CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 7 CHILLING Reddit Horror Stories to crack the mind

Episode Date: September 21, 2020

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "If you see a man selling ice-cream in the middle of the night. Call me" Creepypasta►16:20 "The dogs in my town aren't dogs anymore" Creepypasta►36:21 "If you're ever at the Covenwood Hotel, DON'T STAY in Room 371" Creepypasta►59:00 "How to program an organic computer" Creepypasta►1:22:35 "Everyone in my village screams at the setting sun" Creepypasta►1:50:43 "There is a village where everyone screams at the setting sun. I will find it" Creepypasta►3:02:36 "Snow Angels are illegal where I live" CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►Gabriel Bulik XIX: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/q6dgPSUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

Trade Plus, Betal no longer than 5.50 per ride. So, Coop new Train Plus for more 4 euro per month, on NMBS.B. Oh, this weekend, I'm from wagtz. I'm all moose, as I'm not on think. Oh, that dossier that morning off-moot,

I'm all moose, if I're not on think. Oh, van night at a pedal tournoe, oh, I'm a moose if I're not on think. Have you it mollick to come to come? Give yourself then a boost with biocure Maxshot Liquid. Three op-appending plants, magnesium, Eiser, an energy booster

to make sure to can't clean. Bio-Cure, Maxhot Liquid. Foodingsupplement, forcriag by the apotheker. Two things. Firstly, I apologize in advance for any typos or odd phrasing. It's quite difficult to keep focused on my current state and my keyboard is very sticky.

Secondly, as you read the story, you might find yourself thinking, hey, maybe writing about your intrusive thoughts isn't the best way to handle them. Maybe try distracting yourself. Maybe just don't think about it. And I would totally agree with you if these are simply intrusive thoughts. But I don't think these are simply intrusive thoughts.

I think I've been cursed. But I don't believe in curses, I hear you say. Well, neither do I. But it's just about the best explanation I have for what happened. It's either a curse or I have tasted ice cream that broke me. And I don't know which option scares me more. It was three in the morning and I was hammered out on my mind, trying to stagger my way back home. All in all, it was a good evening.

The drinks were cheap and the conversation was plentiful. The only thing I needed to finish off the night was a nice cab to line my stomach with to spare myself hang over in the morning. Yet as I stumbled through the sleepy streets of Prague, it seemed as if all my usual drunk-line spots were closed. There was no way that I could stay conscious long enough to get food delivered. It started to look like I would have to go to bed on a diet of crackers and water, but as I made my way through the park outside my apartment, I found an answer to my hungry plea. The shrine of the lamppost gave him a sort of aura. It was as if the universe had heard my

please for a treat and placed an ice cream peddler in my path. He stood in the middle of the empty park with his rickety cart, a grin peeking out from beneath his bushy, Nietzsche-esque moustache. Would you like some ice cream, young man? he asked. Hell yeah, I yelled with an energy only Long Island can induce. Which flavour would you like? He gestured towards his cart. There seemed to be a good dozen flavours, all neatly marked with the cursive handwriting.

I was entirely too drunk to read. the best flavour I demanded The best flavor Yeah, give me the best flavor you got My sight was spinning with booze and juice inertia But even through my stupor I could see a glint in his eye The triple vision of the ice cream man united into one

His mustache raised to reveal pearly teeth There's a special recipe I keep saved For only the most exquisite of customers are you sure you can handle it? Hell yeah, I'm a golden god of a customer. I yelled, because that's the type of drunk I am. He nodded, adjusted his hat, and opened a wooden cabinet on his ice cream cart,

from which he took out a strange little machine. My memory is pretty patchy, but I distinctly remember looking at it and thinking, this is some past century stuff. There's a good chance I might have said it out loud as well. The machine started up with a sputter. It looked like a cross between a steam engine and a sausage maker. The ice cream man reached into his cart and produced ingredients that he started to load into the machine. It's an old family recipe that has been passed down over generations.

My great-grandfather. In retrospect, I should have listened to what he had to say. Perhaps if I had heard his story, I could have avoided my present situation altogether. Maybe he Maybe his monologue contained clues as to where I could find him, or could shed some light on what the hell was in that ice cream. Or better yet, his monologue might have contained the actual recipe. I'll never know. I never know, because my drunken ass spent the whole story giggling. As soon as the ice cream man mentioned his family, I couldn't help but imagine a dinner

table filled with bushy moustaches. The ice cream man was set at the head of the table twirling his mustache. to him would be his wife, also twirling her equally bushy mustache, and on the other side of the table would be the kids pinching their fledgeing facial hair. The food would arrive, a mess will be made. Honey, you have some leftovers stuck in your mustache. Thanks, you too. Classic comedy. Here you go. He brought me out of my booze-induced hallucination of a hairy family with a cone of soft-serve ice cream. Just be sure to appreciate the gentle note to the flavor.

You will never taste something like this again. I wanted to pay him, but he insisted that he wasn't making ice cream for the money. He was providing a treat purely out to the goodness of his heart and dedication to his craft. I shrugged and stumbled over to my apartment. I swallowed the entire cone in two bites and then passed the hell out. In my teens, I could run a distillery in my mouth. Drink enough mixer to give myself type 2 diabetes and smoke a million cigarettes, only to wake up with a mild hangover. That time has passed a decade ago.

When I woke up the morning after my encounter of the ice cream man, I grabbed my water bottle and promptly ran over to the bathroom to empty my stomach. My brain felt bruised. My eyes stung from the smoky conversation to the night prior. The hangover was definitely there. But something was different. Instead of tasting the battery acid of last night's consumption, all I could feel on my tongue was the faint taste of vanilla. I shugged it off. I figured that the ice cream I had last night was just really good.

I made a mental note to seek out this strange ice cream man in the future and discarded the thought. I spent the night of the morning drinking water and puking. I would kill a dozen small animals to be able to see the person I was in that bathroom. hung over as all hell, but still capable of thought that doesn't revolve around frozen food. The fact that I was able to let go of the ice cream thoughts still gives me some hope for the future. Yet that hope is buried beneath an impenigable layer of perfectly creamy vanilla. Betty came over, just as my body started becoming receptive to water. She laughed, heckled me about being bad at holding my liquor, and then we made love.

mind you at that point Betty and me had been a thing for a month This was a height of passion bang This was Could I possibly be dating my wife's sex Yet as our sweaty bodies writhed with adoration I found myself drifting

Past the excited declarations of love And the pleasure of being touched Was something else Something frozen and giant Something made of the sweetest milk And the softest of petals What are you thinking about? She asked as we lay in a cuddle, post-coyal glow.

I scream. I felt a shift under my arm. She did not like that answer. What are you thinking about? I asked. That this is a nice way to spend a Saturday afternoon, that I'm happy we met each other and... She sighed.

I scream now. There was disappointment in her voice. I searched for something sweet. to say, but the only sweetness that I could think of was soft served and came in a cone. Want to go get some? Some ice cream? Yeah. Uh, sure.

We went to three different places. I kept on hoping that I would come across something, anything that would satiate my craving for vanilla ice cream. But every ice cream parlor we went to was filled with frozen disappointment. Every lick was drenched in preservatives and moulded in defeat. When I tasted the third cone, the one that came from the best ice cream parlour in central Europe, I gagged. What's wrong? Betty asked. She wasn't asking about the ice cream. I tried to describe the mustachioed ice cream peddler, how drunk I was, his story, the taste, the craving.

But the words came out sluggish and disoriented. I kept on searching for ways to describe what happened to me, the longing that I was feeling deep in my chest, yet all I was met with was a confused gaze. It was as if my ability to speak was a McDonald's ice cream machine, perpetually defective. Look, if something is up, let's talk about it. We're not children, we can communicate. Communication is... I could see a lips move.

I heard a voice, but my mind was utterer. consumed with the thought of that gentle nectar. She talked about a past relationship, of her parents' relationship, or some pop-sike advice. I don't know, I wasn't listening. All that was at my mind was a mental map of every ice cream parlor in Prague. As the mental fog of my hangover dissipated, my craving for the ice cream strengthened into a palpable ache. There was a burning hole in my chest, the type of hole that people filled with love or god or money

your ambition, but I knew that there was only one thing that could satiate me. It wasn't Betty. We made plans to meet up next weekend. I watched the woman that I had cared about so deeply just that morning, get on the bus, and ride away. For a second, there was a pang of guilt. I wanted to run after the bus and demand it to stop. I wanted to jump on board and take her in my arms and tell her that she was the most important

thing in my life. and delicious, viscous cream washed away that feeling of guilt. Seven other ice cream parlors. I visited seven other ice cream parlors and found nothing but frustration. My teeth hurt, partially from consuming massive amounts of vanilla ice cream, but mainly from the way my jaw would clinch from whenever I was faced with the inevitable disappointment. The streets were dark, all the ice cream parlors were shut, so I went to the supermarket. As I pushed my cart through the ice cream aisle, grabbing every box that contained an

embrosial flavour, I found myself desperately clawing at the roof of my mouth of my tongue. Somewhere in the back of my one-track mind, I was trying to dig past the remnants of the imposter flavours towards the one, true, holy syrup. A trace of it still had to be there. It was, after all, less than 24 hours since I had tasted the ice cream. I had mouth hangovers that lasted twice that long. and a singular atom of it on my tongue would make me feel whole. It's with that thought, I stopped.

I stared into the pile of ice cream in my cart and entertained a thought that was only remotely related to the ice cream. This is insane. I had spent an afternoon driving away from someone who made me happy. I had done enough damage to my teeth to make a dentist blush. There was enough ice cream in my cart to pay for a dinner at a fancy restaurant. yet as I looked into that cart A chill ran down my spine

Something inside of me grabbed all notion of doubt Or guilt or fear Tore at those neural connections And pointed them at a single thought I needed to taste that damn ice cream again The taste, that's what I needed I needed to replicate that taste It was all insane

It was also desperately frightening But my mind didn't have that the emotions get to me. My thoughts were loud and clear. Milk, eggs, vanilla extract, cream. Get whatever you need to replicate this taste. You need this. I piled more and more into the cart. I followed what my heart demanded, but somewhere in the back of my frozen treat-focused brain was a small fire of hope, a hope that if the taste was replicated, the madness would subside. I can't imagine how she felt. Literally. I cannot imagine what she had felt of my diminishing mental capacity,

but even in my figurative sense, what she saw must have been hard. She rang the buzzer downstairs. It's a miracle I even heard it by then. I was deep into tasting the disgusting store-bought for similes, trying to pinpoint where their taste diverged from the godly original. But the buzzer broke my concentration. I swallowed the warm, milky substance on my tongue and picked up the receiver.

Her voice came through. There was a warmth in her voice, but my brain went numb and I tried to grasp what she was saying. Hey, can't come upstairs. I just don't feel good about it. Talk. Upstairs. An iceberg of deliciousness towered in the cold seas of my soul. I didn't want to see her.

She would just slow me down. Yet before I knew it, my finger was buzzing her through. I don't remember what she saw. If the amount of melted ice cream on my hands right now is an indication, she saw enough to lose any semblance of attraction towards me. She said something, maybe a couple of sentences, but they were hollow. She had lost all hope in me ever being normal. All she did was how me two vanilla ice creams she had grabbed from the corner store downstairs.

I don't need to take the other one, I heard myself say. I don't feel like eating ice cream right now. I can't imagine how she felt. I've spent the whole night without sleep, and I don't think sleep will come anytime soon. My entire home smells strongly a vanilla extract, the kitchen, the bedroom, everything is covered in traces of my misadventures

of trying to capture the taste of that cursed ice cream, because... This has to be a curse, right? I have walked through the park. I have stared at the window at the exact spot where he stood, as I slaved away at making my home an atrocity. The ice cream man is nowhere to be found. What if the story he told me was filled with hints, or there was some stupid riddle at the end? What if I completely missed my chance to taste the ice cream ever again?

I bet you, he's some goddamn ghost, and I offended his sensibilities. This is definitely a curse. As soft and sweet as that taste. I crave is, I know somewhere beneath those gentle notes of vanilla, is something evil. I know that I will crave this taste until the end of my days, and I know that any chance at ever locating the moustachioed man or anyone from his moustachioed family is slim. I thought that maybe sharing this tale would help me forget, but writing about that heavenly taste has simply made me weep on my keyboard.

if writing my story will not give me solace, then perhaps I can at least deliver a message. If you see a man selling ice cream in the middle of the night, call me. Something about her ain't quite right. Phil rubbed his thumbs on the side of his dog's ear, just the way she liked it. Spice, his typically well-groomed border collie, whimpered constantly. She'd been eating much? I asked. Nope, gonna drive her out to the vet drill soon. He continued comforting Spice.

He thinks she caught a bug off one of the strays when she ran after one. I walked down from my porch while Phil sat on his. Mm-hmm, could be. I hope she gets better. I'll catch you later. Phil, my elderly, retired neighbour, had cared for Spice since she retired as a sniffer dog. Those two were a match made in heaven. I had known Phil since I bought the house next door.

door and I'd never seen him happier than the day he adopted Spice. I moved out to this small town in Louisiana a little over three years ago. The idea was to get away from it all. I thought that by moving out here, I could escape to a place where life was slow, where things were quiet and when nothing ever happened. The one thing that did happen however was a rapid growth in the population of stray dogs. for animal control, this put a giant dent in my plans. That quiet life I had desired was quickly becoming just as busy as the city strife.

A number of the impounded strays, who would most likely be put down, had caught some sort of disease. We had attempted to quarantine infected dogs, keeping them away from the ones who were clean. It was hard to tell, since unkempt strays didn't exactly look healthy at the best of times, we did our best to keep them separate. Normally, we would put down dogs. It's not nice, I know, but it's part of the job. But increasingly, dogs under our care would refuse food and die of starvation.

Naturally, we cremated them. My day at work was busy, though uneventful. I spent the day riding around with my co-worker, Mike, picking up stray dogs. It was his turn to drive the vans. today. We made small talk and each dropped our latest theories on what we had nicknamed the dog debate. Why was the population of strays exploding and why were they getting sick? Initially Mike said that he believed the unknown illness was an SDD and the hot weather was making them mad horny. I thought that a puppy mill somewhere

must have set a bunch of sick dogs loose and we've been playing catch-up ever since. Over time, however, our theories became more silly and were a way of entertaining ourselves at work. This time, Mike said aliens were experimenting on dogs to create a breeding program. I said that our town was actually a government black site where dogs are being trialled as a new surveillance technique. We took nine sick-looking dogs back to the pound, each one looking more bedraggled than the last.

Matted fur, sunken eyes, frail bodies. Most didn't even put up a fight when we caught that. them. They near enough accepted their fate. Most of these poor, helpless animals would end being put down if they didn't die before then. Their miserable appearances would have been enough to convince me to free them, had money not been an issue in life. The dogs today are looking real bad, Mike, I said. Yeah, it's a really messed up alien breeding program, he jortled. I'm being serious, I stifled a laugh. They all look like they're going to kick the bucket real soon.

Saves us a job, right? Mike shrugged. Besides, we've been picking up sick dogs all summer. What makes these ones special? It's just different, I said. I don't know. I returned home in the evening,

and Phil was sat on his porch. Spice's head rested on his lap. Evening cramps, I joked. Phil turned his head to me with an empty gaze. Um, Phil?

You good? I asked. She's gone, kid. Phil stroked Spice's head. What? I closed my truck. What do you mean? Spice, she ain't breathing.

Phil turned back and stares straight ahead as he continued holding his companion. Damn Phil, I'm sorry. She was just a little sick this morning. I walked up to his porch. Damn man. Why don't you come in mine? Have a beer. Hey kid. You mind doing me a real big favor?

Sure. What is it? You got to take her up to the pound. Cremator for me. We don't go to Ernst, Phil. I rested my hand on his gate. We just do strays. Dig a hole for me in my backyard then.

Would you, son? Yeah, of course, bud. It didn't seem like it had really properly hit Phil. that spice was gone, but we held a small funeral for her, burying her in his backyard. After having a few drinks, I went to bed. I told Phil I'll see him in the morning on my way to work. The next day came, and Phil was nowhere to be seen. He wasn't in his usual place, sat on his porch.

I would have checked on him, but I was already running late. I ended up sleeping in past my alarm after drinks with Phil. I hopped in my truck and sped quickly on my way, texting my boss as I drove. I turned the corner leading out of my road and heard a loud thump. I slammed on the brakes. Getting out of the truck, I walked around the front to find a stray. A greyhound mixed with something else. My headlight was busted, and so was the dog.

I loaded him into the back of my truck and carried on driving. You're late, my boss yeah. Get your ass over here. Sorry, I hung my cap on the coat hook. He had a greyhound on my way here. Gonna grab him for the friar. That's the goddamn problem. The thing screwed.

A bunch of muds kicked the bucket last night. What? Yeah. He opened the door to the furnace and peered inside, before standing back and slamming it shut. Guess when the earliest maintenance can fix it is? When? I asked.

No guess. No guess, he fiddled with the furnace. An hour or something? I shrugged. Tomorrow morning, he shouted. Man, it's got a smell in here, I smirked. No, it ain't. Get a shovel. Uh, we're supposed to cremate them, I said. Y'all are digging shallow graves.

We can't have a bunch of dead dogs with some unknown goddamn disease lying around. Go out back and get digging. I met my co-worker who was already digging. digging holes in the ground. Hey Mike, this looks illegal, I laughed. Just help me, would you? He thrust the shovel into the ground, then pointed to one a few feet away. Grab the other one.

We took 15 graves for 15 dogs, the 14 that had died in the pound, and the greyhound in the back of my truck. I'll grab the one I hit earlier. I placed my shovel in the ground by the final grave and walked away to the parking lot. Sure, Mike's shovel clattered against the hard, dried dirt. I'll start with the ones inside. I peered into the truck bed, looming over where the greyhound should have been. It wasn't there. It had disappeared.

When I spoke to Mike about it, he was as confused as I was. There shouldn't have been any animals nearby that would have came and dragged it off, and no person would take the dead greyhound out of the back of someone's truck. Instead of dwelling on it, we decided to keep our boss happy and start burying the dogs. One by one, we filled the 14 graves. When I returned from work that evening, Phil was still nowhere to be seen. Usually we'd have a smoke and a drink on Friday evenings, but I figured he was still torn up about spice. It had only been a day after all.

I ought to check on him, I thought. "'Phil?' I called, heading towards his porch, opening the gate. "'Hey, Phil?' I knocked on his door. "'One second, kid.' His voice muffled behind his door, sounded as though it was spilling from his lips in a rushed manner. "'You were right in there?' I leaned against his wall with one arm. "'Yep,' the door swung open, clanging as it pulled on the chain.

"'It's all good.' He didn't have distraught or distressed or upset. How are you holding up, old time, huh? I smiled at him, trying to be somewhat gentle and reassuring. Good, getting by. He looked behind him, fiddling with a chain on his door. Just didn't feel like coming out tonight. You ain't doing nothing stupid, are you? I asked.

Nope. Phil looked behind him again. Just want to have a few drinks on my own tonight. All right, well, you come knocking if you need anything, all right, I said. Thanks, I appreciate it. Phil closed his door. I know that I shouldn't have snooped my neighbour, but his out-of-character behaviour, combined with his recent loss, was caused for concern.

I didn't want him doing anything irrational. Creeping beside his house, I sculpted through his backyard, careful not to tread on his flowers. I raised myself over to his window. and peaked to the crack in the ever so slightly ajar curtain. Douting my eyes back and forth, I searched for anything that might give away why Phil was acting so strangely. There he was, sitting on his sofa, on his lap.

Rested Spice's head. I did a double take. Sure enough, it was Spice. She was covered in dirt from nose to tail, and he was brushing her fur. his free hand rested on a head. I could see his lips moving. I didn't know whether to cry or be sick.

I walked around to Phil's backyard and sure enough, dirt was strewn around a border collie-sized hole. I snuck back around to the window that I had spied Phil and Spice through. Now, on Phil's lap, Spice's head had turned to face me. Phil must have turned her over to brush the other side

I watched the pair through the window once more and considered knocking on his door again some moments passed and I thought about what I would even say before I could make the decision it was made for me Spice slowly raised ahead and sat up on the sofa next to Phil

faintly I could hear her I saw her snarling at me. My feet fell out from underneath me as I dashed away, and my keys slid through my fingers as I tried to unlock my door. I stumbled inside my house and slammed the door behind me. I put the chain on before clamouring up the stairs and shutting myself in the bathroom. It wasn't long before I heard a knocking at the door. Three loud knocks.

Slow and methodic, reverberating through the walls of my house. And then three more. I tiptoed downstairs and placed my eye to the peephole at my front door. There, stood on its hind legs, was the greyhound mix I had hit that morning, banging its already shattered head against my door. I stumbled backwards and the knocks kept coming, now accompanied by barking and growling. Then a chorus of howls. Back upstairs, I scanned the view from my bedroom. A patrol of dogs approached, relaying their wailing battle cries to one another.

My phone rumbled against my leg, and I trembled as I read the notification from my lock screen. It was my boss. Where did you two put the damned dogs? I looked after the window again. As the pack paced back and forth outside my home, I recognized them as five of the dogs I'd buried earlier that day. A sixth member of the pack joined them, looking rather less disheveled than the rest of the dogs. It was Spice.

She barked, communicating some sort of order to the pack, and they stood by her, staring up at me. The Greyhound mix retreated to a side, making the pack a total of seven. Spice barked again. This time she was barking at me. I opened my window. What do you want? you want? My words only just evaded being caught in my throat.

Spice sat. The rest of the dogs copied her. She tilted her head. The rest of the dogs followed along. I kept my door on the chain as I opened it. Immediately the greyhound attempted to shove its way through. Salivis sprayed as the dog poked his head through the opening with vicious barks. I pushed back on the door, but I was saved and saved. only by the chain that stopped the greyhound from making its way through. I began to kick the door, hoping to get the greyhound to back down, but it became more enraged. I kept kicking and pushing the door until the dog stopped making noise.

It was a loud, crunching sound, a creak as the door swung back towards me, and a clank as it pulled on the chain. I looked down at the greyhound. Its already damaged head had been totally cracked by one final, kick on the door. Pink, red, and a fluffy white leaked from the wound I had inflicted. Spice, a wavering voice called from beyond. Stop. Phil?

I peered from the door, over the greyhound. Don't hurt him, pup. Phil knelt beside his companion and placed a hand on a head. Please, here's a good guy. He don't mean you're no harm. Phil paused. Hand still held to Spice's head. Spice calmly sat. He won't hurt any of y'all. He just don't understand. Phil paused again. Look, I'll tell him to come out. Promise me, you won't go for him. Phil? What the hell is going on? I wailed. Just come on out. It's all right, kid. I unhooked the chain and stepped over the greyhound that laid across my welcome mat. I shuffled closer to Phil and Spice.

The other dogs remained seated behind their leader. Tell me what this is, Phil. I kept a good distance between myself and the pack. She's gonna come to you, right? Phil stood up, taking his hand away from Spice's head. Spice sauntered towards me. What's she doing, Phil? I took a step backwards, almost tripping on the dead stray behind me.

It's all right, he assured me. She just wants the talk. Spice approached and sat in front of me on my porch. What does that mean? I frowned. Put your hand on her head, Phil said. All right. I knelt and placed my hand to Spice his forehead. I felt a whirlwind of emotion as the world around me slipped away into darkness.

A rising sense of understanding, one that was contrasted by my compassion. Complete ignorance filled my head. Thoughts raced around my mind, moving too quickly to pluck from the air on which they flew. Faint whispers bobbed back and forth, swelling around me, before I finally found myself able to focus on the cacophony of voices that formed a single word. Hello, it said, a thousand voices as one. Who are you? I replied.

Where am I? I am the one you know as spice. The words tickled and a visage of that familiar border collie appeared before me. You are still sat on your porch. I don't understand, I cried. You do not have to, the voice sighed. I only ask that you leave us in peace. Who is us?

We are the mould. We seek sanctuary. inside of these vessels. You're what's making the dog sick, aren't you? Yes. You're using Phil. I used him to destroy your incinerator so that my kind might live, but I care for him and he cares for you.

How? You killed his dog! I shouted. Yes, but I share her memories. The voice cooed. I felt it reminiscing on the life of its vessel. I feel how much she cared for him. Now I care for him too. He was her world and Spice and I have become one.

What do you want from me? I fell to my knees, begging for an answer, then remembered that I already knelt. The illusions melted away and I saw what was in front of me again. Spice looked up at me from where I held my hand to her head. I looked around and saw Phil amongst the pack, all staring intensely at us. Leave this place, Spice barked, and never return. I left Louisiana for good within the week, hopping from motel to motel, until I was able to get a place to stay with a family member while I sorted my life out.

I wish I knew how Phil was doing, if he was happy. if he had come to terms with what spice had become. I don't know what happened to Mike or my boss. I never heard from either of them ever again. That small town in Louisiana gave me memories I will never forget and questions I will never know the answer to. I miss it, but I'll be glad if I never see it again.

I still feel uneasy when I see a stray dog. I always feel like they're watching me. Bataal no more than 5.50 per ride. So, I'll now train plus for more 4 euros per month, on NMBS.b.E. Business trips are dreadfully boring, especially in my line of work. The only good thing about them, the hotels. The tedium of day-to-day dealings, book ended with clean towels and a mint on my pillow. If I could live in one, I surely would.

There's just something in the ambience that soothes my soul, for lack of a better phrase. At least, that's how I felt, until staying at the Covenwood Inn. It seemed like any other hotel at first, typical floor plan, decorative arrangements, overly polite checking clerk. It wasn't until I received my key card and ventured up to Room 371 that I would notice a dissonance in the layout. something amiss that broke up the usual hotel landscape. In my room, placed deliberately on the bed, was a sheet of paper. Restrictions printed on official Covenwood Inn stationary. Room 371 guidelines.

Number 1. No television after 9pm. Number 2. Only accept incoming calls on the room phone. Number 3. Leaving a room between the hours of 10.30pm and 1.30 a.m. is strictly forbidden. Number four, at least two to an elevator at a time, never going alone. Number five, no visitors. If there's a knock at the door, ignore it. Number six, the minibar is for emergencies only.

Number seven, the view is a lie. Don't trust it. Enjoy your stay. This was odd. I had never seen anything like it. Not once. any of the hotels I stayed at in the past. Perplexed, I called the front desk for answers.

All rules are to be followed during your stay. The clerk stated this plainly, as if he had uttered it a thousand times before. I don't understand. What emergency would warrant use of the minibar? Why can't I watch TV after nine? What does the view is a lie even mean? I was offered the same reply, spoken with the same tone as before, not unlike a recording.

unlike a recording. All rules are to be followed during your stay. Click. And that was that. No answers, no explanation. Assuming it was some sort of strange hotel humour I was unfamiliar with, I threw the less on the bedside table and forgot all about it, until later that night. As I laid in bed, watching the 10 o'clock news, something completely out of the ordinary happened.

The reporter began scratching at her face, a little at first, but then a lot. Emotions became aggressive and skin began peeling. Blood dripped from the wounds as she continued to relay her report without missing a beat. No one seemed to notice or react to her appearance. Eventually she froze in place and stared at the camera. Then a close-up of her face, grotesque and mangled. Her bloody lips spread apart and offered a... an ominous sentence.

Don't break the rules, Jack. I jumped out of bed, left my room and ran downstairs. My voice echoed through the lobby as I parched over to the front desk. What the hell is going on here? The receptionist didn't so much as blink at my intrusion. What can I help you with, sir? I just watch a news reporter tear apart her own face and tell me, me personally, to follow your bizarre hotel rooms.

Is this some kind of sick job? He pointed at the wall clock behind him. It's 1018, sir. In room 371, there's no television past... I grabbed him by the collar. I don't appreciate being toyed with. Continue this jest and there will be a call made to the authorities. Mark my words.

I let go of him and stormed off, his monotone voice trailing off in the distance. All rules are to be followed during your stay. I returned to my room, shut the TV off, and lay down to sleep, ticked off, but exhausted. Unfortunately for me, my slumber would be short-lived. I awoke later that night in a fit of sleep paralysis, pinned in place by my own body. At the foot of the bed was a shadowy figure whose features I couldn't quite make out in the darkness. A warmth overtook the room

as it stepped over to my side. My heart began to race. Closer now, I could see it was a man, maybe in his 50s, well-dressed grey moustache. He leaned over me and spoke with a disturbingly unnatural timbre. His voice echoed off the walls and met my ears with an inhuman cadence. It's a pleasure to meet you, Jack. Are you enjoying your stay so far? I tried to break free of my chemical restraints, but it was no use. Where are my manners?

I'm Garrett Covenwood, the owner. of this here hotel. I like to greet my guests whenever I can. He rested his hand on my arm. There was a stinging sensation where his skin met mine, but I could barely wince in response to the pain. Follow the rules, Jack. If you don't, you're in for a bumpy ride.

All at once, the warmth dissipated, and the sound of my cell phone buzzing rendered me fully awake. I jolted to a sitting position, reclaiming my movement. The man was gone, and my arm was fine. Thank God. It was just a nightmare. I quickly grabbed my phone and answered it.

It was my boss, Coulter. Hey Jack, there's been a change of plans. Needed you down in the lobby right away. What? What for? I asked, somewhat groggily. No time to waste. Hurry up.

Click. I looked at the time. It was 12.36 a.m. I was for being. to leave my room, according to the damned rules. I called the front desk. Listen here, I need to come down to the lobby and meet my boss. I don't care what your rules say.

There'd be no weirdness. You hear me? The sound of tapping away at a keyboard filled my ear. Sir, a record show that your boss, Colter Brumlock, is fast asleep in his room. Confusion washed over me. In his room? Asleep? How do you even know that?

Are you telling me there's no one in the lobby waiting for me? No, sir, it's a slow night. Just me and the fern in the corner. I hung up the phone and dialed Coulter's number. After two tones, he picked up. This better be good, Jack. I was sleeping. Coulter? You didn't just call a moment ago and ask me to meet you downstairs, did you?

He let out a groggy sigh. Of course not. What are you talking about? Can I go back to bed now? Another wave of confusion struck. Sure, it was probably a wrong number or something. Sorry to wake you. Before hanging up, I asked him one last question.

Say, you didn't get a weird list of rules from the hotel, did you? No, now let me sleep. Click. He hung up and I sat there, contemplating things. Honestly, it felt as though I was hanging onto my sanity by a single, fragile thread. I had told myself the images in the TV were the hotel was doing. But this, this couldn't be fate. Coulter and I had known each other for years.

I knew his raspy voice anywhere, better than I knew my own. That was definitely him on the other line. But at the same time, it couldn't have been. It was, by all means, a mystery. The next day of work came and went. Before long, Coulter and I met back at the hotel where we dispersed to our separate rooms. What was once the highlight of any given business trip

was now tainted by uncertainty. For a good long while, I sat there in bed, still in my dress attire, perusing the list of rules on the bedside table. I couldn't make sense of them any more than when I'd arrived, but it had become abundantly apparent that something was going on, something unexplainable.

Part of me hoped it was the product of a tired mind, overworked and succumbing to the side effects of exhaustion. But lies, even the ones we tell ourselves, only stretched so far. After undressing and climbing beneath the sheets for some much needed rest, there was a knock at the door. Rule 5 came to mind. No visitors, if there's a knock at the door, ignore it. It felt silly. But I did as the rule demanded. Best to act with an air of caution, I thought.

Better save than sorry. The knocking, however, was soon followed by a voice. Colter's voice. Jack, are you in there? Your wife called me. She says you couldn't get through in yourself. Something happened to Leslie. My heart sank.

Leslie was our daughter. I jumped out of bed, ran to the door and opened it at once. Colter walked in, visibly troubled. What's going on? What happened to Leslie? Coulter bore a look of deep concern. Well, it's not good news. My heart was pounding. Out with it already! What happened? This is my daughter we're talking about.

He looked at me, almost teary-eyed. Leslie's dead jerk. All colour vanished from the room. What air I had in me left my lungs in a single, laboured breath, as a steady stream of tears wet my face. Colter put his hand on my shoulder. There's more. Please, sit down. I fell to the bed, broken. The truth is, Jack, you broke Rule 5.

Now I have to hurt you. His lips stretched into a wicked grin, and his body froze. He was a sad. still as a statue. Coulter? I don't understand. In a flash, his hands lunged and connected with my neck.

With a vicious tight grip, he began squeezing the air out of my lungs. I tried to fight back, but his strength was overwhelming. I managed to get in a few jabs to his head, but it didn't seem to have any effect whatsoever. He forced me to the floor and continue

to clench my throat, until finally I lost consciousness. In that moment, I truly thought I was a goner. I awoke in bed the next morning, alive and well. I quickly reached for my phone and noticed her text from Charlotte. Just put Leslie on the bus. She misses you terribly, so do I. Please be safe.

We love you. I got out of bed and raced to the bathroom mirror. My neck was void of bruising, no signs of strangulation. I called Charlotte to be doubly certain. To my relief, Leslie was indeed fine. As alive as she was the day I left, it all just felt so real. Could it have been a dream?

Frazzled, I met up with Coulter and we drove to our next meeting. I could still feel his hands wrapped around my neck. I refused to make eye contact with him the entire day and he noticed. What could I say without sounding certifiable? Hey, the hotel left me this weird list of rules to follow. Now I think I'm seeing things. Want to stop for a coffee before you drop me off the nearest hospital? No, that wouldn't bode well.

Mould food poisoning from the sushi at the hotel bar was a far better excuse. Only a few more days of torment. Then I could leave. That's what I kept telling myself. Little did I know. My next night there would be the longest one yet. I awoke at 1122pm according to the blinking display of the alarm clock on the desk across the room

as my eyes adjusted I noticed a faint orange light dancing on the wall pouring in through a gap in the curtains I pour myself out of bed and walked over to the window to identify the source of the light what I saw was absolutely horrifying the hotel was a blaze an enormous fire engulfing the ground. The flames grew to great heights and touched the glass in front of me

before I had the nerve to turn away and make a run for it. In leaving my room, I yelled to warn the other guests. Fire! There's a fire! We need to leave at once! No one joined me in the hall. There was no sound at all coming from within any of the other rooms on the floor. Had everyone evacuated already? Was I the only one inside? I opened the first door in reach.

It was unlocked. Inside was the reporter from TV. Her face still dripping red, a bloodstain on the carpet now. You should have followed the rules, Jack. I slammed the door shut and moved on. In the next room was Coulter. I watched him strangling a copy of me

before his head turned and we locked eyes. He threw my lifeless body to the floor and started running to my position. You can't hide, Jack. I closed the door and ran to the next. This room contained yet another impossibility. The worst one yet. It was my wife and daughter standing at the door.

Their eyes were vacant, drained of all human emotion. I watched, astonished, as their skin burned to a crisp before my eyes. Charlotte spoke first. We miss you terribly, Jack. Leslie chimed in after When will you be home, Daddy? I couldn't escape them. These horrors were around every corner.

In a last ditch effort to run away from my troubles, I bolted to the nearby elevator. The button was jammed, but I kept pressing it. I looked down the hall to see the reporter, Colter, my wife and daughter, all walking towards me. Come on, come on, worky piece of crap.

Work! Finally, the button gave way and the doors opened. I hopped into the metal box and pushed the button for the first floor. The doors closed, just as the rag-tag team of zombies closed the gap between us. I slid to the floor on the verge of a heart attack. The ride down offered no solace, no lull in the supernatural calamity I faced. Without warning, the elevator dropped, plunged to the depths of the hotel, far deeper than I thought possible.

I gripped the railing as tight as I could as the light wavered in and out of life. In between flickers, Garrett appeared before me. You broke almost every rule, Jack. This is what happens. You'll destroy us if you're not careful. He vanished.

The light left with him. Knowing my death was fast approaching, I closed my eyes and thought, of Charlotte and Leslie. I could see them playing outside on the rain on the day I left. It was always heartbreaking to say goodbye,

and this would be no different. I held onto their memory and braced for impact. As the elevator neared the end of his descent, Garrett's booming voice entered my mind and broke the trance. Wake up, Jack!

Jard, my eyes opened, and I fell back, landing on the floor. the unique abrasiveness of the carpet brushed against my skin. I was no longer in the elevator. Upon taking a deep breath and gathering my wits, the familiar surroundings set in. I had inexplicably been transported back to Room 371.

As I looked around in disbelief, happy to be alive, and noticed the list of my hand. Rule number seven was now circled. The view is a lie Don't trust it It took a minute to register But I now knew what it meant The view through the window There was never any fire

It was just another ploy to get me to leave the room And I foolishly took the bait My eyes darted at the alarm clock on the desk It was 1.47am Meaning it was now safe to leave I needed to get the hell out of there and fast. I stood up, marched to the door, and grabbed the knob.

It was hot to the touch, burning hot. I pulled my hand back instinctively to avoid the harsh heat. I then noticed the chart wood and the bottom of the door's frame, indicating fire. Real fire? But how? I thought the viewer deceived me. I looked back to the list for answers and noticed a postscript, scribbled in pen.

You should have followed the rules, Jack. You did this. Now, we all have to suffer. My eyes scanned the page for more clues to no avail. They kept landing on Rule 7. In addition to being circled, it was underlined with a striking red ink. Why did my attention need to be drawn here? Was it just gloating or something more? That's when it hit me. I walked over to the window and peered outside.

The fire raged on outside my room, but the world below seemed unaffected. No flames, no firefighters, no one running out of the hotel. Just a plain parking lot, traffic on the main road and trees in the distance. As normal a view as one could hope to expect from this particular vantage point. But the view was a lie. I tried opening the window, but an unseen force closed it on my fingers. I screamed and pulled them back. In a great deal of agony, I lifted the chair at the desk and threw it against the glass.

It shattered, revealing the world outside for what it really was. I saw the fiery wall below and heard the guests screaming in peril. There was indeed a fire, and I truly was in danger. Still in panic, I picked up the list and looked at Rule 6. The mini-bar is for emergencies only. This was certainly an emergency. Without any time to waste, I opened the minibar next to the desk. Inside were no drinks or food, only a small black box with a red button affixed to its surface.

I bowled it out and placed it on the bed. There was now smoke seeping into the room through the outline of the doorway. Looking over the list again, there were no further instructions, nothing at all pertain. to the box, there was only one course of action left to take. I closed my eyes and pressed the button as hard as I could, putting my life in its hands. Memories played in my mind like a film reel running in reverse, the day's events followed by the previous and so on. I relived all of the fear and torment in a matter of seconds until eventually my eyes opened

and I found myself in line with Coulter at the front desk waiting to check in. This place ain't too shabby, Jack, better than the last one at least. I can't explain how, but I was back in the hotel lobby on the first day of the business trip. The day we checked in. Say, Jack, what happened to your hands? I looked down and saw the bruises left by the window. Oh, it's nothing. Slam them in the car door.

that's all. Both of them? He was cut off by the checking clerk greeting me. I was now at the front of the line. Do you have a reservation, sir? I stared at him for a while, remembering everything that had happened.

I then backed away from the counter and turned to leave. Jack, where are you going? Sorry, Coulter. I think I'm going to get an Airbnb instead. I'll see you tomorrow. He waved his arms at me, frustrated, and then turned back to book his room. I heard the clerk handing him his key card before I reached the exit.

Here you are, sir. Room 371 on the second floor. We hope you enjoy your stay. Oh no. What is that? I hissed. It's a cat. Gary, have you ever seen a cat? I asked it to make a cat. Gary was a clever guy in some respects.

but he struggled with the finer points in life. If you told him to make a battleship at a French fries, he'd work out how to do it, but it had never occurred to him to wonder why you probably shouldn't. Whatever lay on the floor, crying and retching beneath a vainly membrane of an amniotic sack, is most evidently not a cat. What cards did you enter?

I grumbled, snatching the several hole-punt sheets of metal that quivered in the flesh of the computer. we were standing in the basement of, let's just call it, an undisclosed location. But if you imagine a large, empty room filled with a near infinite collection of filing cabinets, then you're on the right track. Most of them contain relatively basic instructions like height,

blank foot, blank inches, weight, blank kilograms, material, wood, material, metal, material, bone, etc., etc. Others might be pre-made programs for something like tree, or US currency, but whoever or however they came into being is a secret long out of my reach, and they're all uselessly outdated. There's one for entering certain dates for lottery numbers, and it's just about the only one I ever found of use. Well, saying that, there are a few others. Either way, I could see what Gary had been trying to do, bless him.

Material, flesh, mammalian, four legs. Apex Predator. Ah, damn, Gary, I said. Why did you have to add that last one? Whatever was on the floor was now three feet in length and still growing. Don't you remember what happened with a maternity ward? I wanted a cat, he began to argue, but I cut him off with a gesture of my hand. I know.

Next time I'm just feed it a real-life example. It's always easier than mucking around with homemade definitions. I don't have a real-life example. He said, looking sadly at his feet. That's why I wanted one. Get me a gun, I grumbled. Then we'll go get a real cat, the easy way, okay? His eyes lit up.

You mean, yeah, yeah, we'll just go pick one up, I said, trying and failing to hold back a smile. Just go get a damn gun. I don't like the way that thing is starting to look at me. As soon as it grows a respiratory system and can disconnect from the computer, all bets are off. Go on now, I cried. Go get the shotgun and hurry back. Gary was practically giggling to himself while he ran into the back room. When he returned, we put the thing on the floor out of its misery,

hosed the concrete down, incinerated the remains, and then hopped into the car to drive into town. How's the workshop? I asked. Some of the tinklers broke down, Gary said with a frown, but I made a few more. I looked at the row of 50 machines working with a few. tirelessly at the stations. Wilbur Data Entry Limited was always the workhorse of my finance and I made sure Gary understood that it was a priority. Each tinkler was a small box, no larger

than a computer, which possessed a few sticky tendrils to work a keyboard and mouse, and an enormous eye the size of a basketball so that it could stare at the screen and do its job. When programming an organic computer, the keys to ask the right questions, and And in this case, I'd asked it for something that could transcribe written and spoken words into an Excel file. Stupidly simple, and a lot less revolutionary nowadays than when I first whipped them up in the 80s. But nonetheless, a single tinkler was, for all intents and purposes, the equivalent to an office worker that didn't need any sleep or food. I mean, they did burn out. Some had a habit of trying to escape,

but they weren't made by the computer for mobility. after all, that wasn't what I'd asked for. All you had to do was pick them back up off the floor, clean up the blood-speckled tears that they had left behind, and set them back to work. A good tinkler would last three or four weeks, but if made out of poor materials, it did only take a few days before its eyes imploded in a hemorrhage

and its internal organs leaked out of the socket. That would always upset Gary, since he cared immensely for the gross little sweat boxes. In the early days, he would often try to sneak one or two spares back to his shed to keep his pets, only to watch them die with heartbreaking innocence. Any progress for the latest program? I asked. Still working on it, he answered. I dug up some of these.

He pulled a few cards out of his pockets and handed them to me. They're outdated models of atomic structure. Very outdated. But it should be easy-peasy to make new ones based on these templates that were flagged the newer theories. Gary's workspace was a clutter of power tools, aluminium sheeting, endless blueprints, and enough textbooks to sink a ship. I honestly don't know how you do it, I said. Did you remember to feed the cat? To what? He replied, frowning, like I just asked what color the sound of heart

makes. No, you have to feed pets, I said. Remember, every day they need to eat? Gary reran the equation in his head for the thousandth time. Living things eat, I said. I brought you enough cat food to last a week. Oh God, he said. Yes, I remember. Well, the cat should be fine. I put the food down two days ago, and if it's enough to last a week, then...

I sighed, briefly stopping to pinch my nose. That's... That's not going to... You know what? I said, clapping my hands together. I'll go check on the... cat. I thought that maybe you could actually just this once do something. Gary looked at me, with such self-loathing, I stopped myself dead in my tracks. Actually, everybody needs a bit of help

now and then, don't they? I'll go check on the cat. You keep looking into that enzyme. Our lives will be much easier if we didn't have to burn the computer's waist. Thankfully, the cat was fine, but it had gorged itself. It made a hell of a mess. I had half a mind. I had half a mind, to go ask Gary to make something that eats cat poop. But I remembered what happened last time I tried to spin up a port-a-bottie business, and the look on that poor girl's face as you got sucked hole through the opening no larger than my fist. I gave a shudder and decided there'd be no more waste-eaters. Instead, I grabbed them up and spend the next few hours working hard to get the small shed back to some kind of working order.

Outside, the forest sang deep. trees around were dressed in all the finest lichens and moss. Their green gossamer fur draped heavily over their branches, while a perpetual mist keeps the horizon at bay. The forest looks like something out of a gothic painting, and rarely, if ever do, the trees bear any leaves. In winter it is a frozen wasteland of half-dead skeletal oaks, and in summer it is a rotten, fetid swamp

where mosquitoes the size of dimes poke holes in your skin. Years before, decades rather, when I first stumbled across the old church, I thought it was a neat find, nothing more. I visited it maybe three, maybe four times, before I finally broke in and found the computer. Something about the air in this place makes a little bit more sense once you know what it's hiding. And yet, something felt different that day, somehow worse than usual. The cloying feeling of being watched lingered heavily as I trotted to and from the hose, emptying and refilling the bucket of messy soap water. I noticed something odd too when I left the door wide open between each visit.

The kitten did not leave the shed, nor would it let you take it past the threshold. It hissed and scratched and bit until at last it'll let go and watch it run terrified back under Gary's bed. In the end, I gave up and stood watching the tree line, listening to the odd bird crow blindly in the mist. As far as I could see, nothing was out there, although I swore the tree seemed more active. Something was always rustling and swaying in the still humid air, and at times the world would fall so suddenly still, the only sound left would be the pounding of my heart. I decided to leave, going one last time to change. check on the cat, but it was nowhere to be found. I told myself it had run away, but it didn't sit right with me.

It had never gone further than a foot or two from the door. I wanted to stay and take a closer look, but the shed felt strangely threatening, like the eyes in the woods had followed me indoors. I dragged carefully back to the church, waiting for something to jump out from behind every corner. Every sound from behind had me twisting my head over my shoulder to look And every time I'd seen nothing but an empty path and the faint trace of movement coming to an end Some branch would sway back into place some bushel would come to a rest A distant bird would land and groom its feathers

Gary I cried strolling straight through the ground floor and down the stairs that led to the basement floor Gary, have you run any new programs lately? I know a few things about the basement in that church. It is every bit as strange as the machine in the house, and I suspect both are bigger on the inside than out. I know that I've never gone further than the third floor, and for good reason. My last excursion brought me face to face

with a withered corpse of three young children, dressed as you might expect if they had been around in the twenties. They were cradling each other, and I'm quite certain they starved to death, and yet the stairs were no more than a few metres from where I had stood. There is a temptation in this place, one that drives you to keep on digging in pursuit of new cards, new programmes.

I read some of the journals stashed away beneath a pews upstairs, and they're like poorly written horror cliches. I mean, for the guy who tried close, cloning his dead kid, I at least felt sorry. But the dumbass who asked for a new Messiah? On the second floor, there's a greasy shadow in the shape of a man burned into one of the walls. It's always wet, always dripping,

and sometimes it almost appears to move. I am quite certain that's what's left of the guy who asked the computer to print out a new Jesus. I don't know what happened to the guy who cloned his son, but I suspect is down in the lower floors, either dead or, well, God, I hope he's dead. Unfortunately for them, none of those guys had Carrie, whose unique way of thinking lets him wander this place freely,

and with strange purpose. He never gets lost, and he always knows where to find what he's looking for. He just needs to know exactly what it is he needs to find. I'd be screwed without his bizarrely unique insight into the computer. So, why wasn't Gary answering me? Gary? I cried. A few feet away, the computer coughed and I eyed it suspiciously.

Right now, it was idle, humming quietly from within the oven that had birthed it. I don't know what it looks like, hiding in the dark, but enough of it pokes out of the iron moor that you can use the basic controls. Personally, I don't like handling its various. organs. It takes hours to wash the smell off. Gary doesn't mind though, and depending on the time of year, its fingertips and nails are often stained by the computer's fluids.

The colour is blood red, and the effect is quite unsettling. What have you done? I asked, knowing I wouldn't get a reply. Gary! I screamed, Gary! I stopped to grab the gun before descending to another floor. I walked down every silent corridor of metal boxes, hoping to hell I'd find Gary hunched over an open drawer and too focused on the task at hand to listen to me.

But each one was empty, and at times I saw a glimpsed movement in the corner of my eyes. It was like something lurked purposefully out of sight, slinking into cover every time I looked. On the next floor down, I found the cat, and I knew something again. gone wrong for real this time. The computer had made us its fair share of hideous monsters, but something about this puzzle made me feel a new kind of uneasy. The cat was untouched and looked almost peaceful, but it was far too still to simply be sleeping, and when I picked it up, its neck lolled about at an unnatural angle. Standing there and holding it, I heard a rising note of quiet whimpering.

It was fragile, childlike, and I recognised it immediately. Gary was sitting on the floor a few hours over, sobbing into the shirt he'd pulled off his back and buried his face in. Hey, buddy, I said, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder. What's going on? I'm sorry, he whined, refusing to look me in the eye. "'Garry?' I said. "'I won't be mad.

Just tell me what happened.' "'I thought you wouldn't notice.' "'Is this about the cat?' I asked. "'I didn't mean to. I just thought it could use a friend, and I didn't want to make another one, and I got too excited, and I didn't want to wait, and I found an old program on the fifth floor,

and—and—and—and—' "'What was the program?' I asked. It was for a friend, he cried out, almost shouting in desperation. I knelt down further and put my arm around him, pulling him closer to my chest and telling him it'd be okay. I was thinking a little problem over when something popped into my head. Gary, I said, all the cards below floor three aren't in English. You said so, remember? It means friend.

he said, pulling a small box of cards from his trouser pocket. If it's snugly in my hand, able to hold around 35 cards that lent it a satisfying weight. The box was labelled in an unrecognisable language, something that happens a lot if you go down too far. We've had luck translating some of them, but never anything like this. How did you know to find it? I asked. It means friend, he repeated. Who told you it means friend? I cried, feeling my temper fray.

The computer did, he said, before bursting into a trumpet flare of tears. The computer is never explicitly deceitful, but it does have a sense of humour as slightly adjacent to the human norm. And, as of late, it's found not tampering particularly irritating. I knew damn well. that the word friend was plenty ambiguous enough for it to work some cruel twist. Not to mention, it begged the question. Friend to who? How big is it? I asked.

It changes, he cried. What does it look like? Whatever it wants, he sobbed. That was a sobering thought. On a strange hunch, I stood up and walked back over to the cat. But, to my surprise, it hadn't gone anywhere. tall. The small body still lay there, a little token of sadness. From behind, Gary approached, and I could feel him hovering over my shoulder. Must be a quick little bugger to beat me down here

with a cat, I said. God, he must have snuck in, taken it, and fled down here without... Gary spoke, and the words turned my skin twice. To hear his voice dripping with such malice, It was utterly alien Whatever it wants He growled In one swift moment I fell Dropping to the floor Just as something passed over my head

I didn't see it But the speed let me know It would have been a killing stroke In hindsight I think that as soon as I hit the floor I should have rolled over and fired But god damn it That thing had me spooked so badly

It was like I could feel his presence as a kind of heat that burned through my clothes. My whole body rebelled at the threat of danger, and I hid the floor awkwardly on my hands and knees. I immediately kicked my feet and began to half run, half crawl forward, letting inertia carry me until I was upright and able to sprint maniacally towards the only stairs. God, I don't know if I was actually going fast, but to me it felt like warp speed. Every second I bought was like gold, and the longer I ran, the longer I felt convinced this was going to work. Just before the stairs, I found myself jumping in time to miss a filing cabinet turn into something completely unrecognisable.

It wore darkness like a fabric, and I could barely even see its outline. But whatever shot out to snatch at my ankles looked like the gills of a mushroom. On the next floor, the same thing happened again, and I became aware of a manic patterned. of feet that seemed to follow and flank me wherever I went. This thing wasn't going to settle for anything less than a full ambush, which at least meant it wasn't going to try and overpower me. Things only came to a standstill when I burst into the room of tinklers and found Gary lying face down in a pool of blood.

Half the machines had burned out, blood and viscera leaking from their pupils. But a few worked tirelessly away at blank screens, crying sadly to themselves and mute to torture. One of them I managed to foreclose to Gary's body and I noticed it tugging sadly at his sleeve. This was a busy room and I walked carefully down the row of pink machines

trying to pierce the ever-present hum of computer fans. When something strange caught my eye. I'm not an arrogant man but I was guilty of some pretty sharp tinkering down in that room. There was a universal reactor in every tinkler

something born out of experience. and what I suspect is some primitive genetic memory that grows each time I feed the computer the dead ones for recycling Either way every box in that room that was alive and typing flinched as I passed It's a subtle tell for those big eyes know me they know what I'm like and every last one paused for just a fraction of a second as I went by Well except for one I turned and fired discharging both barrels and in a rapid succession. But god damn, that thing was so fast that even in that split second it had already begun to

morph and leap. It was lightning quick and clever too, and if it hadn't been for a bit of luck and wit, it had latched onto the back of my head with a force of a bear trap. But it was unable to survive the two shotgun rounds. It blew apart in a withering hail of fire on fleshy strips and fungal stems. I'd never seen a damn thing like it. But what was left of its corpse was like some kind of weird muscular origami. I figured it had a strange way of unfolding itself as the changed size,

but for some reason, looking at it hurt my eyes. But Gary hadn't been as lucky as I had. When I rolled him over, he was missing most of his face. He was a good guy, real clever and innocent. It pains me to admit this, but he was my closest friend. friend, and I didn't like seeing him hurt. The next hour or two was going to be tough. I knew that, and I barely took breath before beginning the long job of dealing with this mess.

It was quiet, pulling him out of the back room. All the tinklers stopped what they were doing, and for once I didn't start kicking at them to go back to work. It was never nice when the computer scored a victory. Eat it up, I growled. as I finally heaved Gary's body into the open-mouthed oven. A few of the computer's eyes fixed on me, but otherwise it didn't react. I guess it didn't need to.

I was hauling my best friend into its mouth, letting it gorge on his flesh, and, well, I don't even know what it does to the things we put in there. Back upstairs in the church, I returned to my office and took a moment to steady my nerves. right then and there I could have burned the whole damn building down computer and all

Gary had never deserved the computer's ire or revenge that should have always been me I finished a quick glass of whiskey and pulled a small panel away from the wall it hid a safe no larger than a hand-length each way thinking carefully I record the code and opened it

there we go I said, time to start again. I removed the small box full of metal cards. I'll never know exactly what they say or instruct the computer to do. But the single word printed on its box made it clear enough that this, and of all the millions of programs and instructions stored away downstairs, was the most valuable by far. It simply read, Gary.

In the shadow of the Tadral Mountains, in the valley where reception is non-existent. and the radio sing a single static field song. There is a village. It's no different than any other villages you would find in the Slovakian countryside. There's a single road lined with wooden cottages, the occasional pensioner on a horse, and the fresh mountain air is intermixed with a gentle smell of manure.

It's just like any other village. Except for the screaming. Every evening, after the day's fieldwork is finished, and dinner has been eaten. The people of the village get ready for the ceremony. They wash up, put on their Sunday best, and gather at the edge of the woods. A couple dozen people, young and old, but mostly old. Watch as the sun slowly sets behind the tree line.

The lower the ball of fire sinks beneath the dark wood, the more their mouths open. It starts off as a gentle gargle, something you'd have to be close to hear. But as the sky reddens, those whispered screams grow into a throaty thunder that echoes through the valley. The children in their button suspenders, the old women in their humble headscarves, the farmers wearing their wedding suits, they all scream at the setting sun from the core of their souls. I grew up in this. This all seemed normal. As most children do, I had my why period.

I would ask why the sky is blue, why Mr. Joscovix rooster crows every morning, why the trees shed their leaves with the coming of winter. I was a young human being trying to make sense of the world that I had been plunged into. My mother and father answered most of these questions to the best of their abilities. They supported my curiosity, but as soon as I asked about the screaming, their tone changed. My father would slam his blistered hands on the table. and send me to bed without supper. Some questions were not simply meant to be asked.

My mother would sneak into my room after all the lights were off with some porridge. She would sit down on the edge of the bed and give me food under the promise that I wouldn't question the daily ritual. The people of the village simply had a habit of saying goodbye to the setting sun in their own special way. That was all I needed to know.

Some questions were simply not meant to be asked. I was hungry enough to let go of my curiosity. My voice was hoarse from all the screaming, and the question of the ritual did steal some sleep away from me. But there were more important things to attend to. There were cows to milk and chicken to feed and horses to groom. Sometimes, for a couple loaves of fresh bread or a plastic bottle of moonshine, I would be asked to attend to the neighbour's livestock as well.

Apparently, the animals liked me. Whenever my parents or anyone else in the village would enter our barn The cattle would buck and ram against the wood in discomfort It was only if I was alone with them That they were calm Whenever any of the livestock was giving birth I'd be summoned to keep the animal company

It was in those big demise of new mothers That I would find peace The world was a mysterious place Some questions were simply not meant to be asked but I still ask them. By lanternlight, as Olga, our heaviest cow, better calves, I would talk to her. Her ears fluttered as I asked her about the screaming. We became friends.

My childhood blended into my teams in a calm, rural pace. I muddied my clothes feeding, cleaning and grooming the animals during the day. Then I would eat dinner with my parents, wash up, change the clean clothes and go out to the edge of the woods. I screamed just as hard as anyone. I did my best and match whatever throaty note the rest of the procession was hitting. I looked out toward the setting sun with the same devotion the rest of them did. But sometimes, when I thought no one would notice, I would sneak a peek into the crowd. I hoped that maybe I would catch a glimpse of someone else, someone who's like me, someone who didn't understand. Every day I would walk

towards the woods with that silent hope in my mind. I hope that I would spot a spark of recognition in someone's eyes. I looked at the Joscovich's boy, the same one who would work the fields in the same sweaty shirt all summer long, but somehow had a new suit and tie for each day of worship. There was no sound of doubt in his devotion. The children, the same ones that would poke frogs crushed by uncaring horses all morning long, their youthful curiosity was gone. They were committed to the scream. Even my father, a man who seldom showed any emotion, screamed into the blackening sky with tears, gathering in his dark eyes. I was alone.

I was different. I just didn't know the extent of it yet. Thunder, a crackling bolt of electricity tore through the apple tree outside my window. I bolted out of bed, just in time to see the flame. of the impact die out in the downpour. For a split second, my bedroom was plunged back into darkness. I listened to the heavy rain beat against our tin roof. My room lit up again.

A flashlight. My father stood in the door, soaked, still wearing his rubber boots. Olga, she's giving birth. His voice was weaker than usual. Something bad happened? I asked. You should go check on her. He load his flashlight and let me change out of my night clothes.

As I bowled on my pants, the beam of his flashlight shook. What he saw in the barn made his hands unsteady. My mother hugged me as I made my way out of the cottage. She was just as wet as my father. She had been witness to the same horror. Don't be sad, she whispered. Sometimes they're born wrong and there's nothing we can do about it. I put on my raincoat, but it made no difference. The morning rain came

down with a cruel, sweeping force. Bolt of lightning exploded off in the woods and thunder shook the entire valley. But as it got closer to the barn, even through the powerful barks of the storm, I could hear her wailing. Olga was in pain. Jet black skin covered in scales. Where the calves here should have been, there were simply two bloated crests of swamp green flesh. When I'd entered the barn, the creature was halfway out of Olga. It hung lifelessly, its thin hoofs bending against the straw-filled ground, but its eyes were open. Those milky orbs with floating crimson chunks still halt my sleep until the end of time. I quickly turned away from the monstrosity and moved to comfort my friend.

Olga's big brown eyes darted around the barn with fear Her jaw was spread wide and delivered whales so guttural I worried for her life She didn't understand what was happening Neither did I The cow didn't calm Until there was a sound of something wet Rolling out onto the straw

She licked it I watched my only friend Gently run a tongue across her lifeless Mishapen child We sat there in the dim dusk, our morning occasionally illuminated by flashes of lightning, but eventually the storm passed. The barn descended into complete silence. The only thing you could occasionally hear was the occasional rustling in the pig pens

and the rhythmic sounds of Olga's tongue dragging across a dead child. I wept for a loss. If she could, she would have wept as well. The calf's body was cold to the touch, its neck twisted against the floor in a fashion that made breathing impossible. I was sure that there was no way that the thing could be alive. Yet, as the sunset started to pour in through the cracks of the barn, those milky eyes blinked. Before I could even properly register the creature's resurrection, the calf was standing. It shuddered beneath its scaled, skinny legs, the tufts of green flesh at its teeth.

temples throbbed. The animal seemed to be in a horrid daze. It looked across the barn. It's dirty, white eyes searching for something. Olga stayed at the creature in fear, her tongue safely inside of a jaw. We both watched in horror as the frail creature made its way to the eastern side of the barn and pressed itself up against the beams of sunlight that were flooding in. The calf screamed. The guitaral tone of the scream brought echoes of the sun worship that the village would partaking, but where the voices of the villagers boomed with thunder, the cry of the calf whimpered. This wasn't a scream of worship. This was a death rattle. Foam started to gather at the edges of the creature's mouth, and soon enough the entire scaled moor was filled with

white bubbles. Its wail started to wane. The singular tone dipped and rose and made the animal sound like a dying, organic siren. The scream was a scream. whimpered down to a whisper. Its knees started to buckle, and finally the creature fell over to its side. The pops of mucous-filled bubbles from the creature's mouth tore through the stillness of the barn. It's dead. My father was standing behind me, the heavy flashlight dormant in his hand. Let all go rest. I'll bury the thing. I opened my mouth to protest, but before I could get a word out, my father cut me off. Sometimes they're born wrong, and there's nothing we can do about it.

His voice was cold. He wanted me out. A warm morning sun flooded the barn as he opened the doors. Let Olga rest. The big brown orbs of sadness let me know that Olga needed to be alone. I gave my only friend space to mourn the death of a child. My mother met me outside in the rain-drenched glass and gave me another hug. She offered me rare respite for my duties.

She said I needed rest. What I saw was difficult to digest. I could go back to sleep and she would take care of feeding the animals. If I woke up with some energy, then I could help her with making dinner. Sleep was lasting of my mind, but so was feeding chickens. Instead, I set out on a walk in the woods. The shade of the thick tree line would always be my preferred means of escape from my thoughts. Whenever I would find myself thinking too hard about the mysterious screaming that my village

would indulge in, or what lingered beneath the sweaty shirt of the Joscovich boy, I would wonder through the cool forest path and stomp on the twigs that would make their way beneath my feet. With each snap I could hear, the thoughts that plagued me lose in their strength. as I made my way through the forest, even after nearly an hour of wondering, the snaps of the twigs sounded like pops of the calf's foamy mouth. My legs were tired. I sat down by a berry brush, tried to fingerpick my feelings away, but only ended up with a purple mouth.

The milky eyes of Olga's dead child were drilled into my memory. I could hear its wails echoing through my head. I stuffed my face with some more blueberries, and then laid down on some moss. The birds chirped off in the distance and a gentle summer wind crested my arms. Suddenly, my exhaustion caught up with me. Whoa, another person!

A bloom of smoke manifested itself in front of my eyes. It smelled like a mixture of strawberries and milk. Whoops, sorry, didn't mean to blow that in your face. The silky strings of fog faded away to reveal a colorful dressed man with a bright backpack. In his hand he had a strange pipe that flashed with blue light whenever he put it to his mouth. When a hit, it's strawberry cheesecake, he said, and then broke out into a coughing fit. No thank you, I said.

Your loss? He took another puff, this time without coughing. The strange short pants and colourful t-shirt were odd, but what truly puzzled me was his hat. its brim was cut short and only shielded the man's forehead, an imprint of a strange lizard with the word chill adorn on the front of his hat. I was very confused. Man, it's so nice out here without any emails or I am's right.

It's like we're living in a completely different world. I had no idea what he was talking about. His clothes and that weird pipe made me feel uncomfortable. But in the pit of my stomach, something rustled, It wasn't the blueberries. It was the same rush of warmth that washed through me when the Joshkovich boy talked to me. But this time, there was no stench of sweat. This time, there was strawberry cheesecake.

I wanted to impress the strange man. Which lodge are you staying at? He asked. You wouldn't have heard of it, I replied, with as much confidence as I could muster. Cool, cool, cool, cool, he said, take the last. another puff of his pipe. I'm chilling at the girl in, came out here for two weeks

to just kind of get away from stuff, you know? I'm a songwriter. Well, I think of myself more as a poet, but whatever, that's just a label. Figured a bit of the forest would help me write some really earthy stuff.

There's not enough nature in modern life, you know? I grasped onto the few words that I understood. You make music? I asked. My father sometimes played the accordion. He was not very good. I'd make art. I'd show you, but...

He reached into his pocket and produced a small metal tablet. He looked at it, and his eyes went wide. Oh, damn, this signal here! He waved the tablet about, occasionally reading something of its screen. He sat down on the moss next to me, looked at his tablet, tuttered at it disprovingly, and rose to stand in the exact same spot where he stood before. There's only signal here, but if you want to see a video of my band, yes, I got up and stood next to him. There was a television on the tablet.

I had never met someone who was on a television. We watched the movie of his band performing. The music was very strange, and every two seconds the musicians froze in place and stopped singing. The man kept apologising and talking about the bad signal. But I didn't mind. I was just getting lost. in the smell of strawberry cheesecake and the gentle hint of oak that was coming off from his neck. I didn't even notice the sky growing red.

Do you hear that? he asked, tapping his finger on the tablet and silencing the band. Hear what? That? A low, growing gurgle spread through the wood. The man nervously let loose another silky cloud. Oh, that's just my village, saying goodbye to the sun, I said. Hey, do people scream at the sun where you come from?

What? He put his phone away, twigs crackling underneath his restless feet. The screams gained in tenor. The trees gently shook with the echo of the ritual. What the hell are you talking about? Saying goodbye to the sun. The people from my village do it every sunset. I don't know why, but...

That's some scary culty stuff. I am so out. He backed away from me. The low rumble of the screaming drowned out the snapping of the twigs. Uh, pleasure meeting you. If you want to hear more of my music, look up the Warriors of Prun on Spotify. Drug us a like on Facebook too. He didn't even wave goodbye.

The louder the screaming got, the faster he walked. By the time the berry bush started swaying, he was at a full sprint. I was alone again. As darkness set up, over the forest and the screams of my community started to die down. The questions that had driven me into the forest came back with tenfold force. What had got wrong with Olga to give birth to the misshapen calf? Why was the man so scared of the low rumble of the screaming?

Why was there screaming in the first place? Outside of the confines of my village community, there was another world. A world where nice-smelling men wore strange hats and puffed of magical pipes. pipes, a world were men who spoke a cryptic language buckled in fear at what I had grown accustomed to. I needed to understand. I returned home to find my mother and father sitting in the dinner table. A fire burned in the fireplace that made their room flicker in a warm, orange light, but their

faces were as in hospitable as a snowstorm. There was a cold plate of porridge on the table that reminded me how horribly hungry I was. I reached for it, however, my father's hand pushed it away. You did not attend the ceremony today. His voice was hollow and his eyes did not meet mine. Do not ever miss worship again. Why? I asked.

Why would I do something I do not understand? Why would I show up each evening to partake in a ritual that makes no sense to me? My mother whispered my name, begging me to stop. a blistered hand hitting the table drowned out her gentle plea. The orange glow of the fire danced in my father's eyes. For a blink, he looked like Olga's deformed child. Go to bed, he hissed. I pray that by the time the sun rises, you will come to your senses.

There are some questions that are simply not meant to be asked. I tried to find the will to argue back, to demand the knowledge that I deserved. But before I could speak, my mother, whispered my name again. She was pleading with me. This was not the time nor place. I would not find answers in the flagging light of the dining room. I went to sleep without supper or goodbyes. Auger's heavy body shook and heaved as she gave birth to a scaly offspring. The village screamed at the setting sun. The sweetsmen of strawberry cheesecake intertwined with a stench of sweat. As I lay in bed, my mind filled with half-digested memories. I don't know if

sleep came, but I know when it left. Beams of morning light peaked through my curtains. My mother was sitting at the edge of my bed with a plate of cold. She whispered my name. Please, child, eat your porridge and do not ask of the screaming. Please, if you hold your life dear, stop asking. But why? Why can't I ask? Why can't I know? Because, she sighed.

Her eyes searched my face for a trace of doubt, for a sign that I would let go of my questions. She couldn't find it. Because sometimes children are born wrong, and there's nothing we can do about it. Why does our village scream at the setting sun? Please, we cannot protect you if you don't follow the rules. me and your father just weren't the best for you.

Why does our village scream at the setting sun? I repeated my question. My mother placed a bowl of porridge at my bedside. She tried to meet my eyes, but she couldn't. She lowered her face into her hands and began to weep. We did our best to hide you. We did our best to give you a good life, but you were born wrong. You were born wrong, and we can no longer keep your secret.

She looked up. Two milky white orbs with droplets of floating scarlet stared back at me. I'm sorry, child, we can no longer protect you. Your questions will bring doom to our kind. Her jaw dropped and let loose that horrid, throaty scream. Any trace of that familiar motherly voice was gone. It was replaced with something foreign, something horribly dark. Her face rumbled as the tone of the scream grew.

Her whole potty shook with effort, and then as if her skin were made out of strips of ham on poorly buttered bread, she started to shed. Beneath my mother's pale skin, there were jet-black scales. I wanted to get away, but she wouldn't let me. When I tried to pull back, she gripped my leg with her hand. The same hand that would caress my hair when I was young and feverish. The same hand that would tend to the wounds when displeased chickens took her mind. bridge with my shins, the same hand that I would hold when I was learning how to walk. That same hand was now unrecognizable.

As the skin shed off, her fingers turned into long, sharp claws. She held me down and extended her other hand towards my face. I'm sorry, my child, she said, punctuating her screams. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. The claws that she extended to my eyes shone with the color of the same. setting sun. The glow was impossibly hot. My eyes started to water as those bright needles approached my face. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so... smash! The bowl broke against the skull like an egg. The thickened porridge hid the floor and splattered into massive white

chunks. I ran. Behind me, my mother stopped apologising. Now she was just screaming, screaming and clutching. at the dark green wound that was bubbling from the side of her head. Shutting the front door of the cottage muffled a scream somewhat, but I soon realized she was not the only person releasing that throaty whale.

The village green was bathed in a bright morning sun, but out of the fields, out of the other cottages came dark figures with glowing fingers extended towards me. The dark, scaled-covered bodies

were alien to me, but I knew they were my neighbours. I could recognize, the screams. As the only community I had ever known descended into madness, I ran to the only friend I had. The barn doors barely made it through the thunderstorms. I had no allusion to them being able to hold off the screaming mob, yet I still shut them

as tight as I could and hid in auger's enclosure. At first she seemed happy to see me, but as the whaling outside grew closer, her long ears flickered and a big brown eyes filled with fear. Through the cracks in the wood, I could see glimmers of their fingers, like fireflies on a summer night. I hugged the cow as hard as I could. She rested her heavy head against my shoulders and pulled me in. The door didn't last. Within moments it was ripped off his hinges, and the crowd of bright-clored monstrosities was in the barn with me.

They moved towards me, screaming, the pale eyes slid. slowly fading behind the red glare that stemmed from their fingers. You were my only friend, I whispered to Olga as I hugged her tight. M-ruh, she replied. I faced the burning heat of the crowd in front of me. I prepared to meet my end in the hail of screams and the hue of the setting sun. But suddenly I felt wetness on the back of my neck. Olga's mammoth-tonged nuzzle the back of my head and pushed me to the side.

Mbrough Before I knew what was happening, the glow of the creature's claws were gone. The one-toned massive muscle and horns charged with a crowd of villagers with a battle cry that drowned out their screaming. Green bubbling liquid spilled across the barn. The screams broke into choked gurgles as Olga crushed everyone I had grown up around beneath her hooves. Yet she was outnumbered.

Even with her gargantuan strength, she was unable to shield herself from their heart. hot claws. My friend had sacrificed itself for me. I would not let a dime vein. As the battle between the cow and the villagers raged on, I slipped out of the barn and ran for my life. There's something to be said about Slovakian hospitality. When the people have done the Kravny found me stumbling through their fields, tattered and hungry, the only questions they asked was what size shoes I wear and how long it had been since I last ate. They accepted me as one of their own and did not inquire about my past. It took me weeks to get adjusted to my new existence.

There were so many things they get acquainted with. Cars and soda and the internet. These people lived in a world that was much bigger than the one I had inhabited before and the sudden knowledge of life being contained to more than just the dark woods and the setting sun was an intimidating piece of knowledge to digest. but Dolne Craveny had something I was well familiar with. Dornay Kravny had cows. After I had recovered from the fragile days

that wandering through the forest for weeks without proper supplies brings, I took a job in the local dairy industry. The cows took well to me, and I am happy in my job. But the friendship I have struck with the animals is nothing compared to what I had with Olga. I still think about a story. sacrifice, about how she was willing to give away her own life to help me escape. Yet, there's another part of my past which gnaws at me.

Each evening, as the bright ball of fire descended behind the black woods, I listen. Somewhere out there, in the far off valleys, I can hear a low rumble of the village in which I had grown up. I still think about them, still wonder about the mind-boggling mystery of their identity and practices. But then I remind myself of a simple truth. Some questions are simply not meant to be asked. Not a lot of people know this, but up until the 1800s, it was an uncommon for wealthy

travellers to blindfall themselves when crossing mountain ranges. It seems bizarre today, but the same vistas that we now use to make our desktop background snazzy used to inspire fear in our ancestors. They look out of the carriage at the rugged, snow-peak stone before them, at the dark valleys, untouched by human hands below them, and avert their gaze in fear. Land which, like civilization, wasn't beautiful. It was terrifying. Out there, in their untamed wilderness, there was danger. There were things beyond comprehension.

Out there, in the impassable wood, there was death. A piece of cloth wrapped around one's eyes would help stave off thoughts of human fragility. The whole idea seems silly, but having heard what I've heard, I can't help but wonder whether the nobleman who are passing through the Slovakian Tatra mountain range at sundown wore something else along with their blindfold. I wonder if they wore earmuffs. My trip to Slovakia was a last-ditch effort to save the band. The Warriors of Perun was my baby, and I knew if I didn't put together some new songs,

it would become a stillbirth. I had hoped that by escaping the constant rustling of Prague subway system and the mysterious smell of dog food that lingered around my neighbourhood, I would manage to unlock some magical creative energy. Lyric ideas that could fill entire albums hung from trees in the forests of our eastern neighbour. I figured all I had to do was disconnect from the internet and go pick up the luscious inspiration fruit. I was wrong. Even though Slovakia is completely landlocked, the mountain lodge that I had ended up booking smelled pervasively of fish. The lodge also happens to be the closest

thing to a village pub in the area, so every day from noon until sunrise, the wall shook with Palenka-fueled singing sessions. The part of their advertisement that mentioned a tranquil rural location was also misleading. Whilst the Goral Inn was, indeed, located in the middle of nowhere, it was also located right next to a major road that led through the middle of nowhere. The Tatra Mountain Vista, which I came to see, was constantly surrounded by the fog of Polish truck drivers. Within the first hour of me getting settled into the Goral Inn, I'd heard the drunk men downstairs how the same song about throwing cherry branches into unmarried women's dresses thrice. This was not the writing retreat that I had in mind. I considered getting in my car

and driving back towards the smell of dog food, but I reminded myself that my trip to Slovakia was a last-ditch effort to save the band. You can't give up halfway through a Hail Mary. I refilled my vape, avoided getting run over, crossing the road, and hopped the fence into the forest in search of inspiration. After a couple minutes of awkwardly stomping through shrubs, I found a quaint hiking trail that I thought could inspire a chorus in me. The crackling twigs beneath my feet brought back memories of how Gustav, our drummer, would slam crackling electricity out of his set. If the birds would have been chirping faster, and maybe a bit more manically,

they'd sound just like the killer licks that Theon could hammer out on a mandolin. The entire forest had conspired to remind me of my bandmates, but it refused to give me what I truly wanted. I was drawing a complete blank creatively. So, I pushed further. The forest trail slowly disappeared beneath my feet. The air became cool under the shade of the thickening tree line and the happily chirping birds were replaced with a whistling of the wood.

I just kept on walking, leaving a thick cloud of strawberry cheesecake vape smoke behind me. I knew that somewhere in the forest there was a... amused that would help me spin gold into my notes app. All I had to do was find her. Instead, I found someone else. A pale girl passed out on a bed of moss. She looked hard. The dress she wore gave off the impression of being made out of potato sack and her mouth was covered in the slightest hint of purple. The blueberry bush next to her provided some explanation but there was still something about her that pulled on the strings of my brain. Pale girl lying in a bed of moss, mourning her best friend's loss.

As soon as the words manifested in my head, I could see Thayan rolling her eyes. The Warriors of Perun deserved better than cryptic single-syllable rhymes. I could do better. I just needed to try harder. I took another puff of my vape and tried to come up with something more creative. Just as I could feel another wave of lyrics stirring in the back of my skull, the girl opened her eyes. I immediately became self-conscious. Someone had called me watching them sleep again.

Whoa, another person, I exclaimed, hoping to sidestep the awkwardness. She brushed aside the cloud of smoke and stared at my vape. I want a hit? Strawberry cheesecake. I tried to make my offer as casual as I could, but the smoke, chocked back in my throat. She waited for my coughing fit to die down before she answered. No, thank you, the girl replied in a hoarse voice. Your loss, I said, and took another less embarrassing puff of my vape.

The girl's eyes bulged as they darted around my body. It was as if I was the first human being that she had ever seen, as if the mere existence of a vape was some work of science fiction. For a split second, I was worried that I'd stumbled upon some strange cult reject, but when she started to stare at my hat, my mind eased. Strange clothes, pale skin, bad at social cues, and is interested in my cool snapback? I figured the chances of me bumping into a graphic designer, even in the middle of the forest, was still higher than the chances of me bumping into an escaped lunatic.

Gustav had been complaining about how our logo looked more like a bearded man sitting on a dog, rather than a pagan god riding his steed into battle. As much as I hated to admit it, I was partial to agree. I planned to leave Slovakia with something more than just lyrics, started to ruin my head. Man, it's so nice out here without any emails or IMs, right? It's like we're living in a completely different world, I said, trying to establish some camaraderie before moving on to logo design.

She just stared back at me, fascinated by my hat. "'Which lodge are you staying at?' I asked. "'You wouldn't have heard of it,' she said. I noted her hipster response as more evidence for the graphic designer theory. "' Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool,' I said, puffing my fate from morale. "'I'm chilling at the girl in. Came out here for two weeks just to kind of get away from stuff, you know? I'm a songwriter.

Well, I think of myself more as a poet, but whatever, that's just a label. figured a bit of the forest would help me write some really earthy stuff. There's not enough nature in modern life, you know. You make music, her eyes lit up. The high and mighty anger was working. I doubled down. I make art, I said, reaching for my phone. I'd show you, but...

Oh damn, this signal here. One bar, a tiny sliver of nothing in a desert. but still better than actual nothing. I pulled up a video from one of our performances and played it. The girl stood entirely too close to me. I could have sworn she was smelling me, but I didn't care. Even though the pixelated video was buffering every two seconds, it brought back high-definition memories.

I was back in that dingy dungeon bar, rocking out and tasting the flavor of reality that they don't keep stocked on the shelves. The Warriors of Perun stood in front of the wild, crowd like preachers delivering an ecstatic sermon to a devoted flock. I needed to be there again. I couldn't let the band die because of my writer's block. That's when I heard it.

It started off as a low rumble. I even ignored it for a second, mistaking it for echo or distant thunder. But the sky was clear and red in the setting sun. This was not thunder. Do you hear that? I asked, pausing the video. There was a low, creeping dread in the noise. I could feel it in the back of my neck.

Hear what? The girl blinked. That, I said. The noise had gained a gurgling quality. As dark and elemental as the tone sounded, it shook with human error. Oh, that's just the people from my village saying goodbye to the sun. She had become animated suddenly, as if we were finally talking about something she could relate to.

Hey, do you know why people scream at the sun? What the hell are you talking about? I yelled past the growing noise. There was a screeching mania to the screams. It was as if whatever mass of bodies that reduced the sound was in wildly different emotional states. Sadness, anger, joy, every possible palette of a scream mixed together. green mixed together into one horrid yell. And the girl didn't seem to find anything odd about that.

She was no graphic designer. They're saying goodbye to the sun. The people from my village do every sunset. I don't know why, but this is some culty stuff. I am so out. I couldn't contain my fear. The whales have gotten so loud that the goddamn trees were shaking. Whatever that screaming was, I wanted to get as far away from it as possible.

But as I started to break out into a sprint, even with a deafening screams in my ear, another voice cut through. Murder, Robert, you have to promote the band! Gustav used the end of his old cigarette to light up a new one. He had just seen me talk to two girls at a bar without mentioning the Warriors of Perun. He wasn't happy. Without likes and shares, we had to be. are dead. You must promote every chance

that you get. I froze. The world around me was shaking with a howls of some demented ritual, but I had a duty to fill. Ah, pleasure meeting you. If you want to hear more about my music,

look up the worries of Peron on Spotify. Juck us a like on Facebook too. As soon as I got the words out of my mouth, I broke into a sprint. Gustav would have been proud. I don't know when I stopped hearing the screaming. The adrenaline was coursing through my veins with such fervour that the only thing I could hear clearly in my ears was my heartbeat.

As frightened as I was, however, I was still able to make my way back to the garland without a second thought. I have no sense of direction. I was just lucky. I went back to my room to meditate, in hopes of breaking into some forest-inspired trance that would fill my head with poetic rhymes. But the echoes of the screams cut through any semblance of calm that my mind would allow.

All I could think about were the red, raw voice chords are the people that screamed at the setting sun. As discomforting as the idea was, there was something about it that reached out to me, something that begged to be explored. I tried to deny its pull. I tried to think about anything other than the screaming, but I couldn't. Outside, occasional headlights would pierce through the impossible darkness of the forest. The unexplainable smell of fish wafted around the room as if it were the ghost of a misguided sailor. Below me, the drunk men sang.

Oy, Anika, do not go into the wood. Some secrets are not to be understood. Oya Nika, they scream at the setting sun. If you hear them, just pull up your skirt and run. I froze. The moonshine-soaked crowd downstairs was singing about a village where everyone screams at the setting sun. The song was a solemn plea, a warning of a mysterious community that did not mean well, and was best left alone. The message was simple.

Stay away. We had just finished playing a show in a bar where the walls were met with sweat and testosterone. As soon as we got off the stage, I just became another face in the crowd of pearly beards. But Thoyan had developed a small harum of suitors. See, that's why people are so into incest porn, she told her followers as they brought her more shots. It's not that people want to sleep with their brothers and sisters, is that it's taboo. People always levitate towards things that are forbidden. Downstairs, the air was thick with a fog of smoke.

The black feather-tipped hats that the gawls wore were cocked at a drunken angle. Their white shirt carried the signs of spillage and cigarette burns. A couple of hand axes, way too sharp to be at a drinking establishment, lay propped up against the bar. I ordered a shot of Palenka and kept my vape out of sight to fit in. The alcohols scratched the way down my throat and started kindling a fire in my belly. I wanted to ask for a glass of water, but I asked for something else instead. I heard you guys were singing a song about a village where people scream at the setting sun?

Is that a real place? The balding partender with a dirty towel around his neck simply laughed as he poured me another shot. Some questions are simply not meant to be asked. I tried to pry him for more information, but he wouldn't budge.

Instead, he just kept on pouring me more shots of that devil water. I tried to talk to the other men in the pub to gain more information about the mysterious village that they sang about, but they all responded with the same words. Some questions are simply not meant to be asked. Even my attempts to get them to perform the song about the village again fell flat. The chorus was less interested in singing about the

Eldridge Mysteries that hid in the depths of the valleys, and more interested in singing about throwing cherry branches at unmarried girls. With each rejection came a shot. With each shot, my tongue became less cooperative in asking questions. I passed out as soon as I hit my my bed, faint traces of stars shown through the treetops, but there were simply specks of dust in the all-encompassing darkness. Beneath my feet, branches cracked like fresh snow. I was lost in the dark and alone. A light wind brushed through the silhouettes of the trees I could not see. I tried to focus on the snapping of twigs beneath my feet to find some semblance of calm in the disorienting darkness through which I was travelling, but my heart.

frantic mind did not allow for tranquillity. I wasn't the only one walking through the woods. I stopped. The crackle of the forest path behind me didn't stop. I was being followed. The blackness behind me shimmered. Outlines of trees and bushes slowly started to materialize from behind a dim red light. A chorus of screams echoed through the woods.

The shrubbery started to shake at the low tenor of the whales. I ran, turning the path beneath my feet into a staccato series of pops and crackles, but soon the screams that were following me overpowered my footsteps. The outline of the dark forest manifested in the crimson hue of the setting sun. I tripped, a lightning bolt of pain seared its way up my leg. There was no escape from the chorus of screams. They walked on two legs, but that was the only human thing about them. The procession of dark figures

move steadily through the woods Their horrid arms extended towards me A maddening red light Shown through the tips of their claws The closer they got The more I felt the blistering heat Stemming from their ghastly appendages From behind the blinding hotlight

I could see their milky white eyes Somewhere in those shapeless forms Dirted with specks of darkness Was incomprehensible anger They showed towards me through the wood. I tried to yell for help, but their deafening whales drowned at my screams. Beats of sweat crawled down my forehead. My body refused to move. The screams in my throat got stuck and came out as wimpers. Whatever was happening wouldn't last long.

I knew I was about to die. The red-tipped claws was so close to my face I could smell my beard singing. But suddenly, without a glint of warning, they disappeared. A dark mass of flesh leapt out of the darkness at the mysterious creatures. The forest flickered with a bloody light as a powerful force waged war with the monsters that meant me harm. The cold sweat that covered my body heated up under the boiling ache that washed through my skull. I woke up Dazed and confused with a promise to never touch Belinka ever again. The hangover was rough, and within minutes the sink of my room was filled up with stomach acids that tasted of rotten peaches.

Yet, as I splashed water on my face, trying to reacquaint myself with reality, something became deathly clear. Out there, in the woods, was something that begged to be explored. A foreign force that demanded to have songs written about. it. Out there in the woods was a village where people scream at the setting sun and I was going to find it. My trip to Slovakia was a last stitch effort to save the band. I had hoped that in the forest beneath the Tatra mountains there would be some ethereal source of inspiration that would kick out my creativity to help me keep the Warriors of Perun

together. I came out here looking for lyrics but in Instead, I found something else. Instead, I found the village where people scream at the setting sun. I love the band. Being on stage with Thouyan and Gustav is an indescribable feeling. But as I lay here, curled up in the darkness, searching for the slightest hint of a phone signal, I can't help but wish I stayed at home. Do not go searching for the village where people scream at the setting sun.

Some questions are not meant to be answered. Some mysteries demand to remain unexplained. Heed the warnings of the locals and stick to the tourist-friendly hiking trails. If you do, some must stumble through the forest and end up in the village where every sunset is met with a harrowing screams of creatures beyond our comprehension. Run. Run for your life and hope that the slick-skinned monsters that dwell within the village haven't noticed your presence yet.

Whatever you do, don't make the same mistake I did. Do not accept their invitation. To supper. Even though the tables downstairs were filled up with all sorts of smoked cheeses and crispy bacon, the whole lodge still smelled like a fish market. Having my nose assaulted by the stench of rotting sea, while being in the middle of a landlocked country, didn't help my hangover. But the fatty food the Goral Inn was serving for breakfast definitely did.

All of the lard and potatoes that made up traditional Slovakian cuisine serve as a hefty counterbalance to the raw fire that is Slovakian liquor. By the time I had finished my second helping of bacon topped at Holoski, last night's drinking seemed like a distant memory. I was an aspirin tablet away from becoming a regular human being. As my headache started to clear, the mystery of the enigmatic village hidden somewhere in those green valleys beckoned to me. milk, the bartender turned way to rasked. He still had the same dirty towel draped around his neck as he had the night prior. But this time, instead of a bottle of Palenka, he was holding a jug filled with frothy white liquid.

For a split second, the lodge didn't smell like fish anymore. It smelled worse. My hangover tickled my stomach. No, thank you. I'll stick to coffee. His cheery eyes dimmed. As if me, refusing to drink spoiled milk was an insult to his culture, rather than an attempt to spare my digestive system a horrible evening.

But the longer he looked at me, the more I realized he wasn't unhappy about the milk. There was something else bothering him. You're the one who asked about the village last night, he said. Yes, and you refused to answer my question, so I'm going to find out answers of my own. You're making a mistake, young man. Some questions are not meant to be answered, and some places are not meant to be found. If you value the life that God has given you, stay away from that village. Nothing good will come of it.

His warnings fell on deaf ears. Even as the remnants of the jagged hangover bounced around my head, I knew one thing for certain. Finding that village would bring me a boon of poetry that would stop my band from breaking up. I thanked the man for his concern, but assured him that I knew what I was doing. After wiping up my plate with some bread and chugging down another cup of instant coffee, I set out into the forest. The plan was simple.

I would make my way towards the spot where I'd met the strange girl. From there, I would search the forest for the village. People didn't usually nap in forests unless they lived nearby, and the screams of the villagers were loud enough to suggest that the... the mysterious ritual couldn't have been taking place far off. The forest was filled with blueberry bushes and slabs of moss that were nearly identical to the ones that I had met the girl by, but my memories I've seen the forest shake with the force of the thunderous screams were vivid enough to help me walk with confidence.

I wasn't worried about getting lost. Outside of the images that were scorched into my memory, there was another indicator that I could use to find a spot where I had witnessed the screaming. The phone signal When I had left Prague, I promised myself I would only use my phone for note-taking. All of those messages and news updates and analytics on our social media profiles were sapping away

and my creative potential while I was in Prague. I figured that cutting them out while I was in the mountains would help me foster a calm mind that would eventually give birth to good lyrics. Yet, as I made my way through the forest, towards the spot where I could catch the slightest hint of a phone signal, I started to reconsider my ban on the outside world. The idea to leave Prague came to me with such force that I had completely neglected to tell

anyone about my trip. Not answering anyone's messages for two weeks would give me that air of an unreachable artist that I so craved, but the idea of something happening that required my immediate attention not being addressed for two weeks churned in my stomach. I would just check my text real quick. Maybe I'd look at the analytics as well, just in case the Warrior Super Run had stumbled into the good graces of the algorithm and we'd become famous overnight.

If there were hundreds of new fans, I wanted to be there to like their comments and urge them to tell their films about the band. I stood in the same spot where I had stood the day before and took up my phone. One bar of service. My phone was reaching out to the world, beyond the mountains. I took a big puff of my vape and waited for the flurry of notifications

to come in. Nothing happened. I took another hit, filling the fresh mountain air with a scent of strawberry cheesecake, but by the time the silky smoke dissipated, nothing changed. I thumbed my way around every messaging app I had to make sure I was actually online. I was. No one was messaging me. I scrolled my way over to the band's social media. Zero shares, zero likes, zero comments, zero plays. Our music was streaming out under the World Wide Web, but no one was listening. We just finished another show.

The past month worth of gigs had been pretty bad, but this one was an absolute disaster. We got on stage two hours later than we were meant to, on account of the Booker getting into a fistfight. High-pitched ways of feedback cut through every song like a dull knife, and halfway through our set, a shirtless man rushed the stage, stole my microphone, and sang a little ditty about how Epstein didn't kill himself. The crowd clapped for him. They didn't clap for us. The only people in the audience that engaged with our music were the guy rolling on Molly, who screamed the wrong words during every chorus and the cheery-looking girl who sat at the back of the bar. Anita Vascova. I knew her from the occasional four in the morning music jams

that I had inevitably end up at whenever I was drinking. She was listening to the band in which I was the lead singer, but I don't think she noticed me. She kept her eyes closed. Anita was too busy beating out the heartbeat of the monstrous tune that Gustav was slamming out on his drum kit. My head echoed with advice from meditation apps. I forced to myself back into the present moment. I was standing in the middle of the forest, preparing myself for a journey into a mysterious village. I was doing something adventurous and daring for my art. There was no time for intrusive thoughts. I took another puff of my vape, hoping for the sweetness to wash out the memories of that awful night. It didn't.

My mouth filled with a dirty taste of burning cotton. The vape had run out of the of juice and in my eagerness to go find the people who scream at the setting sun I forgot to refill it. It might have been my realization that I might have to make do without my nicotine dispenser, but suddenly the forest felt much more oppressive. The happy birds that chirped the afternoon away the day prior were replaced with the streaks of agitated crows that flew above me through the treetop. Thick clouds blotted out the sun.

was going to rain, and I couldn't ease my mind with nicotine. Yet every creative journey requires the crossing of uncomfortable valleys. I knew that somewhere out there I could find inspiration. After updating my status to tell people I was out in the woods being a poet, I put away my phone to set out deeper into the forest. I was starting to get cold in my t-shirt, but a warm, optimistic fire was burning in my belly. Going on a journey through the sickly green, really hung over, need my nicotine.

Then after thirty minutes of walking, I ended up back at the same blueberry bush, or at least I thought I did. That small sliver of phone signal that I had found there before was gone. I figured that maybe it was a different brush, so I just kept on walking. But fifteen minutes later, I was right back where I started. My poor sense of direction had finally caught up with me. I was lost in the woods and out there in the distant valleys

thunder had started to rumble. The Mollyman had brought Thorn's affection with a baggie from his wallet. The two of them were caught in a drug-fueled love's embrace a couple of steps from the bathroom. I was sitting at the bar nursing a flat beer trying to pretend I wasn't the guy who had nervously walked off stage an hour ago.

The faces of everyone at the bar were downright hostile, and I kept on worrying someone was going to break a glass over my head, but I couldn't leave. As soon as we finished playing, Anita immediately snared Gustav into a conversation. The two just kept on going at it, excitedly talking about something that was muffled out by the drunkenness of the bar. Gustav barely helped with packing up the gear, and by the time Thurian met a new friend, I was alone for the job. The whole way through,

Gustav and Anita chatted away at the bar. I sat there, watching them, trying not to be obvious. There was some hope in me that maybe the two were just trying to sleep together,

but it faded with every minute of their animated conversation. This wasn't the talk of two people trying to bang. This was the passionate exchange of two artists deciding to have a baby.

It started to rain. At first, the raindrops were negligible. They even felt good and my sticky, hung over skin. But by the time I reached the same blueberry bush for the third time, the water came down in heavy, cold chunks. The valley echoed with thunder.

I could do the crackling of lightning in the distance. Memories of VCRs from the 90s teaching me about thunderstorms safety reeled through my head. I wasn't meant to stand under a tree. Easier said than done in a forest. Out of habit, I took a deep hit of my vape. My mouth and throat got punched by another wave of burnt cotton. I had no water to wash out the taste. I was lost in the forest during a thunderstorm, out of supplies, and massively hung over.

Despair starts to climb up the back of my throat, but I did my best to recall every single motivational post I had ever seen on Reddit. This was all part of the process. I was the master of my own destiny. This situation could be controlled. It was raining and I had a bad taste in my mouth. I stuck out my tongue and let the fresh water cleanse me of my mistakes. Thunder in the sky and I'm drinking rain.

Lost in the woods like a... Damn! Hail! Shards of ice came down like an artillery barrage. I tried to hide under a tree but a crackling thunder-claps scared. She took out a pair of headphones. She was playing Gustav her music. My pair of arms sustained most of the pelts,

but I could feel the hail growing harder, growing bigger. His eyes were closed. He was tapping the table. More thunder, more hail, more rain, more pain. They were going to run away together. Gustave and Anita were going to start their own band. I got down onto the forest dirt and curled myself into a ball. This was the end of the Warriors of Perun.

I screamed. It came out to me like a wave of projectile vomit. My voice cords burned raw. My nails dug into my hands. Something that had been festering in me for a long time was clawing its way out. The moment stretched into eternity. Me, a searing, screaming pain, travelling. through my body in the darkness of my shut eyes.

I don't know how long I howled in the forest, but by the time my voice had given up, I was back on my feet. The rain was gone. Birds were chirping off at the distance. I opened my eyes. Hello? I fell down into the slush of mud and sticks.

In front of me stood a little boy dressed in steamboat suspenders. He looked just like any other eight-year-old boy you'd find in a Slovakian Sunday church crowd, with one exception. Across his forehead, barely covered by his blonde locks, there was a dark, green festering wound. It looked like a hoof print. "'Sup,' I whispered in shock. "'My name is Samko. What's your name?'

He asked for the pep of a chocolate milk commercial. "'Robert. I tried not to look at that horrible scar. But I couldn't help myself. Hello Robert. You look quite lost and may be hungry. Yes? You look hungry.

My family's about to have supper and we own a map. Maybe you would like to join us? Severe head trauma aside, the kids offered our food and a way back home sounded heavenly. Maybe it was some sort of sign. Maybe this little helpful kid was sent out for the cosmos to help me get back home. Maybe the experience in the thunderstorm could, weave itself into a song and I'd managed to keep the band alive for just a little longer.

I was about to accept his invitation, but then another thought struck me. Yes, the kid was definitely a sign, but maybe he was there to get me further from home and closer to that Eldridge's Well of Inspiration I was searching for. Samko, do you know anything about the village where people scream at the setting sun? Ha, no, he said, but I do know about having you over for supper and making sure you don't die in the woods. The kid made a strong argument. I got up and agreed to come over for supper. He grabbed my hand as if I was the child and led me through the forest to a meadow.

His hands were freakishly soft. Little boy's soft hand, his scar I don't understand. But maybe he'll help me save the band. As we walked through the meadow, a hot afternoon sun dried my clothes. Not a single cloud in the sky. It was as if there never was a storm at all. The heavens were starting to turn a calm shade of orange as the brightest star traveled east. Everything was going to be fine.

Yet I couldn't take my eyes off the kid's scar. There was something so odd about the dark green hue of the wound. The mark looked bad. Hell, it looked fatal. But Samco moved with the confidence of a toddler who had never scraped his knee. I needed to know. Hey, uh, Samco? The scar you have in your forehead.

How'd you get that? The kid shot me a wide smile. It was then that I realized that he was missing a couple of his front teeth. One of the neighbors' cows went loose. Donko said. Does it hurt? I heard myself ask. Not anymore, he replied.

Ah, look, we're here. The village was just like any other village you would find in Slovakia. Groups of small wooden cottages lined a single rural road. Fields and barns and vegetable gardens stemmed out from the humble community out towards the dark forest. The place was peaceful. Someone was sharpening a scythe. A quiet song flowed out from one of the cottage windows. A general feeling of tranquility hung around the whole settlement.

Yet, when Samko and me passed by one of the barns that sat on the edge of the village, a cry of panic echoed to the valley. Whatever livestock was inside of that rickety structure was seized with a sudden, indescribable terror. Do you like animals, Robert? Samko asked casually. He was barely audible over the shrieking of the pigs. Uh, sure. You still have a dog.

Good. He smiled, his incomplete grin. Animals don't like me very much. It makes living on a farm difficult. Maybe he can help me feed the chickens. Oh, there's my dad. He was a mountain of a man. Even past the drab suit, you could see the body of someone who'd work the land his entire

life. A jagged scar of dark jade lying the right side of his face as if someone had knocked off a piece of the man's jaw. Papa, I found a man in the woods. I've invited him over for supper. Samko's father's eyes betrayed no emotion. He simply grunted, turned around and walked over to the chicken coop that was attached to the woodshed in the yard. The bird seemed to be anxious at his approach and the closer he got, the more they let their anxiety be known. The chicken that Samco's father pulled out of the coop let out sound so shrill I had to cover my ears.

The man in the suit had no compassion for the writhing bird. He carried a live animal as if it was a lifeless log of wood across the yard, pressed it in my arms and took a step back and watched. His tiny heart beat against my fingers.

Its beady eyes searched for a means of escape, but the chicken had calmed. I held the terrified bird in my hands as the man in the grey suit silently judged me. He likes animals, Samka whispered. The man smiled. His teeth were as sparse as his sons. I can see that.

Welcome to our humble village stranger. Put away the bird and come taste the woman's cooking. She was the only member of the family that didn't have obvious scars in her face. But what she lacked in gruesomeness, she made up for in the general uneas she inspired. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but there was something wrong with her. As I watched her transfer the bowls of sauerkraut and potatoes

from the stove to the table, I searched the face for the source of the discomfort that I was feeling. She prepared the table in complete silence and moved to the sluggish steps of a lobotomy patient, but there was something else off about her. Her eyes. You wouldn't notice it at first, but the more I looked at the pupils, the more I noticed the fading, milky quality behind them.

You were so lucky Samko has found you. Not everyone is as fortunate as you are. Misguided hikers disappear in this valley all the time. The man in the suit had become more amicable after the chicken incident. He was all gapped smiles now. Verona, get the man a glass of milk so that he can enjoy his dinner properly. Without a word, the woman got up from the table, went to the other room and emerged with a glass of sour milk.

The hangover that I'd forgotten made itself known as I saw the drink. Could I possibly ask for a glass of water? I'm not a sour milk type of guy. The man's eyes grew cold. But then, as if he had caught a glimpse of his own stony expression, He smiled again. Of course, of course. What sort of host would I be

if I couldn't bring water to a thirsty guest? He got up and walked to the other room. His wife and child sat in silence with tight-lipped smiles in their faces. Here, a glass of water. He bellowed with a good cheer as he emerged from the other room. Drink up, enjoy their food

and get ready for a good, long rest. It is dangerous to travel through these woods after sundown, but come morning we will take you back home so that you can sing praises of our hospitality. I took the glass of water and raised it to my lips. I watched Theon study the contents of a glass as if she was a detective trying to solve a murder case. The owner at the bar had given us complimentary Cuba Libres to ease the sting of the cancelled show. The audience was nonexistent and our drummer had bailed last minute because he was busy. I sipped on my charity, but Thurian kept on studying hers.

Something wrong? I asked. Checking for powder. A gal could never be too careful, she replied. All sorts of creepy dudes out there. It was passing through, a glimpse of irrelevant memory, but it still pulled my eyes towards the top of the drink. I froze. Remnants of white dust floated on the surface of the water. There were small chunks of crust of pills resting at the bottom on my glass.

I hate to be rude, I said, trying to stop my voice from shaking. But before I eat, I always like to take a couple of pots from my pipe. Would you mind if I popped outside for a quick second? His scarred face turned to cold stone. If he made an effort to hide behind a smile, it wasn't a good one. Of course, the man in the grey suit hissed to. his remaining teeth. Just make sure you don't stay out too long.

Wouldn't want the food to go cold. Another helping of burnt cotton, I was too stupid to anticipate. I did my best to hold back my coughs as I peered behind the window and watched the family. They just sat there, completely void of emotion, waiting for me to come back. They were waiting to drug me. I knew I couldn't go back to that house. Whatever charade we were playing was already wearing thin, but I also knew that I couldn't go back and mindlessly trudged to the forest. I barely made it out during the daytime.

Trying to find my way back to the Gorrel Inn under the cover of darkness would be the end of me. I sat there, crouched behind the cottage window, stuck in the same loop of indecisiness that had plagued me so many times before during more trivial parts of my life. Was I going to risk my life out in the woods? in the woods or let myself be drugged by the strange, scarred family. I desperately hoped that a stroke of genius would produce an infallible plan for me to survive the night, but before my lacklost or intellect could come up with an escape route, I was spurred into improvisation. Samko's chair creaked as he pushed himself away from the table.

He walked out of the dining room. The front door opened. Robert My lizard brain took control I dug past the window and hid in the woodshed curled up among the darkness of the logs I hoped that Samco

would just get hungry and go back inside but he didn't Robert his childish voice was getting closer a flurry of chuckling anxiety exploded out of the chicken coop as his footsteps squished through the mud luckily the birds quieted down

Samco had walked past the woodshed and out towards the forest Robert His voice stung with the sadness of a child Who had just been abandoned by his only playmate I watched Samco through a gap in the woodshed And for a split second I wondered whether I was overreacting The kid didn't look dangerous He looked lonely

As he stood alone beneath the slowly reddening sky, an ember of empathy started up in the back of my throat. It was quickly snuffed out. Robert! He yelled my name again, but this time his voice was draped in a tenor

that sounded nothing like a child. The sound that came from his mouth echoed with a dangerous, inhuman energy. Robert! There was a growing frustration behind his calls. Robert! Samcoe stumped his little feet and let out a cry so dark, so savage, so deafening

that it seemed as if the whole universe had shifted on his axis. Sawdust rain down on me from the ceiling of the woodshed as I watched the little boy's true form reveal itself. Bits of flesh peeled themselves from the back of his head like wet wallpaper. His pale skin hung out from behind his steamboat suspenders like straw and a poorly made scarecrow. Beneath his human shell,

Samco was covering in slick, jet-black scales. The chickens became anxious again. The muddy backyard sounded off with another set of footsteps, heavier footsteps. The man in the grey suit lumbered his way next to his son and looked out toward the forest. Robert! Robert!

He screamed in the same infernal tone. A piece of skin popped off from his bulging neck. The dark scales that rested under his flesh throbbed with a primal rage. Robert! The man in the suit howled out into the woods again. No Robert emerged. Samgo's father let out a low, angry hiss, and then pelted his son across the back of his head. As soon as his mammoth hand delivered the blow, its skin rumbled up and slid off like a

moist glove. Beneath the skin of his human hands, Samco's father had been hiding dark claws. At the edge of each of his razor-sharp fingers, there was a bright light that shined with the colour of the setting sun. Samco's father wrapped his eldridge appendage around his son's shoulder and led him out toward the edge of the wood. Soon other villagers emerged and joined the misshaped father and sun in the clearing. Soon I realized that I was was in the village where people scream at the setting sun. The roaring screams that I had heard the day prior were nothing, compared to the earth-shaking force of seeing the ritual up close.

The universe shook at its core. It threatened to crack beneath the sheer volume of the deafening yells that the villagers let loose at the reddening sky. When it was all over, when the world outside was plunged into darkness, and those ghastly howls had finally ceased, I was happy to be alive. I thought it was all over. I thought that all I had to do was hide out in the woodshed until daybreak and then run as fast and as far as I could with a promise never to return to this horrid place again. Then the lights appeared.

Bobbing bulbs of crimson danced in the darkness like burning fireflies. They were moving back towards the village. village, towards my woodshed. They moved with a single rally and cry. Robert! They were looking for me. This whole trip had been a horrible mistake. I hoped to come to Slovakia to find a source of inspiration to keep the warriors of Perun afloat. But I don't think I'll be writing any songs about this trip. I don't think I'll be writing any songs ever again. I don't think I'll make it through the night.

The chickens are growing more agitated by the minute. The horrible creatures that are calling my name are getting closer. Those red, glowing orbs that float through the darkness like sluggish fireworks keep on getting brighter. It's just a matter of time until they find me.

If I somehow manage to find a sliver of signal, a tiny bit of internet for me to get out my last words before the creatures who scream at the setting sun tear me apart with their bright-tipped claws. Please, pass on my final words. Tell Gustav that my dying wish was for him

not to start a band with Anita Vascova. I was in the middle of a dark forest. My leg was darkened as well, and I had no idea how I'd be getting back to the Goral Inn. But at least I was alive. I was alive in getting further from the village where people scream at the setting sun. The blood-red glare that was,

I'd ebbed and float from the barn where my four-legged friends were fighting the bright- clawed creatures was a distant memory once I was deep enough in the woods. The only thing that shone for me were the faint suggestions of stars obscured by the treetops. But I could still hear the echoes of battle. The sound of slaughter bounced around the valleys as a constant reminder that I was not safe. The livestock wouldn't hold off the villagers forever. Eventually they would come looking for me. The only hope that I had was that by the time the blood and feathers settled, I would be far enough to no longer be worth pursuing.

It was difficult to be optimistic about my prospects of making it through the black forest with nothing but a flashlight. The throbbing pain that was spreading through the place where the creature had stabbed me didn't help. Neither did the shivering mountain wind that was drifting past my bloodstained t-shirt. But I knew that if I was to survive, I couldn't think about those things. I had to think about getting back home, about Prague, about the Warriors of Perun. Me and Anita sat down on a bench outside of the bar at around 3am for a single cigarette. We barely knew each other. It was just meant to be a bit of small talk between two musicians.

The whole conversation wasn't destined to last longer than 15 minutes, but it lasted much longer. Our talk bounced through our personal histories, a shared love of music, the guilty pleasure shows that we would watch. We talked about anything and everything as the sun crawled onto the sky from behind the Prague Castle and the grumpy morning commuters filled the streets. We smoked her entire pack of luckies. Once those were done, we got another pack

and a small bottle of whiskey. We basically had an extended after-party on the city bench, and just like any after-party, it was difficult to leave. There was just something about her that I couldn't leave behind, even though I knew I had responsibilities to attend to in the morning,

responsibilities that I cared about. I just stayed, glued to that bench. Talking to Anita was a cathartic experience. Even though the two of us had only known each other for a handful of hours, those hours oozed with genuine connection. The thrill of being on stage, a religious experience of standing in front of complete strangers and making them bobbed their heads with nothing but some lifeless strings

and my vocal chords, verbalising those ideas felt horribly pompous in front of anyone else. But with Anita, my passion flowed with a confidence I didn't know I had. Suddenly, all of my neuroticism had morphed itself into an enjoyable personality quirk. She liked me. When we hugged goodbye in the glaring morning sun, I thought I was in love. My infatuation lasted for about a week. When I messaged her about how well our first gig went, she sent me a big blue thumbs up. Her big blue thumbs up was the response she gave to all of my messages.

There was a, I'm doing great, how about you? Thrown in there from time to time, but the subtext was pretty clear. I tried to convince myself she just wasn't much of a text her, that she was just really busy, and that one day we would be back to talking until sundown. But that illusion didn't last long. The completely random meets and jam sessions I so diligently planned were filled with five-word conversations and excuses to go to the bathroom. That's just the type of person Anita was.

A social butterfly that would fly through Prague's indie scene, make heavy, intimate connections with lonely musicians and then let go of the dead weight when it stopped being useful. I didn't have what she was looking for. But you know who did? Gustav. Months later, as I sat at the bar nursing a flat beer, watching the two of them passionately talk about music projects, I knew Gustav had what she was looking for. The two of them would run away and start their own band.

The worries of Peron would. I forced myself back into the present moment. Even though my fear for the band splitting up had managed to distract me from the fact that I was being hunted by sharp-clothed monstrosities that screamed at the setting sun, the thoughts of Gustav and Anita, running away together, caused me enough discomfort to want to remind myself that there were more pressing shards of stress for my mind to lean on. As I walked and worried, the sounds of slaughter echoing through the woods died down. For a split second, I thought I could hear the creatures calling my name again, but I pushed

that thought out of my head. I couldn't see the outcome of the battle, but I had to hope for the best. I had to hope the animals of the barn had won the battle for my freedom, and that the villagers were no longer a threat. Even though I believed that the only danger I was in was the danger of dying stranded in the woods, I turned off my flashlight. I had been walking through the darkness for long enough

to get used to the topography of the forest floor. My feet made their way through the night, and even though my shin felt painfully bloated and my body was cold and hungry, and unusual confidence started to brew in my belly. My trip to Slovakia had been a last-ditch effort to save the band. I churned out into the woods to find something that would inspire me to write more songs so that the Warriors of Perun would have some fresh material to perform,

and the trip had been a success. I didn't have the songs written yet, but I had more than enough material. The strange girl lying in a bed of moss, the horrible storm I was caught in, the battle between the livestock and the villagers, the village where the people scream at the setting sun. Those stories, those moments, those mysterious slices of life from a cryptic, mystifying land that few had seen would be my muse. I would put together an album filled with terrifying mystery. The Warriors of Perun would be back on stage in no time.

The tweaks beneath my feet crackled with a devoted rhythm. The forest was given me my marching orders. I would make it back to the garret. crawl in if I just kept my pace, if I just didn't give up. Even though it was still dark, birds started to chirp in the treetops. They sang songs of a happier tomorrow. The sky was still black, but the stars started to fade. Soon it would be morning.

Soon I would be back inside of the lodge that smelled a fish. Robert, say tre bien, Gustav would say after reading the lyrics. Yeah, dude, this isn't pretty dope writing, man, Thouillon would add, Hon Hon, Sackabler, and I think I wanted to leave the band. I know right, we were both so dumb. We're very sorry, Robert, they would say. And I would forgive them.

I would forgive them, because we all make mistakes, but mistakes are temporary. The warriors are per run, are forever. I pass by a familiar-looking berry bush. My heart skipped a beat. Something rumbled off in the distance, something that sounded like a truck carrying Polish frozen goods. The crackling of the stick started to pick up its tempo. The birds were singing praises of my return.

I was in the final stretch for my journey. Even though each step I took with my right foot sent pins and needles at my leg, even though I was beyond exhausted and cold, I found myself running. Out of the darkness, I saw the outline. of the second berry bush. I was close. I was so goddamn close. Somewhere in one of the nondescript dungeon bars in Prague, beneath the crumbling ceilings and offbeat paintings of aristocrats holding dogs, a crowd would gather. The place would be packed.

They would barely see each other beneath the dim glow of the makeshift light fixtures, but the faces of the people standing next of them wouldn't matter. Anonymity was a part of the appeal. As strangers, they could all let go of their earthly worries and focus on what was truly important. They could focus on the people that were standing on the stage. Dalyan would be fiddling with a mandolin, letting loose potent earworms that would stick with the audience for months. She would make it look easy, as if anyone could just pick up her instrument and casually create eternal melodies. But the audience would be smart enough to know that it wasn't that easy.

The audience would know she was just like. could. Gustav would be sitting on his drum set, puffing on a cigarette without a care in the world. Chances are smoking indoors would not be allowed in that particular bar, and chances are that someone from the staff would be thinking about asking him to stop. But if they would ever try to confront him about his smoking, Gustav would balance the cigarette in his mouth and let out a beat so savage that the staff would reconsider adhering to the rules. To impede an artist of his tenor would be a bigger crime. and then I would get on stage.

The crowd would fall into a hushed, electric silence as I would walk over to the microphone. Ladies, gentlemen, everything in between and beyond, I would yell, putting on the skin of someone who didn't worry about things. The Warriors of Peron are back. A deafening internal scream of joy manifested itself as an audible, happy yelp. I recognized that Barry Bush I recognised that slab of moss.

This was where I met the strange girl who initiated my journey to find the village. Another rumble in the distance. Another Polish truck. Civilisation was near. I let out another yelp, louder this time. I was just a couple of minutes away from the Goral Inn. Soon I'd be eating, drinking. Hell, I'd even snag a cigarette and a shot of Palenka to celebrate the occasion.

For a split second, I was happier than I had ever been. Then, as I moved past the invisible pocket of signal that connected me to the outside world, my phone dinged. Without thinking, I checked my messages. A freezing, tragic shudder travelled down my spine. I sat down on the bed of moss to cushion the emotional blow, but it didn't help. I read the message a dozen times, hoping that somehow what was written in it was written in it would change. It didn't.

Thorian to Warriors of Prun group chat. Hey Robert, wish we could talk about this in person, but I guess it's better to just rip the band-aid off. Me and Gustav have been talking and we both think it's for the best, the warriors rest in peace. Gustav is starting a new creative project with Anita and I want to take a stab at going solo for a couple of months. I think we should all do our own thing for a bit. I'll be having a nice time in the woods. Gustav's addition to the conversation was what truly broke my heart. He didn't say a word.

He just left a big, blue thumbs up. I leaned back on the bed of moss and let the sorrow wash over me. The Warriors of Perun, my baby, the creative project that I have hitched every moment of my life to for the past two years, was dead, murdered without me even being able to properly say goodbye. I wanted to punch them both in the eye,

I wanted to beg them both to give the band another chance, I wanted to scream and weep and break stuff. But instead, I spread out like a corpse from the bed of moss and watched the star shimmer through the treetop. I lay there trying to adjust to a new reality where the promise of being on stage with my bandmates was a lie. And somehow, I did. If you would have told me a week ago

that my band would break up. up with me through text message and that it would only take me a couple of minutes to go from being a catatonic mess to accepting the loss, I would have laughed in your face, or probably cried in your face, granted that you would describe the greatest tragedy my mind could imagine. But the woods taught me that sometimes pain is a part of the process, and sometimes you must shed parts of ourselves to move on. The woods have told me that there are much worse things out there than losing your band. Don't get me wrong.

I was still sad, but being bandless was not the cataclysmic emotion that I had anticipated. It was just like a good TV show going off of air or a six-month break-up. I was going to be all right.

I was going to do my own thing like Thurian had suggested. I listened to the rumbling of the passing Polish trucks in the distance as my mind searched for a path towards solo stardom. I had the inspiration

now all I needed was a name. It wouldn't come right away, but eventually I would settle on something that would really capture my soul, a name that would get Spotify plays any day of the week. I let my mind sizzle with the possibilities. That's when I realised that it wasn't polished trucks

that were rumbling in the distance. Robert! The sound was faint, deniable even, The louder it got, the more certain I became. Robert! Damn. Robert!

The trees lit up in the blood-red glow I had learned of fear. The bobbing lights moved towards me like a speeding train. The chorus of screams were sprinting towards me. Their claws held out in front of them like careless children with scissors. I jumped up from the bed of moss and ran. My feet tore through the mud. Each bounce in my step, sending a flurry of the foot. pain up my right leg. Shrobes whizzed past me as I dashed in the general direction of

the girl in. Every fibre of my being was focused on me getting away. I was a man with a dream, a dream that could only be realized if every muscle on my body would do whatever it could to get me away. The screaming chorus was drowned out with the adrenaline-laced blood gushing through my veins. My eyes were closed, trying to muster up every ounce of energy out of the depth of my soul. My dumb ass tripped. I had the ground like a sack of bricks. My right leg scraped up against the rock and started to wooze. I didn't realize how bloated it was until I was lying there in the mud.

It fizzled out of whatever horrible liquid had been gathering in the wound and then descended into complete numbness. There was no way I was getting up. The bushes and trees edged themselves into detail under the hue of the red glow. Those sun-worshipping beasts sprung at me with their claws burning through the twilight. Robert! The thought came quick, even with a short-ciming acceptance. I wasn't going to make it out.

I was going to die. Or worse, end up as some puppet for an unfathomable star god. Either way, I would never get to make music again. But at least I had one night of being true thanita. At least I got to share the stage with some talented people, but at least the warriors of Perun got to sing once. I closed my eyes and hoped that whatever was coming would be quick. It wasn't.

It never came. I opened my eyes. The chaos of battle raged on in front of me. Something, some mammoth force, was tearing its way through the villagers. In the slowly brightening night, it was difficult to figure out what was happening. All I could see was that the creature that leaped out in my clawed pursuers was a massive chunk of muscle, and it had horns. I did my best to crawl away from the melee, but I couldn't spare myself the sound of it. Gurgles and snaps and cracks filled the air as the creature behind me stunted its hooves in the villages it had knocked down and gaud the ones that were standing.

Then another sound cut through the fight. "'Moo!' I looked behind me. It was just a simple glimpse, a momentary acknowledgement of my existence before she tore her horns out of the neck of one of the slick-skinned monsters. But I could recognise those lava lambies anywhere. "'Ologar?' I yelled, as if I had known the cow my whole life. She continued her slaughter. There were six of the monsters that had tracked me down in the forest,

but you wouldn't know that by the time Olga was done with them. She made what I did to Samco looked like a friendly tap on the head. I stayed and watched as she murdered in the rising sun, partially because my body was exhausted and I couldn't pull myself any further through the pine cone covered mud and partially because I couldn't look away.

The beast was covered in sharp, scratched wounds, both old and new, but she moved with the grace of a bovine ballet dancer. each crushing stomp was perfectly timed, no slas remain unanswered by her horns. She continued her killing dance until well after the creatures had stopped showing any signs of resistance or life. When she was finally done, and the only sound that could be heard were a pain breathing, she lumbered over to me. Thank you for saving my life, I whispered, hoping that her hooves would steer clear of my skull. She assured me with a gentle lick

And then grabbed me by the scruff of my t-shirt Olga helped me get back to the Gorill Inn Every Tuesday I go over to the Messieric University Clinic To get my leg drained I'm in there often enough to know all the receptionists by name The doctors say that it's some sort of nasty infection That just won't go away But I have my doubts

At first I fear that the swelling would spread that I would wake up one morning with claws tearing their way through my fingers or with a sudden need to scream at the sun. But nothing like that has happened. Getting those horrible syringes under my skin every Tuesday has become a minor inconvenience. It's just another price I had to pay in order to find my muses. After I came back from Savacia, I went back to making music.

I'm still making music in fact. This time around though, I tried to communicate with the muses. without asking questions that are not meant to be asked. One experience with the forbidden community that almost stole my soul is quite enough for me. You've probably never heard of my new band, but you've probably never heard of the Warriors Up Run before listening to my story.

So, I guess things are just about even. We play our shows and we get along, but sometimes, when the Three in the Morning jams get a bit drunker than they should, I still miss the Warriors. And as for what happened to the cow? Honestly, I have no idea. She was with me all the way until we got to the Gaul in.

But as soon as she saw that I was safe, she gave me one last lick and went off on her own path. The last that I saw of Olga, she was walking down the breakdown lane towards the town of Dolnykravny, confusing Polish truck drivers. I've been to the village where they worship the sun, They almost had me. I couldn't run. But baby auger, it's gotta be fate. After tonight,

I'll never eat steak. My town is one of the northwestern states, which if you know anything about, means snow like six months out of the year. To make things worse, my town is approximately in the middle of nowhere. We deal with it about as well as every other tiny north-western town, which Well, all you need to know is that there's a town up here that is literally based around a prison That's it

That's the whole point of the town Pretty much just the how's the people who work there It's pretty dismal sometimes So you'd think Given the lack of other things to do They'd embrace all the types of winter entertainment And you wouldn't be wrong Snowmen are an art form in my town

Ice sculptures get pretty competitive to bargaining and sledding are big deals but snow angels are illegal In fact I didn't even know they were a thing until I saw someone doing it in a film one time I was over at a friend's house

and they had an older cousin visiting from out of town she brought the tape with her it was one of her favorites she thought we'd love it She saw Harry and I staring at the TV in confusion and laughed at us. What? You've never seen a snow angel? She asked us, mockingly. I don't think it was malicious.

I think she was just teasing the way some people do. You know the whole kids these days trope that every generation thinks they invented? We both shook our heads and she climbed to her feet, gesturing for us to follow her while she's suited up to go out. She got as far as falling on her back in the yard, us following her like ducklings, before my friend's dad came running out of the garage, yelling at the top of his lungs. I'd never heard Harry's dad yell like that before, ever, and I've never heard him raise his voice since. Scared the bejesus out of all of us, including Harry's cousin.

He sent Harry and I inside, and I didn't hear what he said to her. to her, but she was as white as a sheet by the time he was done. They came back in afterwards and Harry's dad called mine to come pick me up. Harry's cousin never came to visit again, but I never forgot. I knew there was something wrong with making snow angels. I just never knew Harry and I never discussed it We went back to sledding and snow forts And never said a word We both knew that something big had just happened

But neither of us were old or mature enough To really take any meaning from it Nearly a decade passed Before we thought of it again Harry and I were pretty average looking kids Neither of us had a whole lot going on To give us any kind of social edge So, dating in our small high school, where boys out-populated girls by something like 75% was pretty much a crapshoot, and neither of us were interested in the male half of the population.

So, when Harry formed a crush on Melissa, we both kind of knew it was doomed. I was his best friend, though. It was my job to be supportive, so I didn't say anything. Like, at all. I didn't know the first thing about being a woman. wingman, but I did hesitantly suggest that Harry might get Melissa's attention by doing something cool, which in teenage boy translates to stupid and or dangerous. Unfortunately, Harry took that advice to heart.

God how I wish I could take those words back now. It was late October and it was already snowing pretty regularly. Nothing bad yet, but more than just a light dusting. Halloween fell on a Wednesday that year, so the weekend before, a few of us got together for a kind of preemptive party. We'd basically turned it into an excuse to party the whole week. We were out at Harry's new place. His dad had recently built a nice new place outside of town. It was kind of isolated, but it also had a hot tub, so...

And anyway, the isolation worked out in our favour. Nobody was liable to file a noise complaint or a curfew violation on us way out here. The irony is, Harry's dad had actually given us permission to have a little get-together as long as we promised to be responsible. I guess it was because Harry

was kind of going through a hard time, what with his mom having left and all. It was a full moon that night. It wasn't snowing, but it had that morning. There was still a pretty thick carpet it all across the lawn. There were eight of us. Four boys and four girls.

Harry and myself, Melissa, her best friend Joanne, her little sister Nicole, and their boyfriends, Travis, Hunter, and Chad. Melissa and Nicole were in the hot tub with Chad and Travis, or Joanne and Hunter

and Harry and I were playing pong on the deck. Harry and I were losing. Pretty badly, actually. Travis was mocking us from the hot tub, his arm around Melissa. Lisa. Nice shot, asshole, he commented after one of Harry's swings had gone wild.

The ball tapped impatiently across the deck, careening off into the snow beyond. Harry made an impatient sound. I could tell Travis's comments were starting to get under his skin. His jaw was clenched, and I could visibly see him holding back his temper as he marched down the steps to collect the ball. Come on, I hissed at Travis under my breath, quit being a dead. a douche. Travis opened his mouth, most likely to say something nasty, but before he could get the words out, I heard Harry call out. Hey Melissa, want to see something cool? We all turned

unexpectedly, just in time to see Harry pitch backwards into the snow with his arms spayed out. Oh yeah, real cool, turd money. Travis cheered. You fell down, way to go. I bet your mom is real proud. What did you just say? Harry stopped, mid-Snow Angel. We all kind of fell silent for a second. Even Melissa looked shocked. She pushed Travis' arm away

and scooted to the other side of the tub, giving him a look of disgust. Too far, Travis, she muttered. Maybe he knew it too. I'd like to think he was going to apologise, but Harry was already getting up and Melissa was leaning out of the tub. trying to change the subject maybe, and asking Harry what he'd done, and then we all heard it.

None of us seemed to know what it was at first. It was, hard to recognize. A short, sharp sound, as if someone had just been socked in the gut. You know that sound you make when you've gotten the breath and knocked out of you? It was like that. It's a snow angel, I said, into the silence afterwards. trying to tell myself that it was just one of those weird sounds that came out of the wood sometimes. Oh, Melissa forward her brow. Hey, I think I've heard of those, Hunter put in.

One of those kids from Moore got arrested for making one in Town Square after a game. His parents had to come pick him up. Let's Google it. Inside. I was quick to suggest. But then, the second sob interrupted me before I could get further than a few steps toward the house. What was that? Joanne asked. Harry finished climbing to his feet and stooped to pick up the ping pong ball. I didn't hear what Harry's response was.

I was too busy looking, frozen in place, riveted by the sight of the single, pale hand draped across the edge of the snow angel's wing. This time we all heard the wail and knew exactly what it was. the identical looks of confusion and fear that flickered across all our faces gave it away. What the hell? Travis said. Oh my God! Joanne shrieked.

Harry! I yelled. I don't have any conscious memory of crossing the deck. I blinked and suddenly I was there, leaning over the railing and grabbing him by the shirt, hauling him away from the snow and toward the steps. Meanwhile, an ethereal vision was rising out of the snow angel

as if it were rising on a pedestal blonde hair coated in frost, pale skin mottled with blackened spots, blue lips bowed back in a grimace of misery. She was wearing a grey robe. It cracked

brittly as she climbed from her knees to her feet. What the hell, what the hell, what the hell? Travis was wheezing her new mantra somewhere behind us. Get in the house! someone else yelled. I held Harry's arms

helping him climb over the railing. We raced into the house hand in hand, a frenzy of splashing and screaming going on around us. I sprinted as far as the couch. Before Harry dropped my hand, I went back to lock the glass door. Nicole and

Joanne huddled against the far wall, sobbing softly. Melissa ran to the kitchen. Travis hovered near the window, staring in shock. What the hell is that? He squealed. I wanted to cover my eyes, but I couldn't help but look.

I was drawn to that face. The look of terror and pain on it. I could still hear the sobbing through the glass as it tottered unsteadly to the steps and began to drag itself up onto the deck. It, she moved so wrong, so stiffly. Oh God, Harry muttered, beside me. I managed to glance at him, only to see him looking back at the snow. Not the

thing, but the place it had come from. There was another hand edging out of the snow angel. This one wrinkled and shrivelled. We have to get out of here. Melissa came out of the kitchen carrying a kitchen knife. We have to get back to town and call the police. Harris's place was brand new. The landlines hadn't been hooked up yet. Yeah, I agreed. Just one problem, Harry put in, lifting a hand and singling out the keys and phone, sitting out beside the hot tub. Travis's keys, Joanne's and Nichols too.

We all shared a look because they'd only left two cars. My beat up suburban, which barely had heat. Not normally a huge problem, since I was typically dressed while inside it, but given that half the party was still soaked from the hot tub and wearing only the bathing suits. And Melissa's coupé, which could barely fit four people, even if they sat on each other's laps. Damn, Hunter yelled. I don't think we have a choice. I wrote my fingers through my hair.

Just grab some coats and blankets and let's go. Hypothermia has to be better than whatever is going to happen when she... They, Harry interrupted quietly. I didn't bother to respond. to that. I just took my keys out of my pocket and headed to the door. I heard the others scrambling to grab what they could and following. As soon as I was out of the door, I heard the howling, not like wolves, like people, more than one, just screaming. I sprinted down the driveway, half aware that I ought to have waited. I ought to have given the others

more time to get ready, but some part of me just knew that every second we wasted was a step closer to death, and I wasn't kidding when I said our chances were probably better than recovering from hypothermia. Out to the corner of my eye, I saw Melissa and Travis make it to her car, Nicole right behind them. Chad, Hunter, Harry and Joanne were hot to my heels. I didn't have to bother unlock the doors. My suburban predated electronic locks, and the town was so small that normally I didn't bother locking them all individually. We scrambled in so hard that it rocked.

The old shock squealed and squeaked in protest. I dove in the driver's seat and slammed my key into the ignition, ignoring the seatbelt and everything else while the others dragged themselves in and haul the doors shut behind them. I didn't do a headcount before peeling out. That came back to me later. It was a miracle that no one got left before.

behind. If they had, it would have been my fault. I still feel guilty about that. I saw them coming around the corner of the house in the rearview mirror. Not my friends, but the corpses. I was full on panicking. Each heartbeat felt like a punch to the ribs. My breath felt like razor blades. I was so, so sure that I was going to puke as I swung onto the highway, doing 80 before we'd done a half mile. Joanne was still sobbing in the backseat. Hunter was crying too. I think I would have joined them if I hadn't been too busy shaking.

Does anyone have a phone? Chad asked. It was a great idea. I glanced at him in the rearview mirror and saw him covered in the old blanket I kept in the truck bed. His hair was trying to frost. He had a cell phone in his palm. I started to ask what was really.

wrong with it when Joanne chined in. Yeah, but no bars. I'm going straight to the police station, I said. Being that I was the one driving, nobody else had much say in it. What if they don't believe us, Joanne whispered. They're going to, Harry said, woodenly, staring straight ahead. They made it illegal for a reason. Why didn't they tell us? Hunter demanded. Nobody answered. I guess nobody had an answer. It was a tense, long period of silence, during which I checked the rearview mirror a dozen times, not just checking for weird frozen zombies,

but for headlights. Where was Melissa's car? My old suburban couldn't have been much faster. My palms were sweating and prickling on the steering wheel. I tried not to think about it or draw attention to it. The last 15 minutes, into town. Part of me was hoping to get pulled over by a cop, but as was typical, there was never one around when I wanted one to be. I kept looking for them, even as we bowled into town,

and into the safety the slushy grey parking lot of the Sheriff's Department. I nearly drove right through the front doors. The whole car lurched from the force of that stop, but I hadn't even slammed it into park before the others was scrambling out the doors and pouring into the station. like a biblical flood of half-frozen, half-dressed teenagers. Everyone was talking at once. I was the last inn, keeping one eye in the window and the road while the others babbled at Olly, the receptionist.

He was a nice old man in his 50s at least, and I could tell he understood zero of what was being said, until Harry stepped forward and put his hand on the desk anyway. Everyone else finally stopped talking. I made a snow angel, he stated, calmly, factually. If it weren't for how pale his face were and how tight his bloodless lips had become, I would have thought he was calm. Ollie's face fell.

His chair clattered as it rolled back, allowing him to stand up. I'll go get the sheriff. I knew then that it was every bit as serious as we thought it was. We hadn't imagined any of it. It wasn't some case of mass hysteria or something. There's something else, I added, pausing to look at the window, hoping to see Melissa's car pull in at the last second. It never did. I haven't seen Melissa Travis or Nicole since we left the house.

Ali's expression turned more grave, if that was possible. The sheriff was Melissa and Nicole's father. He turned and hustled to the back. faster than I've ever actually seen him move before. There was a tense moment, a hushed exchange of words and rising voices, and then Sheriff Basket came striding down the hallway, bigger than life. He was a massive wall of a man, and all of us had always been a little intimidated by him. He'd never been mean exactly.

He was just stern, quiet, had a direct, down-to-earth way of dealing with things, and usually that involved as few words as possible. How many were there? Case and point. I didn't understand what he was asking at first, but Harry got it straight away. Two, but I think a third was climbing out when we left. I watched Ollie getting some emergency blankets and jumpsuits

out of the back for the others. For Chad anyway, Hunter, Joanne, Harry and I were all more or less dressed. Ollie passed me a blanket anyway. I mumbled, a thank you. What did the first one look like? The sheriff demanded. Who was a woman?

Joanne shouted. Her voice sounded reedy and thin. I thought maybe she was on the verge of hyperventilating. She had on this dress thing, Chad added, more subdued, and she was blonde, I think. It's hard to remember. She was pretty.

Hunter whispered, sinking into his blanket and the wall at the same time. She looked so sad. The sheriff looked visibly relieved, but his face was still tight with stress and concern. He looked grey actually. His skin, his hair, even his eyes. I didn't blame him. I was only a teenager myself at the time. But already I could sympathise.

The horror he must have felt, knowing his kids are out there. in danger, not knowing if he'd arrived in time, or what might have befallen them. It could be worse, he muttered to himself. I don't think we were meant to hear. You could stay here. Ollie, call their parents. You lot are at the awesome place, right? He pinned us with a severe look.

I nodded. I'm pretty sure the others did too. I heard one or two meek. Yes, sirs. Your parents can explain when they get here. Those last few words were so clipped and bitten off that I could hear his teeth click on some of the syllables. I, for one, wasn't about to argue.

I wanted to see my mom and dad more than anything in the world in that moment. I was still young enough that for me, they represented the epitome of safety. Nothing bad could happen to me when my parents were there in my adolescent mind. They were still in fun, giants, the axis upon which the whole world turned. I watched in silence as he checked his revolver and then went to the munitions room and came

back with a shotgun and a box of shells. He walked out into the night without even a nod in our direction. His eyes were already on the road. He looked to me like a man going to war, as if he weren't sure he was going to come back and was prepared to accept that, resigned. but also determined. Come on, kids. Ollie spread his arms and heard it all toward the back of the station.

Let's get you warmed up. If any of you have a working phone, now is the time to go ahead and call your parents. It'll be best coming from your number than the police stations. Those of you don't. Sorry. He joked and pointed an ominous finger at the payphone on the wall and the stack of quarters beside it.

He was a nice old man, had kind of a beardless Santa vibe, but it was hard to ignore the tightness in his voice and around his eyes. Poor Ollie. He had to be pushing 60. He'd been working in the Sheriff's Department since I was a kid. Sometimes he came to help provide security at events in town. He'd never been anything but cheerful and friendly. Seeing him so pale made me feel... What we'd seen at Harry's house still hadn't completely sunk in yet. A part of me thought that I was going to wake up any second, and that it would all turn out to have been a bad dream. All around me, the others were calling their parents.

I heard phones ringing, a couple had already picked up. Voices were cracking, muffled sobs and sniffles filled the open office space. I looked aimlessly between the desks for a little while. brain not quite having caught up to the idea I should be doing what they were all doing. Eventually my gaze drifted to Harry, only to find him looking back. It struck me that he didn't have anybody to call. His mom was. Well, he couldn't call her, and his dad was probably still on the plane, which meant he didn't have anybody but me.

I guess we should call mom and dad. I tried to smile, fumbling my cell out of to my pocket. They'll be mad if they're the last ones to know. Internally, I cringed. Why had I said that? Especially, after literally just thinking he couldn't call his dad. Harry only nodded. My mom picked up on the second ring. I called her first because I figured she'd be the least likely to yank my ass to the phone to chew me a new one. I needn't have bothered, it turned out. We run away. She said before I could even say hello, stay putt. And then she hung up.

But before she did, I heard keys jingling in the background and the car starting up. Cell phones were notoriously unreliable in my town. Her text could be sent and hanging in limbo for a week before arriving at his destination. Calls often just failed to connect. I glanced down at the phone in my hand and up at Harry, running my fingers over the glossy screen. They're on their way, I reported. Harry just nodded again.

My house was only 20 minutes away from the station on a bad day. My parents made it in seven. I guess that's where I got my lead foot from. Joanne and Chad's parents made it first, but only by a few minutes. Both sets warned the respective offspring. There was a lot of scolding and fussing and angry. questions. I couldn't help but think they looked like preschoolers, small and lost and wide-eyed, despite their ages. Maybe it was because I was feeling like one myself, just a small kid

on a big playground, woefully out of my league. And then my parents came rushing through the door. Mom's coat was barely on, unfastened and hanging off her as she stormed in. Dad's boots were untied. They looked like they dropped everything and run to come get me, and I was so grateful for it. It was the most loved feeling I think a person could have. Dad rushed to me, but mom paused midstep and diverted to Harry. I wasn't jealous. I was weak need with gratitude. Trust my parents, the adults, to know how to make right the things I didn't have the tools

to fix myself. I learned a lot about empathy and matured. charity that day, watching my mom fuss over Harry as if he was her own. He'd been my best friend since childhood. He'd practically grown up in our house, and I in his. My parents were the closest thing he had to his own in that moment. Maybe better, knowing his parents like I did. She checked him over like the other parents were checking their kids, hands and face, arms and neck.

Thank God you're okay. Dad said, catching me up and squeezing me like I was nine again. I squeezed him right back, fighting tears. They didn't touch you, you're all right? Mom was asking Harry. All he could do was nod, I assume. His eyes was suspiciously bright. It's okay, Mom said, giving him the same kind of hug

Dad was given me just then. It's going to be okay. Militra and Nicole were in the other car. Chad half yelled. I know he was talking to his own parents, but all of them stopped and looked at one another, sharing the same look of horror and tense gratitude. How awful, but thank God, mine are all right. Ollie said you'd explain when you got here.

I wiped my eyes on the back of my sleeve and looked up at my father's face. His blue eyes were haunted and unhappy, but he nodded. Yeah, I guess it's time Normally we tell the graduating class after the ceremony Mom looked up They met eyes for a little while I imagine they were searching for the words For a good place to begin

Why didn't anyone explain before? Joanne demanded Why didn't anybody warn us? Let's start with the most immediate problem My dad suggested when no one else spoke up Tackle one thing at a time. First of all, what did the first thing through look like? I don't know if it occurred to the others,

but it struck me that this was the second time we'd been asked, and both times it had been the first question after asking if we were okay. She was blonde and pale, wearing a weird dress. She looked like she was in pain, I supplied, anchored by the presence of my parents. It seemed to me that every adult in the room heaved a little sigh of relief. That's good.

I mean, it's not great, but it's better than it could be, mom muttered, wondering over to the pile of blankets on the desk and absently gathering one. I watched her bring it over to Harry to drape around his shoulders, fussing with a weight hung until there were no wrinkles to smooth out anymore. We'll start with that then. Dad took a deep breath.

We call her the angel. That's what our grandparents call. her. I assume that's what their Cranbrance called her. Of all the harbingers, she's the least violent. She'll lead the people behind her to the nearest, most easily accessible source of heat. Once they're all thawed, they'll... go away again. As that explained, I absently rubbed my chest. It hurt like I'd pulled a muscle. Harry looked up, expression going from numb and distracted, to some of her chest. To some of her own from the muscle. suddenly upset.

Melissa's car. My heat doesn't work. I... They must have... Dad looked grim, but nodded. It's possible. Especially if the doors to the house were locked. The good news is they won't have hurt the others

unless they tried to stop them. The bad news is, if the car stops running or the heat quits, they'll go back to trying to get into the house. Everyone took a minute to digest that. So, all they wanted is to get warm? I asked, hesitantly. Yeah, Dad nodded, but only if the harbinger is the angel. Okay, Chad looked up at his parents.

But what are they? As far as we can tell, Chad's mom was the school nurse, a petite blonde lady with a, can I speak to your manager haircut, but as sweet as could be, answered this time. There were people. People used to live here at some point. People who died in the cold. Then there can't be that many, right? Joanne suggested, hopefully.

It was a hope I didn't realize I shared until that moment. Surely one or two frozen zombies were a lot better than a hoard, though. Dozens, at least 40, my own mother put in. She gave Harry a little squeeze and looked at me apologetically. I'm sorry, honey, there's others, but they don't all come at the same time, usually. It all depends on the harbinger, like we said. Usually, it's no more than eight or nine at a time, but sometimes when the shepherd comes through. The who?

The what? Travis cried, his voice warbling a high, all good note that I thought he'd left behind. in middle school. Harbingers are... Dad rubbed his fingers together, obviously searching for the right words. They're like... the leaders. Only one comes through at a time. They're the first out through the gate when it's open, when a snow angel is made.

Some of them, like the angel, are mostly harmless. Mostly. This four that we know of, four that we were told about. her, the shepherd, the prophet, and the hermit. He walked away from me while he spoke, folding his hands behind his back and pacing over to the desk and from there to the window. The angel comes with eight or nine others,

who are mostly peaceful. They'll smash doors and windows if they have to, but so long as they're left alone and you don't attempt to harm them, they're harmless. They'll find the nearest source of heat and stay there until they're all. all warm again. I didn't want to think about that too hard.

I hoped it was more supernatural than it sounded, because the way he putt it made me think of a bunch of warming corpses in a room, and that made my stomach churn. The shepherd is one of the worst. He, we think, comes through with all other followers, and he's not content with just them either. He hunts down anyone he could find when he comes through. and would drag them out into the cold to die and join his herd.

He sends the others too. If he ever gets through, the only thing to do is start the siren and get to the bunkers around town and then pray that the barricades last until dawn. I started to shake just thinking about it, imagining it. It made me feel cold from the inside out. I shared a look with Harry, knowing he felt the same way. close we'd all come to that. What he had to be feeling, knowing that he'd almost let that through.

Then there's the prophet. She won't outright hurt you, but if she finds you, she'll... It's hard to explain. She puts people to sleep, in a way, mesmerizes them with a song, and when you're under, apparently you have visions of the past, of things that have had. happened in this town. Compared to the shepherd, that sounded like a cakewalk. But you're there until she's done with you, which can be ours.

And whenever she catches you, which might be out in the cold, or in the shower, or... He left the rest up to her imagination. Her followers put out light. They pull down electric lines and will smash lamps. Okay, that sounded less ideal. but still a whole lot better than the zombie murder woodstock. The hermit is the worst though. My dad looked at hunters' parents and then Joanne's

and finally sighed like he didn't want to be the one to say the words. They come alone and unlike the others they won't vanish at daylight. They keep hunting, keep killing, following the people of the town no matter where they run until a sacrifice is made. Our parents thought there might have been where the new harbingers come from, sacrifices to make the hermit go away. That's horrible, Joanne grasped. I cringed too.

It was awful to think about deliberately selecting someone you knew, someone who you lived with to go die, and then making that happen, killing them in the worst way I can imagine. How did you even begin? But it's just the angel this time, Hunter said, his voice shaking. Yeah, my dad nodded. She should be gone by morning. So that was it then. We just had to make it to morning, and then everything would be okay.

Right? It wasn't, though. In fact, I can confidently say that was the beginning of the end, the slow roll into the destruction of the town, and the majority of the people who live there. For a time it was quiet, either in the padded benches of the holding cells or in the chairs lined up against the walls.

I was still wide awake, watching the windows with Harry and clutching a hot cup of cocoa for warmth. The hands of the clock barely seemed to move. And then, with a pop and a crackle, the dispatch radio came to life. It was the sheriff.

I didn't understand the codes it was using, but I got the gist of it pretty good from everything that was said between. Multiple one-two-threes, more units required, send medical and the blasters. After that, it was a flurry of voices and sirens. Orders were being shouted, sirens blared. Ali sat behind his desk and closed his eyes. His lips moved silently, tracing the lines. the words of some prayer. I reached for Harry's hand, but a look in his eye. He was practically

on the moon, so far away I couldn't reach him. We both knew that it was going to be bad. We didn't know how bad, until one of the other officers started talking. We've got two injured juveniles in route to the hospital, clear the roads, provide escort where possible. Only two? We've got eyes on them. Eight. Angel is missing. Repeat.

The angel is missing. One victim one accounted for. All units respond. He went on like that for a while. The noise woke up everyone who'd managed to fall asleep. One by one, we gathered at the window, watching for the flashing lights as they sped like shooting stars down the main road towards our tiny, provincial hospital.

wondering who was inside, and if they'd make it. Eventually, the noise from the radios died down to chatter back and forth between officers sweeping the woods. I gathered bits and pieces, but no more. Something about a set of bare footprints heading into the woods, something else about a second fresher set of tracks behind, both vanished near the pond. The search went on, but nothing else important was said. Eventually, the first blush of dawn touched the sky.

We watched it rise. Harry and I, side by side, as the first of the officers returned to the station, muddy and disheartened. The adults gathered in a huddle with them. I wasn't meant to over here, but my ears had always been sharp. Like the radio, now in person, I caught snatches that were just enough to paint a picture. Travis and Nicole Broken arm, severe frostbite

Should recover Melissa Missing Old Lake Angel They told the rest of us A barely edited version of the events A few hours later

Travis and Nicole had been found outside Harry's place Travis had a broken arm Both he and Nicole had pretty bad frostbite And was suffering from hypothermia But they were expected to mostly recover

Melissa was still missing. They thought the angel's flock had mobbed the car while Nicole was still getting in. Melissa had gotten it started but hadn't driven away immediately because her sister wasn't fully inside yet. Travis had taken the passenger seat and Nicole couldn't get past him.

He was too big. Well, the delay was enough for the heater to get started. The dead had converged on the heat and when Travis tried to fight back they tossed them aside like an old newspaper. Melissa must have run. She didn't know what we'd just been told. She probably thought they were being attacked.

I mean, that's what I would have thought. Did think. But in the end, I guess it doesn't really matter why she ran into the woods. They never did find her. We all went home one by one. Harry's dad came home on the next plane, but understandably,

Harry didn't want to stay in that house anymore. They moved away a couple of months later. Not long after Nicole and Travis finally got out to the hospital. Travis ended up losing the arm. The frostbite, combined with a break, made it impossible to save. They tried, but in the end there was nothing to be done. Nicole recovered physically alright. She lost a few toes in a finger, but the real damage was psychological.

Losing her older sister like that, the way it all went down. She was never the same. The rest of us got together after graduation, the same party where the town secrets would originally have been explained to us. It turned out there were a few things we still hadn't been told. I just don't understand why anyone lives here at all, Joanne was saying to Mr. Harkman, a former math teacher for pretty much her entire lives. The town wasn't big enough that we really needed more than one or two.

There were rarely more than 30 kids per grade. I was standing by myself under a pendant banner, watching the flex of lights from the disco ball swim around the floor. She was going off to college next spring. So was I. I think we all were, except Nicole and Travis, and Hunter, I think. He'd decided to stay behind. Or maybe he couldn't afford college. I don't know. I never thought to ask.

Most people do leave, Mr. Harkman sighed. I think we all tried to escape at one point or another. Escape? Chad, who'd been over in the corner beside Hunter and a couple of other kids from our grade, lifted his head to ask. By then, the story of that night had spread to every kid in our tiny high school, regardless of grade. I can't help but think that was a good.

good thing. Well, why'd they come back then? Joanne demanded heatedly in the same moment. Her face was flushed, her eyes glittering. Your parents didn't tell you? Mr. Harkman looked surprised and then just sad. I'm sorry. I guess I can see why. The thing is, you can leave the town just fine until you have kids. And then, The town pulls you back. Things happen. You lose your job. You have an accident.

Your plane or bus gets rerouted. You black out and wake up back here, in town, with your kid. It's inevitable. If you try to leave, you end up here again. A hush fell over the room. I don't know if they were thinking the same thing I was, but my very first thought was, I'm never having to be.

kids. Poor Harry, if only anyone had told him.