffee. Like that was the end of it. The first time I broke a rule. I told myself it didn't really count. It was maybe a week in and I'd almost started to feel like I had a routine down.

Sure, the rules are weird, and yeah, the nights were unnervingly quiet, but I'd convinced myself that things weren't as bad as I'd made them out to be. Then, the footsteps started. It was late, probably around 1 a.m., and I was lying in bed, trying to fall asleep. At first, I thought it was just the sound of branches tapping against the cabin. But then I realised it was rhythmic. Slow, deliberate. Someone was walking around the cabin.

I froze. My heart was pounding, but I kept telling myself to stay calm. I remembered the rule. If you hear footsteps behind you, do not turn around. Okay, fine. The footsteps weren't exactly behind me, but the logic seemed the same. Just don't engage, right? The pacing continued.

It circled the cabin, slow and steady, and I swear whoever or whatever it was would stop right by my window. I could feel it lingering there just out of sight. The sound went on for hours. I tried covering my ears, but it didn't help. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was waiting for me to look. I held out as long as I could, but by 3 a.m., my nerves were shot. I figured if someone was actually outside, I needed to know.

What if it was a hiker or got lost? What if I was in danger? I pulled back the curtain just a crack. Nothing. There was nothing out there, just the trees, the dirt path, and the faint glow of the moon. But the second I looked, the footsteps stopped, like they'd been waiting for me to break. The silence that followed was even worse.

It was thick, pressing down on me like gravity was being turned up on a dial. I didn't sleep that night. The next morning, I noticed something was off. My boots weren't by the door where I'd left them. They were in the middle of the room. My radio which I left off was on. hissing with faint static. And when I glanced at the window, I swear my reflection didn't move in time with me. It lagged just a split second, but enough to make my stomach drop. I told myself it was nothing,

just my mind playing tricks. But then, I patrolled the lake. A few days later, I was out patrolling the trails near the lake at dusk. The sky was this brilliant orange. and the moon was just starting to rise. When I got to the water's edge, I noticed the moon's reflection. It was... Too much. Too bright, too vivid. Almost like it wasn't just reflecting the moon, but amplifying it.

I stood there for a second, hypnotized, before the rule clicked in my head. Never acknowledge the lake when it reflects the moon. moon. I snapped out of it and took a step back, but as I turned to leave, I saw a ripple in the water. There wasn't any wind, no fist jumping, just that ripple spreading out from the center. And for a split second, I swear I saw a hand, pale and thin, reach up toward the surface. I didn't stick around to see what came next. I stumbled back to the trail and didn't stop until it was halfway to the cabin.

That night, I had a dream. I was back at the lake, standing at the edge, but the moon's reflection was shattered like broken glass. I could hear something crawling out of the water, slow and deliberate, dragging itself toward me. I couldn't move, couldn't even scream. I woke up, drenched in sweat, my heart racing, but it wasn't just the dream. When I swung my legs out of the bed, I felt cold, wet fabric.

My boots were soaked, caked with mud. And there were footprints, muddy, unmistakable, leading from the door. To my bed, looking back, I think the first real warning sign wasn't the footsteps. or the lake. It was Lisa. She'd been one of the first people I'd met on the job, and while she wasn't exactly friendly, she was present.

She'd crack a joke now and then, talk about the hike she'd like to take, but after the footsteps and the lake, she changed. She was still around, technically, but she wasn't Lisa anymore. Her skin looked pale, like she'd been sick for weeks, and her eyes. I don't even know how to describe it.

They just didn't seem to focus, like she was looking through me, not at me. She barely spoke unless it was necessary, and even then her voice was flat, almost mechanical. One morning I asked her if she was okay. She just shrugged and said, I'm fine, just tired. But she wasn't fine. And the worst part, Ed didn't seem surprised.

If anything, he avoided her. When I brought it up to Ed later, he snapped at me. Ed, the guy who'd spent most of my first week cracking dad jokes and calling me newbie. The rules are there for a reason, Nick, he said, glaring at me like I just insulted his entire family. You don't follow them and you deal with a fallout. That's it. No exceptions. What kind of fallout are we talking about?

I pressed. What's actually happening here? You don't want to know, he muttered, turning back to his coffee, like we hadn't just had the most unsettling conversation. of my life. Later that day, I went out to patrol, trying to shake the weird tension between us. It was supposed to be a normal route, one I'd done twice before. But something was different. The trail I was on didn't feel right. The trees seemed taller, like they were leaning in toward me, and the air was colder than it should have been for midday. Still, I pushed forward. I don't know why.

Maybe I was hoping to find something, proof that I was still in control. Then I saw them, carvings in the trees, faces. They were warped and stretched, their mouths open and silent screams, their eyes too big, too round. They weren't there the last time I'd walked this trail. I swear on my life they weren't, as I stood there staring. I heard something. It started as a faint whisper, like wind through the branches, but it grew louder.

Words I couldn't make out. Voices, dozens of them, maybe more, all overlapping. My chest tightened and I turned back the way I came, practically running until I was back of the cabin. That night, the scream came back, louder, closer. It didn't just echo through the forest this time. It felt like it was inside my head, rattling around my skull, clawing at my thoughts. And then, I swear to you, I heard my name.

It was woven into the scream, whispered at first, then louder. name over and over, like it was begging me, calling me. I grabbed my flashlight and stood by the door, my hand on the handle. I almost opened it. I don't know what stopped me. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was the rule. Either way, I let go of the handle and stepped back, my whole body shaking.

I didn't sleep that night. I wish I could tell you this is where it stopped, that after ignoring the scream and the whispers and whatever the hell happened with the lake, I just rode at my time and left the park like a normal person. But that's not how it works here. It was the manual that tipped me off. One morning, I woke up to find it sitting on my kitchen table. I swear I'd left it in the drawer, but there it was, right now.

Next, my untouched breakfast. I thought someone had just left it out. But then I saw the writing. The rules had changed. The old ones were still there. Ignore the screaming, don't look at the lake. But new ones had appeared. Scribbled in handwriting I didn't recognize.

One read, The cabin lights must stay on after dark. Another. If you hear knocking from inside the walls, don't investigate. But the one that made my stomach drop was at the bottom of the page. You are part of the cycle. You must stay. I stared at it for a long time, hoping I misread it or losing my mind.

Part of me wanted to crumple the page, toss it in the trash, and pretend I hadn't seen it. but I couldn't something about it felt final it wasn't instructions I could just ignore that afternoon I went to find Ed

he was sitting on the porch of his cabin sipping coffee like everything was fine like none of this was happening Ed I said holding up the manual what the hell is this He barely glanced at it. It's the rules.

Don't give me that. The rules are changing. Look! I flipped to the new entry, shoving it toward him. What does this mean? What the hell is the cycle? Why does it say I have to stay? Ed didn't say anything at first.

He just stared at the horizon. His face unreadable. Finally, he sighed and put down his mug. I told you, follow the rules, Nick. That's all you had to do. What does that mean? My voice cracked, but I didn't care. You knew this was going to happen, didn't you?

You knew, and you didn't say anything. His eyes met mine. And for the first time, I saw cracks in his calm demeanour. He looked, tired, defeated. The rules aren't. just there to keep you safe, he said quietly. They're part of the agreement. What agreement? With the forest, he said, his voice barely above a whisper. It takes what it wants. The rules are how we keep it at bay. But once you start breaking them, he trailed off, shaking his head.

You can't undo it, Nick. It's already claimed you. That night, I didn't bother trying to sleep. I sat at the table, the manual open in front of me. The words, you must stay, burned into my brain. The footsteps started around midnight. At first they were faint, just a soft shuffle outside the cabin. Then they grew louder, circling the walls, passing by the windows. I kept my eyes on the manual, my foot shaking nervously.

trying to focus. Then came the knocking. It was slow at first, deliberate, like someone tapping their knuckles against the wood. But it didn't come from the door. It was inside the walls. I tried to block it out, repeating the rules in my head like a prayer.

But then I made the mistake of looking up. My reflection was in the window, staring back at me. Except it wasn't me. It looked like me, same face, same clothes. But his expression was wrong. Its mouth curved into a grin I wasn't making. Its eyes darker than they should have been.

It raised a hand pointing behind me. I turned around. Nothing was there. But the footsteps inside, the cabin, didn't stop. Ed came to my cabin the next morning. He didn't knock or ask permission to come in, just open the door, stepped inside, and stood there like he belonged. You're taking the North Patrol today, he said. His voice was flat, like we hadn't had that whole conversation about the cycle, like I hadn't spent the entire night hearing footsteps

inside my cabin. I didn't argue. What would have been the point? If I refused, he'd just give me some cryptic warning, maybe shove the manual at me. I nodded and grouted my gear. The manual stayed on the table. I didn't want it near me. The patrol route was one of the longer ones, winding past the lake and cutting through a part of the forest I'd avoided since I started the job.

It was in a hard trail, but something about it felt heavy, like the air itself was thicker, harder to breathe. I passed the lake first. The surface was glassy, perfectly still, reflecting the sky like a giant mirror. I kept my head down, refusing to look too closely, but out of the corner of my eye. I swear I saw something. someone just beneath the surface. Lisa, her pale face, her eyes wide, staring up at me. I don't know if it was real or if my mind was playing tricks, but I hurried past, not daring to stop.

Further down the trail, I found a flashlight that belonged to Harris, another ranger lying in the dirt. It was caked with mud, the lens cracked. I picked it up without thinking, then immediately dropped it. The metal was ice-cold, like it had been sitting in a freezer, not out in the open sun. That's when I started to notice the forest wasn't quiet anymore. There were faint whispers coming from the trees, layered and overlapping, like a hundred voices murmuring just out of earshot.

I couldn't make out the words, but I didn't make out the words, but I didn't need to. I knew they were for me. By the time I reached the park boundary, my legs felt like lead. The air had a strange pull to it, like the forest itself was holding me back. I stopped at the edge of the tree line, staring out at the empty road beyond. And an intrusive thought hit me. I could leave.

Right then, right there. I could drop my gear, walk out of the forest and never look back. I'd lose the job, sure. But I'd keep my life, my real life, the one I'd had before all of this. But then I thought about the manual, the rules, Ed's warnings. The forest takes what it wants, he'd said. What if leaving wasn't an escape? What if I took something with me, whatever this was, and it followed me home?

Or worse, what if leaving through everything off balance, broke the agreement and drag someone else into this nightmare? I stood there for what felt like hours, staring at the road. My mind was screaming at me to run. But my legs wouldn't move. The whispers grew louder, circling around me, wrapping. me in their invisible grip. And then, just like that, they stopped. The forest went silent, completely, utterly silent. I turned back, my heart pounding. The trees seemed taller, darker, and the trail I'd

come down look like it had never been there at all. I don't remember much about walking back to the cabin. It felt like the forest that swallowed me whole, and when I stepped through the door, I couldn't tell if I'd escaped or walked a walk deeper into something far worse. The air inside was stale and cold. My body ate like I'd run a marathon, but the exhaustion wasn't just physical. It was in my bones, my mind. I locked the door, bolted it twice, and sat down at the table. The manual was still there, waiting. I opened it slowly, flipping through the pages.

The rules were the same. Or at least I thought they were. I read each one carefully over and over, like I was memorizing scripture. I understood now. The rules weren't suggestions. They weren't folklore. They were survival. as long as I followed them.

I could stay. I wouldn't disappear like Lisa, wouldn't dissolve into whispers like Harris. The virus might have claimed me, but it wouldn't take me all at once. I fell into a routine after that. Patrol during the day, lock the door at night.

I didn't ask questions anymore. I didn't peek through the curtains when the footsteps started. I didn't let me. myself think about leaving, because I knew there wasn't anywhere to go. Sometimes I still heard the scream. It's always distant now, muffled, like it's coming from miles away. Maybe that's what happens. You fade into the forest slowly, until you're just another sound in the dark. I don't know how long it's been. Time gets slippery out here. The days bled. together and the nights feel endless. I've stopped counting the seasons, stopped looking at the

calendar. The forest doesn't care about dates, so why should I? But something new has changed things. Last week I saw headlights through the trees, a new ranger pulling into the station. I watched from a distance as Ed handed in the manual. The kid looks so young, so confident. I wanted to warn him, wanted to scream at him to leave now while he still could, but I didn't. Because the forest was watching and the rules are clear. He has unknowingly became a player in this game and I just pray. He doesn't lose.