CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 7 CHILLING Reddit Horror Stories to end August with

Episode Date: August 31, 2020

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "Anyone else remember imagining something sprinting alongside the car?" Creepypasta►15:37 "When I was a kid I held a séance for someone who didn't exist" Creepypasta►41:27 "There was something off about my basement. I Had No Idea How Terrifying The Truth Was" Creepypasta►58:25 "The Wicker House" Creepypasta►1:16:30 "I'm a paramedic. This was the creepiest incident of my career" Creepypasta►1:26:43 "I work as part of a research team in Greenland. We think we've found Noah's Ark" 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►demitrybelmont: https://www.deviantart.com/demitrybel...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

Oh, my young, that I'm in three days. I'm a moor as I'm more on think. Oh, that to seeer that morning off must. I'm all mooh as I'm just on tomorrow on think. Oh, this is all moor as I'm on doing. Oh, I'm all moor as I'm on thinking. Have you it mollick on upgues? Give you self then a boost with biocure maxhot liquid.

Three opeped plants. Magnesium, Izer. An energy booster to immediately again to can't come out. Biocure Maxshot Liquid. Foodingsupplement, Then I began talking. I never talk so much in all my life. I told Dean that when I was a kid and rode in cars, I used to imagine I held a big scythe in my hand and cut down the trees and posts

and even sliced every hill that zoomed past the window. Yes, yes, yelled Dean. I used to do it too, only different sithe, tell you why. Driving across the west with the long stretches, my sithe had to be immeasurably longer and it had to curve over the distant mountains, slicing. their tops and reaching another level to get at further mountains and at the same time clip off every post along the road. Excerpt from Jack Curax on the Road, 1957. That was the quote that opened what was once my PhD thesis, The Chaser, images of accompaniment and malleability in the evidence for collective unconscious in children and young adults

via qualitative analysis. Thilling stuff I know. I'm bound by a number of of agreements do not give you the location of my former university, nor the names of any of my colleagues in the Fantasia research cluster for collective psycho-imetry. To do so, it would threaten the little corner of academia I've managed to hide myself away in, and nowhere further education college in a nowhere place, where I grind away an imitation of a living teaching night classes like psychology for business people, to tired-eyed single mothers

and senior citizens. someone has to know the things we discovered. Psychoanalytics isn't much regarded anymore, despite the prominent place it held in the foundation of psychology as a field of study. Ask most people and you'll hear something about Freud and cigars and oddly close familiar relationships. Modern schools of psychology don't pay too much mind either, overwhelmingly now focused on scientific approaches to talk therapy or just getting to the nuts and bolts of the brain with MRI. modelling. The era of rattling off grandiose theories from your coked up conversations

with Australian housewives is long over. So I was being funneled into doing some thesis and neuron patterns interacting with social media use or some such when I was approached by a colleague who spoke in whispers. When you were a kid and riding the car with your parents, did you ever imagine a little guy running alongside the car beside you? I chuckled with recognition when he asked me and although I found his tone unusual, responded with the same conspirator quiet. So, it wasn't just me? I reminisced vividly.

My mind drifted back to my father at the wheel, hair-knuckled and irritated, wheeling through the long country roads to visit an aunt or uncle. My mother, unwrapping one of those little sweets she kept in the glove box and popping it in her mouth to avoid tense conversation, filling out the whole car with a smell of peppermint. I would be wrapped, my eyes staring out the wind. watching a wonder as the little man on a skateboard hung for minutes on end in the air, waiting for the rare farmyard ventbows to make his impossible landing. My colleague countered that his chaser, as we came to call them, was in fact a night on horseback.

I felt this lent itself to a little less acrobatics than my skateboarder, but given that my phantom would often remain in the air for ten to fifteen minutes at a time, I decided realism was not the best rejoiner. When he told me it was a far-from uncommon phenomenon, I was fascinated, and mind-dalled at the thought of examining grainy images of synapses firing for the next couple of years, I instantly took him up on his offer of a research project based on the chasers. I asked to send me what he had so far, and I would take a look over it after the undergraduate class I had to teach in the evening. I ambled away with a spring in my step, delighted to be doing the kind of big and bizarrely. psychology that had gotten me interested in the field in the first place. I was so distracted from my excitement, I hardly noticed how his eyes hovered out the window as he bid me goodbye. It was dreams that got me into this field. I was always fascinated by them since my mother first

explained the whole idea to me when I was a kid. Surreal little movies playing in your head while you slept. Madness. Just one of those crazy things we'd take in our stride. Though, reading about dreams, I discovered Jung, who theorized they represented our partaking in a kind of collective unconscious imagination, connected to the living memory of humanity. Chase streams connecting us to being chased down by predators, and often including archetypal mythical images common to humanity. The whole idea fascinated me, and that's how I ended up reading the file labeled chaserhistoriography.doc,

instead of looking at dull brain scans. Mary Shelley writes of experiencing an extraordinary reverie on a horse and carriage one evening, imagining a cloaked, enigmatic figure, keeping pace with the stallion stride. An issue of the Kansas pioneer from 1840 details the author's fanciful imagining of a proud Indian, riding alongside his carriage on a train journey. The examples are numerous, and yet curiously similar. Notably, they seem to occur only in the passenger, as in the case, of Rumi's poetry fragment from horseback in the 13th century, and all accounts involved

overland travel. No recorded phenomenon of the chaser has ever occurred on a boat or in the context of air travel. To hell with what my supervisor might say, I was in. On my way to the little campus outbuilding in which the Vantasia Research Cluster had made its home, I found myself looking at the trees whipped past on the bus, and, with little effort, seeing the shadowy figure that darted between them. Below, I've enclosed transcripts from our first interview in the project. The participant is obviously denoted with pseudonyms here, per ethics guidelines. Interview 1.

Darius Interviewer Is this phenomenon that we have taken to calling the Chaser, something you have experienced in your life? Yeah, definitely. I remember being a kid. And, my brother, used to drive him to soccer practice. He was like, in his late teens, and kind of moody, so conversation wasn't an option.

I'd stare out the window and see this big kangaroo just bouncing down the road alongside us. Interesting. You know it's slightly less common in our observations for people to report animals as opposed to humanoid as their chasers. Huh? That's weird, I guess. I think I was actually doing this project in school about animals or whatever. I picked a kangaroo because as a kid I thought they were just wild, you know, so different.

Plus, the boxing. Did the figure of the kangaroo remain constant throughout your imaginings? Did you ever find yourself imagining a human being? No, it was always the same. Well, sort of. It got different too. Different? How do you mean?

I mean, it was the same shape as a kangaroo. still bounced the same and stuff, but the teeth got so long. It got these big claws, big yellow fingernails. And then it started to look at me directly in the eye. Get the hell out of me. I remember my mum are asking, Why are you always staring down at your damn feet when you were in the car? I didn't know what to say.

That's quite bizarre indeed. We usually find the phenomenon begins in childhood and tends to end shortly thereafter. Could you give us a rough estimate of when it stopped? Start? Man, there's a reason I got on the road by myself as soon as I turn 16. It hasn't ever stopped. It's only gotten closer.

End transcript. My colleague had a great wide grin on his face as the playback stopped. He stared at me with eager, expressive eyes, and I met his gaze with excited confusion. Jesus, we definitely have something there, but if it's just an anomaly of one guy that hangs onto his chaser into adulthood, I don't know if it's academically viable. Here, an even grader-impossessed, he pulled afraid mineral folder from the satchel he dragged everywhere with him. From within, he produced a sheet of paper headed, participant encoding,

with a list of names maybe 50 long, half of them highlighted with an orange marker. beside a handful of the highlighted names was a little asterisk. The highlighted participants described retention or recurrence of a chaser well into adulthood. The ones within asterix, the chaser has turned from benign hallucination into a constant illusion, provoking feelings of anxiety, paranoia, even fear for one's life. It was the widest I'd ever seen anyone's smile while describing sheer terror. Yet I couldn't help but grin a little myself. I understood this feeling.

Ten-year-tracked positions were drying up, and academic job security wasn't what it used to be. A wild phenomenon like this could allow us to milk it for papers and conference speaking's roles for years, maybe even decades to come. Spin-off articles and conferences would emerge from the interdisciplinary spats it would provoke.

The media would go wild for it. We'd be on talk shows by day and drinking scotch in our corner offices by night. I took the bus back home from our first session. My eyes were glued to those same trees as the shadow figure fleeted once more between like a boxer bobbing and weaving around his opponent. But the cloaky war seemed a richer, deeper black now,

and I could examine its little creases as my eyes remained fixed to his form. When I thought I saw a little glimpse of silver beneath a fabric catching in the summer sun, I ripped my eyes away and spent the rest of the bus journey examining the patterns on the back of the headrest ahead of me.

When I arrived to the next session, my friend was nowhere to be seen. I popped into the canteen to grab a coffee before the interview began, only to find a graduate student who had also been working on the project. Strands of a golden hair stuck to her tears at the side of her cheeks.

My colleague had been in a car that had overturned. He was in the hospital in critical condition. But unusually, the driver had been just fine. My legs almost went weak at the knees. I questioned whether we should be carrying on with a day's session, but she insisted that it was what he would have wanted. I agreed with little persuasion.

I told myself it was because of my devotion to my colleague and my deep-held belief in the pursuit of knowledge. I can admit now, I was still imagining the talk show appearances and the tenure track. I would conduct this next interview myself. Interview 2, Marianne. Is this phenomenon that we have taken to calling the chase I called him Sir Percival? Okay, you know people do not generally name them, unless of course they belong to some existing fiction, or if they're real people. You have no idea how many Tony Hawks is.

skateboarding alongside family minivans we've heard about in here. When I was a little girl, I liked night stories. It started with princesses. My dad used to read them to me at bedtime, but I always prefer the strong knight to the princess. I wanted to be strong. It was King Arthur stories and stuff like that. Maybe it was because of all that that he was a knight.

On horseback? It certainly wouldn't be unusual among the cases we've examined. Sort of. He was like one of those... He was part horse, but he had a knight's body, an armour and all that. A centaur? Yeah, yeah, a centaur.

That's what he was. Galloping along beside me, keeping pace. Shiny armour would always pick up the sun. He was so fast. And do you recall when he began to appear to you? Oh, I must have been little. Just a little girl. I could just make out the metal horns poking out above the window.

Horns? Yeah, he always had these weird like protrusions from his helmet. I thought of them as horns. I thought maybe it did something to do with him being a, what do you call it? A centaur? But horses don't have horns? I don't know. And when did you stop seeing him?

That's the weird thing. He disappeared when I hit puberty. I would ride along in the car with friends and I wouldn't see a thing as the road word passed. Nothing. But he's back now. When did he return? Well, ever since I found out about your study. But he's different.

More twisted by any chance. Exactly. His horse body is skeletal now, and there's this flabby gut exploding from the armour. And something. Something is eating at it from the inside. That sounds awful. The man in the cloak wanted me to tell you that

he's going to get like that too. End of transcript. The other people in the bus must have been staring at me. Necks straining, veins bulging, eyes popping. Desperately struggling to turn my head away, but unable to keep from staring out the window. I could see the hood of the black cloak now, and as the figure ran,

it billowed and frayed in the braze. It revealed snatches of a face. There was no lower jaw, only a putre connection of y'allel. yellow teeth jotting from mandible-like splinters. Sir, this is the last stop. The bus driver practically had to pull me out of my seat. The figure was motionless now on the side of the road, looking in at me.

He had finally caught up to me. When I stepped down the stairs and crossed the barrier into the outside world, he was gone. This might take a while to reach you. The Wi-Fi in these damn cruises is notoriously spotty, spotty enough that it was four days before I found out the pretty little graduate student, teary-eyed in the canteen, had been killed in a train derailment. But I'm safe now. Nothing can get me out here in the water.

No solid ground to stampede across, no land by which to pursue. Sometimes I turn over in my sleep and see a shadow floating on the waves. The crew tell me they're just great big jellyfish. I turn over, but it takes me a while to get back to sleep. The afternoon at my fifth grade graduation, I organise the seance. That might sound odd or offbeat, but where I come from, circles of children trying to speak to the dead, is pretty common phenomenon. The affinity towards conversing with spirits that Czech kids of the 90s had

is most likely a byproduct of the nation's status as the second most atheist country in the world. Much like our parents, we would still categorically deny the existence of higher power, but when it came to life after death, my generation was a bit more loosey-goosey with its beliefs. The concept of life after death is an attractive prospect for any creature that is aware of its own mortality, and the idea of ghosts trapped in our realm has its own spooky appeal. But there's something else that drove crowds of kids to sit in candlelit circles when I was growing up. Seances gave us a chance to hold girls' hands without drawing any unwanted attention. So, with the hopes of getting some experience before entering my teens, and finally feeling Catherine Novakov's palms,

I organised the seance on the afternoon of my fifth grade graduation. I thought that in the basement of my Soviet-era apartment block, I would find a semblance of romance, but instead, in those musty dark halls, I discovered a dark, power beyond my comprehension. There were six of us sitting in the basement preparing for the ritual. A summer thunderstorm was pre-facing its arrival with a quiet drizzle on the window that revealed the feet of the outside world. As me and Catherine drew the pentegram, the rest of the group intermittently chatted about other sentences they had attended and tips and tricks and had to make a tamaguchi live forever. Every time the elevator were grown to life, all conversation

would cease. In retrospect, I don't think any adults would have had an issue with us trying to commune with the dead, but in that moment, it felt like we were doing something that would get us punished if we got caught. The mood in the basement was electric, partially because of the dark ritual we were about to organise, and partially because of the pop rocks that Mrs. Nova cover had given to our little rag-tag group of ghost chasers. The sugar high, mixed with excitement of the forbidden, was palpable. After we finished drawing the pentagram and lighting the candles, our group fell into hushed anticipation.

All that was needed was the sacrifice. I got your stupid fish, Hunter Heduke announced as he entered the basement. His bonn locks and glasses were wet from the bad weather outside. As soon as he saw me sitting next the Catherine trying to redraw a wonky side of the pentegram, his eyes lit up with jealousy. Heydook poured out the bag of frozen minnows that were meant to be his turtle's lunch into the centre of the pentagram and started to strut around the basement like you own the place. Wow, you have a really crappy basement, Alex. Didn't know your parents were this poor.

Heydook and me used to be friends. The previous summer, our parents had signed us up for a summer camp that was obviously for babies. For two weeks, Haydook and me were trapped out in the Biscuity Mountains with a bunch of nine-year-olds, filling up stupid colouring box. With nothing better to do, we shared secrets, secrets that strengthen our relationship from acquaintance status to best friend territory. Those secrets brought us together while we were at the camp, but by the time we were back in Prague, they became weapons. Any semblance of camaraderie disappeared the moment Catherine Novakovar grabbed both our hearts

in her soft palms. Man, there's rust everywhere. Does anyone in this apartment have a new bike? Hey Duke examined the bike rack, with a gusto of a food inspector who's about to shut down a restaurant. Actually, Alex, where's your bike? At my grandparents, I lied. Huh, just starting to realize that I've never actually seen you ride a bike. Weird.

Hey Duke turned around and looked straight in my eyes. He was sending a message. Well, if you guys want to go riding bikes after this dumb ghost stuff, I can lend Alex my old bike. My parents got me a new one for how well my report card turned out. We're not going to ride the bikes, Hunza. Catherine said, it's raining outside. Plus, this ghost stuff isn't stupid. It's actually pretty cool. Catherine shot me a smile. She was on my side. I did my best to smile back, but deep inside I knew that she wouldn't be defending me if she knew the truth.

I didn't know how to ride a bike. Whatever, Hedo said, forcing his way into our circle so that he could sit on the other side of Catherine. What don't ghost are we annoying today? Yeah, Alex, what sort of spirit are we communicating with? Catherine asked. Still smiling in the way that made my heart beat faster. Well, first we have to hold hands so that there is a complete circle of energy. A lump manifested in my throat.

As I spoke, Catherine put her hand in the same. to mine. We were basically kissing, or at least that's what I told my cousins later. A complete circle of energy so that the spirits don't leave. The rest of the circle joined hands around the pentagram and frozen fish of the basement floor. My knowledge of saints was limited to a three-paragraph article I had read from the basement literature and my aunt's house, but I had enough imagination in me to wing the ceremony. And now, everyone repeat after me Dear Spirit, we have come to talk with you. Please do not get angry with us.

The other kids repeated the chant with sudden reverence. Setting up the ceremony was all fun in games. But as soon as we were actually communicating with the nether realm, as soon as there was a chance that we might make a ghost angry, everyone wanted to make sure to proceed with caution. The musty basement had turned spooky. Everyone was listening to me. Catherine's hands oozed with anticipation.

Oh spirits, help us contact the man who was buried beneath the basement, the fame Nazi commander, the one and only. There was a painting of him the stairway that led up to the computer labs. It wasn't really a painting. It was a printout of a painting that someone had put into a nice frame with the hopes of making our school look classier. Regardless of the medium, the ridge's face was portrayed. Every day, as we walked up those stairs,

I saw those tired, evil eyes. The one and only, Jan Amoskomensky. The elevator groaned in understanding. For a split second, the group was caught in breathless anticipation about ghosts. But then, Catherine's hands fell out of mine. The circle was broken. Hayduke had his arms firmly crossed. Did I hear you correctly?

Did you say that Janemost Komensky is a Nazi that's buried beneath apartment? His voice was filled with venom. You know my parents didn't just buy me a new bike because of my cool dude right. They bought me the bike because I aced all of our history quizzes. Everyone knows that Yanomus Kamensky is buried in the Prague Castle and that he lived 2,000 years ago and that he invented homework. Heduk, come on, stop being a jerk, Catherine defended me again. My mind reeled back to history class. Kamenski, being buried beneath my apartment was made up dressing for the seance, but I could have sworn he had some tie to the Nazis. My young mind must have had trouble differentiating between totalitarian systems and achievements

in education. Either way, Hayduk had called me out on my BS. I'm just saying that Alex knows just as much about Yanomost Kamensky as he does about riding bikes. Everyone's eyes focused on me. Heduk had burnt my secret. knew. I could see Catherine's smile dim.

She couldn't love a boy who still used training wheels. We could never be. Heyduke had taken away my one shot at true love. A sudden rage bawled in my brain. I wasn't the only one in the circle with secrets. Okay, Hey Duke, you caught me. I tried to pull a fast one on you. And you're right.

I don't know how to ride a bike. My admission wiped the grin off his face. He no longer had any sway. But, I still did. But you know who does know how to ride a bike? The real ghost that we have all gathered here to talk to. The ghost of a man scorned by life itself. A spirit that has had everything that he cared for burned to a crisp

because of a flimsy bicycle. A shell of a once happy person. Gabby the clown. Dude, no, come on. Edouk's voice took on the audacity of a kitten, stuck in a drain pipe. Come on man, let's not Dear Spirit

We have come here to talk to you Please do not get angry with us At first He refused to take part in the ritual But as the group obediently chanted along His arms uncrossed Haydook became part of the circle As he mumbled along the final words

of the incantation It was hard to hide the smile from my face I was going to hurt him For hurting me I was going to reveal his secret in front of everyone. Oh, Gabby, I started with as much spooky gusto as my tween voice could allow me. We know that you are trapped between our world and the circuses of heaven. Your clown makeup must be smudged from the rain outside.

Your long clown feet must be tired from walking our realm. Come sit with us for a spell. Come bring us some joy as we leave the world of children and enter the domain of teens. It is a sorrow-filled time for us all, and we could really use a clown. This is so dumb and fake, Heyduke said, with a shiver in his voice that did little to mask his fear. Everyone in that basement knew something was up, yet as terrified as the kid was, he didn't let go of Catherine's hand. Alex, is Gabby the clown real? Catherine asked. Of course he's not, Hayduke yelled.

Alex is just making stuff up trying to be scary, but you know what? It's not working. Only an idiot would be scared of dumb stuff like this. Water from the thawing minnows was starting to spread out through the basement floor. In the dim light of the candles, I could see Haydook watch the steam advancing towards him. His eyes blazed with fear. Of course is real, Catherine. He was a clown who lived back in the 1800s.

I said, making my voice as deep as I could. Have you never heard the story of Gabby the Clown? The basement shook with the dark winds of metal rope as the elevator moved above us. Hey Duke let out a strained wheeze trying to keep himself together. It was time for some narrative laxatives. I closed my eyes and started to weave a story out of the ether.

Gabby the Clown used to be a happy clown. His job was his life. For years he would travel the circus and entertained children all over the country. Oh, how he adored putting on his clown makeup. Oh, what a spring to his step the clown shoes provided. Gabby was a man who lived a life full of unadulterated joy that he shared with the world.

He loved his job. He loved being a clown. But there was something else he loved even more. Katya, his wife, a trapeze artist who would join the circus after running away from an orphanage. It's in her soft hands that he found the true beauty of life. It's in a smile that he found the joy that made his act such a show of pure bliss and laughter.

The two of them lived happily. But one day, as the travelling circus set up on a field in the countryside, everything changed. No one knows how the fire started. It was as if it came out of nowhere, but by the time the flames had noticed, it was already too late. The audience was screaming in fear, and Katia was strange. trapped at the top of the tent as the flames ate away at the scaffolding. There wasn't enough water in the circus

to put the fire out. There was chaos everywhere. Gabby watched as the circus burned as his wife screamed from the high top, and he knew that if no one acted soon, if no one went to get help, everything that he ever cared about would end up in flames.

There was a town nearby. Surely the fire brigade there would be able to put out the fire. Gabby the clown ran outside and jumped on the nearest form transportation he could find, a wood-framed bicycle. He pedaled down the uneven country roads with the speed of a trained athlete. Gabby's long clown feet worked as hard as they could to get help swiftly. But the faster he went, the more the frame of the bicycle groaned.

In a sharp turn, with the lights of the nearest town burning in the distance, the bicycle fell apart. The clown flew off his bike and cracked his head into a tree. What? That's it? There was a twinge of bravery in Hedog's voice. Some stupid clown, the dead wifu can't ride bikes? This is stupid. An expression of utter delight spread over his face as soon as he stuttered out the word. My eyes narrowed.

He didn't die that night. No, Gabby the clown woke up on the side of the road to the rumble of horses. The fire at the circus had gotten so big that the fire brigade. became aware of it on their own. They tried to put it out, but they were too late. By the time Gabby arrived at the circus, there was nothing left, but the child remained of the life he once loved.

He was no longer a happy clown, I said. Now he was a depressed clown. The elevator groaned again. A bolt of lightning cut through the panel houses, a little window to the outside world shock with force. The fear was back in Heduk's eyes. It didn't take him long to find her burnt body. As Gabby looked upon the child remains of the only person he had ever loved,

he knew he couldn't go on without her. How could he possibly make children laugh with the knowledge that he would be coming back home to an empty bed? How could he live without a tender caress, without a smile? The wind outside howled hard to make the candles flicker. Heduk's eyes were closed. He was gently rocking back and forth. Whatever fear I was forcing him to confront

Was carved deep into his mind For a split flick of the flame I felt bad for him But then What happened next? Catherine asked A reflection of the candlelit pentagram danced in her fiery eyes Our sweat was mixing between our clasped hands

I could feel a faint echo of a racing heartbeat Whatever empathy I had for Hayduke Was overtaken by my need to make Catherine love me He went mad. Gabby started putting his clown makeup on his burnt dead wife's face. A soft groan came from Hayduk, a groan that told me he was near his breaking point. He painted the same face that he would wear in front of the children on the face of his dead wife, and then. Then he ripped off his own face and sewed her own face onto his.

That way they would be together, forever. No. Hedduke whispered. But that's not all. Gabby also chopped off his own hands and replaced them with his wife's hands. That way, he would never miss a gentle touch. No! Haydook screamed, breaking the circle.

You're making all of this up. You're just some idiot who can't ride a bike. None of this happened. None of this is real. Heduk was on his feet now, raving, making a mass off himself. Clowns aren't real? I asked. Gabby isn't real.

you're lying. No one would survive howing their face ripped off. That's why he's a ghost, Catherine whispered. She still had my back. Exactly. He died right after he finished attaching his dead wife's hands to his hands. And, do you know where they buried him?

No, you're lying. You're a liar. Gabby isn't real. Tears were streaming down his face. With Hayduke's embarrassing performance, no one cared if I could ride a bike anymore. The smell of fish was permeated. from the center of our circle to the rest of the basement. The horrid storm raged outside.

The candles were starting to go out one by one. The atmosphere for the killing blow was set. In the dying light, I tapped the center of the circle. Liar, you're a liar, Alex! This is stupid! This is all so stupid! Headick's face was red with rage. His hands were curled up into fists and he was coming straight for me. He's gonna get you, Hey Duke, I said, still sitting in my spot in the circle. Hey Duke stopped in his tracks.

Why? Why would he want to get me? Because, you have a new bike, and Gabby the clown loves new bikes. And also, I gestured to his feet. You broke the circle. Ghosts hate that, Catherine whispered. Suddenly, her grip on my hand tightened. What's that smell? The science worth of tween noses twitched.

We all looked towards the minnows at the centre of the pentagram. Even in the faint light of the remaining candles, we could see wisps of gentle smoke emanating from the fish that Hayduk had brought. It smelled like we were in the middle of a can tuna factory. You're a liar, Alex, you made all this up. Admit it. Admit that you're a liar. Tears were streaming down his face. The smoke, coming from the mound of fish,

pushed him over the edge. The suddenly putrid pile of minnows unnerved me as much as the rest of the group, but I still had to finish off my bout of psychological terrorism. No hey duke, I said, as the air in the room dropped to a seaside stillness. Gabby the clown is real,

and is coming for you... Snap! A flash of light went off from the centre of the circle before plunging the basement into complete darkness. Ghiblets of hot minnow guts sprayed over our little seance. We all ran and never turned back. The afternoon of my fifth grade graduation, I held a seance, and it ended with a bang. The basement groups split up after the seance.

Everyone was after different middle schools across the city, and I was whisked out to the country when my mom's job took us abroad. The memories of that afternoon lasted for a couple of traumatic nights. But, as I got older, as things more pressing than dead bike riding clowns entered my world, the memory of that night was safely filed away beneath childhood hyperbole. The explosion of fish bothered me for a while, but I eventually convinced myself that someone must have snuck a firecracker into the pile of minnows while I was terrorising hayduke.

Once a Facebook account became a requirement for modern life, I ended up seeing glimpses the lives that the people from the basement group were living. Some of them had kids Some of them had pseudo-successful businesses Hayduke ended up becoming a police officer I didn't really care The only person who I probably kept tabs on Was Catherine

My affection towards her Had definitely diminished since the days of pop rocks But somewhere in the back of my head I still had a thing for the first girl That I ever had a thing for Whenever the two of us were in between relationships We'd hit each other up and chat but the planet's never aligned long enough to actually have the two of us sit down for a drink.

Until tonight. I found myself at the tail end of a series of unsatisfying relationships and Catherine had just moved back in with her parents after getting unengaged. We figured we would kick back a couple of beers in the old neighbourhood and check notes on how our lives turned out. The Gabby the Clown conversation came up almost instantly. Neither of us knew exactly what we did. what transpired that stormy afternoon.

I floated my firecracker theory, but Catherine said there was nowhere that someone could have snuck anything into the center of the circle without at least one of us noticing. She also mentioned that she heard rumors that someone had stolen Haydook's new bike within a week of our seance. There was mystery in the air,

but a single mystery can't hold up an entire date. After two beers, Catherine changed her stance on the firecracker theory, and after three, we agree that the story of the bike theft was probably just a product of our schoolyard rumor mill. Turns out the two of us had very little chemistry outside of talking about made-up ghost clowns.

Catherine's voice strained whenever she talked about a fiancé and by the time I was halfway through my fourth beer and I started to miss my latest ex. After I walked Catherine home, I decided to take a little stroll around the neighbourhood and visit my old tween stomping ground. I would have to hit up my fourth.

beer eggs, like I usually do. But the light drizzle on my touchscreen made it difficult to tap out a message that would be worth replying to. In a gathering storm, I walked alone. Thoughts of childhood and lost loved ones churning through my brain. And that's... When I saw him, he was standing in the dim light on one of the street lamps. Rags hung from his sickly body. They must have been a clown costume once upon a time, but now they were far too dirty and worn to look like anything but a potato sack. His hands were the jet black colour of long dead skin. His foreign feminine face peeled from his skull, revealing bits of rotted muscle and yellowish bone beneath.

The only thing that truly made him look like a clown was his bulbous red nose. He rode a bike towards me. I was too terrified to move. Hi, hi. Gabby laughed his clown laugh. but there was no joy beneath the sounds coming from his mouth. Why did you do this to me? If I had any answers to give,

they were pushed back by the staggering smell of burnt minnows. I was frozen in place by fear. The only concrete thought in my head was my need to vomit. Hey, hey, why must I suffer? Why must I live without my cat, yeah? It wasn't until the coarse tips of his brain, burnt lady fingers brushed up against my arm that I snapped out of my shock. I pushed the dead clown off his bike and ran for my life.

His words echoed with me well past the subway ride back home. Hey, hey, why must I suffer? Why? Hey, hey, answer me. Why? I can't sleep. Whenever I close my eyes, all I can see is that horrible, rotting face. Those thin black hands.

All I could think about is Gabby the Clown. Whatever theories Catherine and me developed about fireworks in the playground rumour mill have scattered in the fish-scented wind. I made up Gabby the Clown, but whatever happened in that basement in that one story made him real. The clown's suffering is my fault. I'm the one who brought him to life. I'm the one who burnt down his circus and killed his wife.

I am the reason why he rides to the night on his bicycle, searching for answers he will never find. My mind is filled with guilt and fear and confusion. But beneath it all, there is something else. Beneath it all, there is a part of me, a cruel part of me which I would like to pretend doesn't exist, but still does. Beneath it all, I wonder whether Haydoo squad car has ever gone into my old neighbourhood and passed by Gabby the Clown. As terrified as I am of my own creation, I would pay good money to see Hadook's face

when he would find out I'm not a liar. I remember seeing the house for the first time. I was a child of seven. My own parents had just bought their first home. I remember I used to hate living in the cramped, dingy apartment we previously inhabited and opened the door to our new home with wide-eyed wonder. I'd wonder. It blew my young mind how spacious this house was. I went upstairs to scope out my bedroom.

I was so excited that I was getting my own room and did not have to share it with my infant brother. On my grand tour of my new digs, I finally made it down to our basement. The basement was nothing like the rest of the house. The upstairs was elegant and classy. The basement was cold, metallic and sterile. The ceiling covered in ancient pipe. winding in grotesque angles. The floor covered in rough cement. I recalled taking a look at the stairs for the first time and being immediately struck by how odd they were. The stairs were surrounded in drywall which clashed with the rest of the basement. One particular section of the wall was coloured differently than the

rest. It stood out like a sore thumb. I inched close to it and felt the texture of it. It felt very strange. I then knocked on it. A hollow sound perverted the empty air of the basement. Something about that sound immediately put me ill at ease. I walked up the stairs as I could hear the same hollow sound echo in the emptiness of the basement. As we settled into our new home, I began to get comfortable with my surroundings. The house began to feel familiar.

Everywhere, that is, except for the basement. It just always put me off, and I avoided going down there as best as I could. Our family couldn't be happier. My loving father and mother doaded over me and my little brother. My life was perfect. Then, it began. I would hear errant noises. When I was pointing it out to my parents, they told me the old standby that the house was settling in.

One night in particular, indicated. that something wasn't right. I snuck downstairs to the kitchen for a late-night snack. As I closed the refrigerator, I heard a tapping sound cut through the silence of the night. I craned my head

to see if I could pinpoint where the sound was coming from. Dred began to wash over me as I realized that the tapping was coming from the basement. I inched my way over to the basement door. I opened it to see the blackness

of the depths below. My ears perked up. There it was. That hollow tapping sound. The same sound I had heard I made initial visit to the basement from hitting the dry wall. I turned on the lights,

stealing myself to go down the stairs and investigate. The tapping continued as I took the first step. Fear overtook me. I ran back to my room and hid under the covers until the morning light gave way to a new day. I remember

walking down the stairs, being the first one up and about, I ran to the living room to play Nintendo. On my way, I passed the door to the basement. It was shut. Though I was in a state of near panic when I ran from it the previous night, I distinctly remember leaving the door open and not turning off the lights. I rationalised that my mother and father must have gone down there for some reason, and lost myself in Super Mario Brothers 3. Later, I mentioned the incident to my parents, and they assured me that what I heard was the sound of the hot water heater clicking the night.

I knew better, but welcome to logical explanation. About a month after the move, my mother asked me to run downstairs and grab a load of socks as I wash and dry were in the basement. I reluctantly told her I would. It was the middle of the day, and enough time had passed to dull the fear I had felt a week prior. I turned on the lights, I ran down the stairs. Hearing the hollow sound echo with my footsteps, a cold sweat started to form on me. I made my way to the dryer and grabbed a basket. I pulled the socks out hastily and shut them into the basket.

After I shut the door to the dryer, I surveyed my surroundings. The stillness of the basement was so eerie. Then I heard it. A faintly audible whisper. At first, I thought it was somebody calling from upstairs and their voice scarcely making it down into the basement. However, this was not the case. That sound was coming from the basement,

specifically from under the stairs. As I stood, frozen with fear, it began to increase in volume, but still remained barely above the threshold of human perception, what was being said incomprehensible to my, young ears. Then it stopped as quickly as it began. I moved toward the stairs, keeping my eye on the oddly colored portion of the drywall. As I took my first step to escape this ever-growing nightmare, the most profound, terrifying

moment of my life occurred. A loud, hollow bang shook the stairs, almost knocking me to the ground. I ran up the stairs as fast as my legs would carry me. Through tears and shaking uncontrollably, I told my parents what happened. They tried their best to calm me, but nothing they said could ease my mind. I told them in no uncertain terms that I would never go down to the basement again. They must have been convinced of how terrified I was, because they honoured my request and never sent me down there again. After another three months in the house, things returned to normalcy for me.

And honestly, there was about a two-week period where I was happy again. The last time happiness would exist in my life, or my families for that matter. One moment in particular comes to mind. I remember lifting up little Jonathan above my head lovingly as his passive eye fell out of his mouth and brushed against my nose tickling me. I pulled him in for a big bear hug and remember how he smelled. wonderful smell that babies emit, and, for the first time, feeling content. Any semblance of contentment came crashing down for me and my parents, the night of July 2nd,

1991. That is the day Jonathan went missing. A ransom note was scrawled in barely legible English and left in his bed demanding $20,000 cash. It informed my parents that if they contacted the police, they would kill Jonathan. My mother and father took to their room and argued loudly and emotionally over whether or not to call the police as I listened with tears streaming down my eyes.

My mother eventually wore down my father and the police were called. Seeing as the location of the drop and the time were indicated on the note, the police set up a wiretap just in case the kidnapper decided to call. I asked my parents and the police if they had thoroughly searched through the house

in case he was still here. They assured me that they had and Jonathan would be fine after the drop. But the seed of an idea was already growing in my mind that would blossom throughout the rest of my life. My parents followed the instructions to a tea. They dropped off the money

and then waited in the location that they were supposed to pick up Jonathan. He... Never came. Needless to say, this tore my family upon heart. As the weeks passed and there was no news about Jonathan, my young, vibrant parents became husks of their former selves, my mother especially. She blamed herself for getting

the police involved and believed that to be the reason Jonathan was not returned. One night she was sobbing alone in shambles, clutching a bottle of wine. I finally decided to defalged to her my theory that had been brewing inside my skull. I told her that I told her that I I thought it was whoever, or whatever for that matter, was under the stairs that had gotten Jonathan, and maybe he was still alive. She slacked me across my face so hard that I saw stars. She screamed at me, the guilt expressing itself as rage. She told me to stop the childish BS and just accept that Jonathan was taken out of the house

by some sick person and is dead. My childhood died that day. I remember contemplating taking a hammer and exposing whatever was under the stairs myself. But the fear was just too overwhelming for me to actually do it, let alone step one stair down into that basement. My family moved shortly after this incident. I remember looking to the future with what might resemble optimism, only to have it come crashing down.

My parents divorced. The grief was too much to share, and not a year after that. My mother killed herself. The guilt must have just overwhelmed her. My father did his best to raise me, but Jonathan's long shadow always hung over our lives. Twenty years later,

I began to think long and hard about my little brother's disappearance and how angry it made me. My family had a chance at a normal and fulfilling life, and it was snuffed out in an instant by whoever took him. I wasn't just robbed of a little brother I was robbed of any chance of happiness As I grew up I accepted the official story of what happened

But lately Curiosity began to get the better of me I began driving past the old house Seeing that it was currently vacant Ideas began to swell in my head So I broke into the house Altered by alcohol I decided to do it

Knowing I would likely find nothing under the basement stairs, but hoping that this would close a too long chapter in my life and allow me to move on. To my dismay, the stairs sounded exactly the same as I remember they did, a hollow sound pervading the emptiness of the basement. I stared at a spot in the drywall, still discoloured, still just as ominous as it was when I was a child. However, fear was not going to stop me. In fact, I was feeling the opposite. I was feeling of courage I hadn't felt in a long time. The moment of truth was upon me. With all the force within me, emboldened by years of pent-up rage, I ran toward the wall shoulder first. The dry wall came crashing down around me. I opened my eyes

as my bravery was immediately eroded and turned into absolute horror. Jesus. Bones. Bones everywhere. My horror increased to unimaginable heights as I surveyed the tight space, seeing the myriad skeletons strewn about. The light playing menacingly on their tiny frames. Tattered pieces of paper were strewn about with God only knows what written on them. There must be the remains of 20 or 30 children. My fright reaching a crescendo when I realized that with no excessive, they were all missing their skulls. One particular tiny one begged for my attention. I became weak at the knees and fell backwards when I saw what were unmistakably bite marks up and down the tiny forearm. As I hit the ground, I expected to hear a dull thud as I landed on the concrete.

Instead, I heard a hollow sound. I looked to see what I'd landed on. her trap door Finding new courage I summon the strength I didn't know I had I opened it Below me lay a dark tunnel A crawl space

They could barely fit a person lying on their stomach The dank smell wafting upward Made me reluctant But I knew what I had to do Before I was conscious of what my muscles were doing I found myself crawling through the darkness Toward whatever lay on the other side As I reached the end of the tunnel, I looked up to see a silver light cutting through the darkness.

With trepidation, I pushed upwards. Cautiously, I poked my head up. To my surprise, the tunnel had led to the other side of the stairs. I crawled out to find myself in the corner of the basement, facing the stairs behind a dryer covered in years of dust. The implications of all this, sent my mind reeling. But, before I could form a coherent thought,

the lights turned off in the basement. My heart caught in my throat as I began to hear someone descending the stairs, slow but sure steps, announcing I was no longer alone. With every thud, my heart skipped a beat. I began to hear that incomprehensible whispering absolutely indelible in my mind.

The familiarity, reigniting the fear and woe of my lost childhood. Worrying the darkness will not adequately hide me, I sought cover by ducking behind the dryer, not willing to take a risk of catching a glimpse, though every fibre of my being screamed to do so. Panic began to set in. What am I going to do when they discover their lair has been revealed?

While I was mulling over my options, the screaming began. I say scream as a frame of reference. but there was no way to truly describe the guitaral noises I heard. The sounds, smashing the silence of the basement, was so bone-chilling, so surreal as the defyed description. He clearly had discovered his perverse sanctuary had been disturbed. Before I knew it, I was up the stairs running for my life. I made it to my car too scared to turn around. With all muscles working in concert, I opened the door and put the key in the ignition in once

swift movement. As my car sprang to life under the streetlight, a shadow fell over my car. I gunned it and never looked back, flooring the accelerator to the local police precinct. I breathlessly tried to explain to the attending officer what had occurred and collapsed to the floor mid-sentence. Now, it has been a month later. The next day, after my discovery, the police launched an investigation and quickly made the same gruesome discovery. I was thanked profusely by the police and the community for what I'd found, telling me that they were going to be able to close the books on multiple missing person cases. However, they were not able to find the perpetrator of these heinous crimes. They began to test the DNA of the bodies.

A profound sense of relief overcame me when I received the call informing me that one of the tiny skeletons belonged to Jonathan. I shared the news with my father. The look on his face Relief all-encompassing As the burden he had carried for so many years was lifted We hugged as tears filled both of our eyes However The relief has been short-lived

The thing that keeps me up at night Is that whoever Or whatever did this is still out there The question that plagues my mind Is whether or not this monster is literal or figurative Either way, I hope, I never find out. Of course, everyone claiming residents in Arthur's wake knows tales associated with the Wicker House.

It seems that every small province plays host to some structure of ill repute, which, as if by some supernatural magnetism, draws rumours of ghosts and bogies, wrapping the timber and stone of its foundation in a shroud of darkness and horror. In Arthur's wake, the Wicker House feels this odious.

task. Scant days after arriving in town, while taking the time to familiarise myself with a local watering hole and its residence, I became introduced to the well-known superstitions surrounding the Wicker House. As a man of science, I knew any truths to be found in these outlandish stories were likely embellished to points unrecognisable. Nothing was firsthand. All experiences were from a friend who knew a fellow who may have seen something. It is the provincial mind which transforms wild dogs into wolves that can walk like men, and interprets astronomical phenomenon as harbingers of certain doom. Still, my curiosity sufficiently piqued, I endeavored to better inform myself upon the subject

through more objective means. To my great surprise, while failing to confirm more supernatural claims of the tales, the town records in the basement of the local library did provide aspect to a more sinister reality all their own. The house was built in 1920 by the millionaire Thomas Wicker, who, in addition to being both a successful oil prospector and fishing magnate, was by all accounts completely insane. No one knows what first drew Wicker to Arthur's wake. Some speculate this as the first outward sign of his impending madness. What is known was that the foundations of the house, which would come to assume his name,

poured almost immediately upon his arrival. The structure was supremely modest for a man of wicker's means, rising a mere two stories in height and composed of scarcely a dozen rooms plus cellar and attic for storage. The house was built on Blackwood Drive, a major tributary of the town's main street, and close to the industrial centre, such as it was. The plot itself consisted of about a quarter acre, the yard home to a few blossoming trees and a small garden. The whole of which was surrounded by a high wrought iron fence accessed by a similar gate.

The posts of this formidable perimeter were topped by wicked spikes to discourage would-be trespassers. Construction concluded rapidly and the autumn of 1920 saw Wicker take up residence in the house, accompanied by a maid, groundsman and his wife. The lady of the house quickly became subject of gossip among the townsfolk. the construction, Wicker had boarded his wife in parts unknown. None could recall when she arrived at the house. One day she was simply there. As the groundskeeper cared for the exterior yard and garden and the maid handled all domestic chores, including trips to market, the lady herself was never seen to exit the house. Due to the complete lack of socialisation,

the townsfolk did not learn so much about the woman as a Christian name. The servants themselves shed no light upon the subject. The man hailed from a remote part of the dark continent, and the woman appeared to be a mixed breed, vaguely of the Orient. Wicker had acquired the surface of each while abroad for business dealings, and neither spoke a word of English. Naturally, the Lady Wicker was the object of the most persistent rumour. Early speculation was she suffered from some exotic malady, which left a drawn and bedridden. These theories were repudiated by those few. who would occasionally spire from the street.

In each case, she was seen exclusively at night, staring forlornly through the second-story window of what was assumed to be her bedchamber, lit only by candlelight from within, until all appearances, the picture of health. Additionally, there was little chance that typically damp and sunless climate of the wake would be prescribed to improve one's constitution by even the most inept of physicians. As common folk are, with a logical explanation,

absent, more fantastic theories were crafted. Some began to speculate the woman was a witch, others an enslaved angel one by wicker was dicing with Satan. What all who observer agreed upon was a singular beauty. I gleaned much of this information from the archives of the local paper, especially one such curiosity piece which was accompanied by a photograph of the lady in question. The scene was just as I had heard described. The single, lonely prisoner peering through the window and across that terrible iron fence into that darkness of the night. The photograph was modelled due to the quality and the prehistoric equipment and the lack

of natural light, effectively obscuring the ladies' features. Indeed, it was difficult to distinguish whether the blurred form was in fact human, though it did project an impression of unmistakable femininity. And yet, even through that greyish haze, I could perceive a surge of such a certain way. certain piercing, almost hypnotic quality of her eyes. Wicker himself was something of a mystery though, considerably less so than his bride. An attractive man, tall, dark-haired and well-featured, many a young woman found herself undeniably jealous of the seldom reserved lady Wicker.

Though often away for long periods on business excursions, at home, Wicker would frequent the only drinking establishment in the wake, an illicit locale consistently ignored by by the well-brived police force charged with upholding prohibition. Although he had no one in town that might be explicitly named Friend, Wicker was known to purchase drinks for the house on his occasions of patronage and was as such engaged in conversation by no few number of fellow revellers. He never took long for Wicker's tongue to be sufficiently loosened, at which time he would regale his latest pass-love hangars-on,

with fantastic stories of his journeys abroad, forbidden hoodoo rights of the Caribbean, strange tribal sacrifices in the heart of America, dead men who walked in Eastern Europe, and countless others, each one's stranger and darker than the last. Though Wicker never spoke of his wife directly, these tales only served to expound upon the rumours of her origin. Things progressed much in this way for some five years. Wicker would travel and carous upon his return.

The servants went about their business without comment or complaints. The town's folk gossiped, the lady remained a shut in. The horror occurred without warning. The events that took place on the eve of Samhain in the year of 1925 have gone down in the history of Arthur's Wake as unembellished fact. Among the town's records, I discovered the report of the patrolmen dispatched to respond to the disturbance of the Wicker House. The narrative was itself accompanied by the most gruesome of photograph.

from the scene in question. I will summarize their contents directly. Thomas Wicker returned from his latest trip abroad on the 31st of October. Having stopped briefly at home, he arrived at the aforementioned drinking establishment in a clearly agitated state. The always impeccable dressed Wicker was stoppally garbed. One shirt towel hanging out of his trousers, shoes scuffed beyond repair. It was obvious he had not recently brought.

bathed or shaved. His well-groomed hair was must, and his eyes were bloodshot and wild. Approaching the bar, he seized an entire bottle of liquor, took several long swallows without use of a glass, and ignored all attempts of other patrons to engage him in conversation. Taking a final drink from the bottle, he placed his wallet and the entirety of its contents on the bar, smashed the now empty receptacle upon the ground and exited with the astonished eyes of the present following him. that this entire portion of the episode occurred within a completely illegal establishment is not lost to me,

although it apparently was on the investigating patrolman. As I have said, they were well bribed. That no mortal eye remains which observed what happened next is surely proof of a merciful god. The two patrolmen who first came upon the scene was summoned by terrified reports of shrill cries and demonic cackles. Long-term veterans and hard men both were nevertheless, ill-prepared for what they would soon find at the Wicker House. Armed with a lantern and clubs in hand, the men carefully approached the dwelling now ominously quiet. The Great Iron Gate was open askew, as was the oaken door at the top of the steps leading into the interior of the house.

Receiving no response to their shouted inquiries, the patrolman cautiously entered the foyer and proceeded to search the ground floor. They found the first horror in the kitchen. The maid had been tied with thick hemp rope to a large table. Limbs spread and secured to each of the four legs. She was nude, the butcher's knife which had been used to slit the throat, permanently sheathed in a heart. Glistening blood dripped from a cruel altar, slowly pulling on the floor, while telltale splatters painted the walls like a macabreation.

The patrolman shared a glance of mutual, unbelieving dread, tighten their grips upon their clubs and continued to search the premises in complete, terrified silence. Having determined the cellar empty through a brief, yet understandably taught examination, they exited the back door to the yard and discovered the groundsman's body. A thick wooden stake had been erected in the centre of the garden and crossed by a perpetual beam. The man hung naked, suspended from the crossbeams by spikes, harshly driven through his wrists and ankles, in a grotesque simulochrum of Christ's crucifixion. He had been disemboweled, Roby ended pouring out of his belly, dripping blood and excrement.

Horrified, the patrolman reluctantly agreed that a premature conclusion of their search to summon reinforcements would provide a very dangerous murderer a chance at escape. The men re-entered the house and agonizing proceeded up the winding stairs to the second floor. Systematically, they searched each room, uncovering nothing until only one remained. The bedchamber of the elusive Lady Wicker. Eyes wide, heart pounding wildly, the lead man slowly eased a latch. Raising their clubs, the men burst through the door and stopped dumbfounded. The room was completely dark and empty, devoid of any trappings or furniture of any kind.

By the thin beam of their lantern light, the men saw that strange occult symbols have been scrawled on every surface of the room, though those on the far wall had been somehow marred. Of the murderous Thomas Wicker or his mysterious wife, there was no sign. A noise from above alerted the men to their quarry's location. Returning to the hall, they spied a trapped door operated by a string, which, when pulled, revealed the ladder leading up into the lightless storage space of the attic. The two patrolmen stared at the entrance, yawning black and wide, as the more of some infernal creature, beckoning fools to wonder to their doom. Unable to decide who would proceed first, the men threw evens. The unlucky loser took the lantern and ascended the ladder.

He stopped halfway through the aperture, lantern held high to better diffuse its light and ready to beat a hasty retreat to the relative safety of the hallway below. The attic was in a state of disorder, strange souvenirs of wicker's trips abroad stacked haphazily throughout. The constable slowly played his beam out, gradually revealing each destroyed mound of clutter. At last, the light fell up on the attic's far corner, revealing the huddled, gibbering mass of the man they sought. Or, what had been the man? Indeed, whatever serves to separate man from beast had, sensing it was no longer a suitable dwelling place, fled the form of Thomas Wicker. The handsome features were gone, replaced by deeply sunken cheeks and a hideous grin.

As the patrolman stared terrified, he could see the creature was covered in the blood of his victims left below. Hands about his knees, Wicker slowly rocked, babbling to himself. Joined by his fellow, the constable steadily advanced. Arms outstretched, they ready to seize the thing that had been Thomas Wicker, when his mad eyes shifted upon them and the muttering slid. In a moment of seeming clarity, he whispered, She's gone, before emitting a maniacal howl and leaping to his feet. Taken aback, the patrolman hesitated,

affording the lunatic room to bound past them to the window and hurl himself through the glass. His desperate shriek gave way to a sickening thud. The men rushed to the broken window. Fire below by the light of the moon, they saw the body of Thomas Wicker jerk, impaled by the wicked spikes atop the iron wall. By the time the patrolman descended from the attic, the hideous motion had mercifully stopped.

The remainder of the report is, compared to the extraordinary events that had thus far taken place, remarkably mundane. Determining that the murderer was indeed dead, the patrolman called for reinforcements. The house was searched in detail, and much speculation was made regarding the fantastic totems and fetishes

populating every nock and cranny. All who set foot on the premises were in unanimous agreement that Thomas Wicker was unequivocally mad. Most confounding of all, there was no sign to what fate befell the mysterious Lady Wicker. Taking the lunatic's final utterance as related by the patrolman,

the investigators deduced that the lady, tired of being regularly abandoned, had fled to parts unknown during Wicker's latest trip abroad. Upon his return, the shock had been a number of, to push the man into a murderous rage. Since virtually nothing was known of the woman, neither when she came or even her proper name,

no search was mounted and the case dismissed. It is from this point that the tales depart from the realm of logical reason to instead dwell into the twisted byways of urban legend. About a month after the death of Thomas Wicker was when the disappearances began, the investigation of which ultimately led to my arrival in Arthur's wake. Parents will put their children to bed at night and find them gone the next morning. Exhaustive searches of the wake uncovered nothing.

Strangers new to the town were accosted, imprisoned and, in one instance, lynched by a frightened mob. Some questionable evidence was found on a man's body after the fact, and, with the suspect too dead to proclaim his innocence, the police happily declared the case closed, that the pattern of disappearances has continued for more than 60 years would suggest they were mistaken. I have been unable to identify the first acclaim seeing a strange light emitted from the long-abandoned window of the Lady Wicker's bedchamber, nor the one who swore hear the sound of children playing as he hurriedly passed the accursed house. I do know that the tales have spread and grown to the point they are not so easily dismissed. Shortly I will ascertain any truth to them that may be. I turn off the small audio recorder I have been speaking into

and place it into my pocket as I make the turn onto Blackwood Drive. Heaven only knows for whom I make these notes. A lifetime of chasing ghost stories of hunting down tales of creatures that delight the imagination and offend the sensibilities has thus far provided me no hard evidence of the existence of some supernatural realm dwelling in the darkened shadows of our world. Indeed, each investigation only further affirms what have long determined. The human mind is a miraculous thing in its unabashed propensity to deceive itself, and yet I abide.

Perhaps this will be the time my perseverance is at last rewarded with even a bare glimpse of that other place. A place every man knows, yet none have seen, but in their blackest nightmares. A place of monsters. Slender, tendrils of fog quest hungrily between my feet like living things, as I approached the ruins of the Wicker House. Pushing through the rusted iron gate, I am reminded that, despite my misgivings, I too am human,

my mind as readily capable of deception as any other. Indeed, making my way up to the front path, a trick of the moonlight suggests a soft glow emanating from the second-story window, as if from a candle lit within. And, were it not impossible, the visage of a beautiful woman, stares down and smiles at me approvingly.

My hand tightens in the knob as children's laughter reaches my ears. I open the door. The circumstances in which we found Miss Kerry were unpleasant. She had been dead for just over a week by the time we were called out, though how much of the smell came from a decomposing body and how much it was from the house she had lived in was difficult to determine. It was unclear how long

she had been sitting on that damn sofa. her, though the odd man she lived with thought that it might have been as much as five years. She had eventually become too large to get off it. Nevertheless, it was long enough for her to become part of the thing, with the sores on her legs and buttocks having opened and then closed around the material. Woman and couch, one being for years on end until she died on it. This wasn't the first time I, or my fellow paramedics, had seen something like this, but it was certainly the worst case. The look of the house, the smell of it, the sight of her skin and the cloth of the couch merging together was such an overwhelming experience that at first none of us noticed her hair.

It had grown long over the years. Clombed strand of it trapped between her back and the cushions. As we levered her half the sofa, it grew tight, pulling her head back, And it was only then that we realised that it too had worked its way in between the threads of the material. I assumed that it would come out with a good tug, but it was apparently worked well in. When we pulled on miscarry, the hair stayed put and a scalp threatened to come away instead. In the end, I grabbed a pair of scissors from the kitchen and cut her loose. The rest of the call-out was no easier.

We didn't have a body bag to fit her. The trolley barely took a weight, and he took a second team of paramedics and a few police officers to help us get her on it. The ambulance's suspension fared a little better. While my colleague spoke to the officers and to Miss Kerry's strange partner, there would be questions for him later about possible negligence, and as to why he waited so long to notify us over death, I wandered back into the living room to take another look at that grotesque sofa. There was now a large patch of missing material where she had been sitting,

exposing the stinking, discoloured padding underneath. I shook my head, feeling a little disgusted, but more sad than anything else. Another tragic case. And then, something caught my eye. I thought I saw something move within the cushion. I took a step closer and peered down. What was it? An insect?

But all I could see now was a tangle of hair lying across the padding. I hesitated, my eyes narrowing as I focused on the hair. Maybe it was just a trick of the light, but it looked like it was moving, being pulled down into the cushion. A sudden hand on my arm made me cry out with alarm. I turned, I was surprised to see Miss Kerry's partner staring at me with wild eyes. You can't take it, he gasped. Take what? I said, thinking that he was probably referring to the body. I was about to gently explain that we had to, when instead he pointed at the couch behind me.

That, you can't take it. It's what I have left of her. To be honest, I had no idea whether who would get to keep the sofa or not. It seemed like a biohazard to me. I'm sure someone will be along to talk to you about it, I said, patting his hand reassuringly. He shook his head. They can't have it, not while she's still inside it. That was quite enough. for me. I smiled at him and then made my excuses to return to the outside where there was a little

more fresh air and sanity. I wonder though if madness isn't a little catching. His word stayed with me and the sight of that strange hair, moving or not, kept on coming back to me over the following days. I told my wife who has enjoyed many disturbing stories over the years about the couch and the hair and the strange man. She hugged me. me and suggested that maybe this time I should actually go and speak to a counsellor. I said I would, knowing I probably wouldn't, and went to bed, where I slept badly and dreamt about hair. Over the following week, I tried to put it out of my mind and get on with my job, but through

every call-out, from simple accidents to serious injuries, I kept finding my attention drawn back to Miss Kerry's couch. Which was how I found myself standing outside a house, telling myself that I was just being a good Samaritan. I was there to check in a partner. I was certainly not craving another look at that goddamn sofa. I knocked on the door and waited. No response. I knocked again.

Still, nothing. A little concerned but mostly impatient, I tried the door and found it unlocked. I probably didn't hesitate for as long as I should have before I went in. I called out, Sir, as I walked through the hallway, I could hear no sound, and he was nowhere to be seen in the kitchen ahead of me. If he's here, I thought,

he'll probably be in the lounge, so I went straight in. The room looked exactly as I left it. It even smelled the same. There was the sofa, discoloured and exposed. I felt my heart pounding in my chest as I walked up to it and looked down at the cushions. The hair that I'd seen before was gone.

I appeared closer, though I don't know what I expected to see. There was nothing there. And then I looked up at the part of the couch she would have rested on, where her back would have been pressed, her hair trapped between, and saw a pulse. It was a gentle movement. little movement, small enough to go and seen by someone not looking for it. As if in a day's I reached out and poked it.

Something like a shudder passed over the cushion. The scissors I had used to cut miscarry free was sitting on the coffee table. I picked them up and, with a mouth as dry as bone, cut into the cushion. I snipped a line across and then with my bare hands I took hold of the material and ripped it open. The hair inside seemed to shrink away from the sudden light, but there was so much of it that it had nowhere to go. It was twisted into the threads of the cloth and buried deep into the padding, thickly matted.

I could hear it as it moved against itself, against the material. I stared at it for a moment and then started making cuts in the other cushions, tearing at them to see inside. The hair was everywhere, but this was impossible. Even over that length of time, surely she couldn't have grown and lost so much hair, and how could it have worked its way so deeply inside the cushion? My brain seemed to be trying to ignore the fact that it was moving. Suddenly, I felt something prick at my wrist and looked down.

There was a hair, but it wasn't mine, and it wasn't just lying on me. The end was against my skin, and I could see it. twisting and moving as it tried to push its way inside. A small dot of blood appearing where it pressed against me. I cried out and pulled it away. Part of the filament snapped off, but there was still a fragment left, wriggling desperately. Without hesitation, I snapped up the scissors again

and sliced into myself, cutting away a layer of skin and the hair with it. My horror and fear easily overriding the pain. I flung them away from me, and stared at the couch in terror. And that was when, no longer blinded by my curiosity and compulsion, I saw a foot poking out from behind the sofa.

My breath caught in my throat, and I swallowed hard. Then I moved carefully forward, not getting too close, and peered behind that wretched piece of furniture. To this day, I don't know the man's name, but there was the late Miss Carey's partner

lying on the ground behind the couch, pressed against the, back of it. Hair covered him nearly completely, wrapping around his body, growing into his skin. His eyes were open, hair boring into them, even as he stared at me with terrified desperation. I took a step closer, but as if sensing that I'd found him, the hair tightened around his body, penetrating deeper into him, pulling him even closer against the sofa. I knew that it was too late for him, that there was nothing I could do to help at this point. even if I was brave enough to try.

But, I had to do something. A few days later, a colleague asked me if I had heard about the fire and Miss Kerry's house. Of course, I said that I hadn't, and asked what had happened.

No one was sure, he said, a real tragedy as a partner had been found in the remains, burned beyond recognition. Nothing much was left, but there was no surprise there. The place had been a fire hazard for years, and the flames had spread quickly, consuming everything.

I asked about the couch. He chuckled. Totally gone, he confirmed. And good riddened, say. I agreed, scratching my wrist. Maybe I'll try that counselling after all. You can understand why we weren't exactly expecting this. Dr. Grieves had been talking for hours,

but I'd barely been listening. I was fixated on the wind-swept Arctic plain beneath me. me. The turbulence this low down was rough and the inside of the plane was closed to freezing, but the view it offered was astonishing. It was like looking down on an alien world, an infinite white sheet and broken by gargantuan clumps of black volcanic rock. Most of the team down there are geologists and meteorologists, so for the longest time they never really consider the possibility that we'd need an archaeologist, he said. The ice sheet is miles thick and over firm bedrock and the team's primary concern.

Well, up until a week ago, was to investigate the effect of global warming this far in land. The doctor's breath turned to mist with each excited word. He was smiling, even as his nose turned blue. What did you think it was? I asked. Well, Sonos showed it was hollow, but parts of it were clearly wooden metal, but the size of the thing. I guess the simple answer, Dr. Rallett, is that we didn't know. We aren't keen on making guesses.

As you know, it can lead to bias. But I think if it wasn't for the phoeia, we would never have even guessed the full truth. Current samples of the trapped air are over 85,000 years old. A ship like this rewrites everything we know about our history. Quite a bit of luck, I said. Well, the doctor replied, If you work here for long, you'll quickly learn that the ice sheet is degrading faster with each year. The warmer it gets, the more liquid water there is to weather out old caves and expand them, or even to create new ones.

It was exactly that process, and, are looking for it, that led us to the discovery. The effect is the same, though, I said. A new cave system opened up within days of your discovery, and it led you right to it, as if the original find wasn't bizarre enough. Well, yes, Dr. Hargreave said. It is a miracle. That's what I've been trying to get at. Chances like this aren't just once in a lifetime, Dr. Rosette. They're once in an epoch.

It makes winning the lottery look mundane. I couldn't quite stimmy a chuckle, and I had to shake my head apologetically to the doctor when he took offence. I believe you, I said. I do. It's just that exact same luck has landed. you in a rather strange position. Everyone thinks it's a hoax, Dr. Greaves cried,

slumping back into his seat like a scolded boy. They've sent three different researchers from my own university, and even after they've all confirmed the find, I'm still being treated like a fraud. Proof is in the pudding, I said. You know the truth. See, the doctor said, cheered slightly by my words, if anyone would understand, it's you.

I was saved from the need to reply further when a light chimed overhead and the captain's words rang out over the speaker. The doctor straightened his chair and Ryan, my assistant PhD student, finally woke up. I returned to the window and watched, breath held as we finally made our descent, sinking into the fine white mists below. Base camp was filled with busy students shuffling back and forth. In the distance two young men argued over a half-discipline. assembled ice drill, while nearby three people worked to feed a small pack of sled dogs. In the centre of it all was a small table where two men, around Hargreaves' age, assembled various picks and other tools.

I made my way towards them, dodging half a dozen people carrying boxes along the way. Everyone looked exhausted and utterly disinterested in my arrival, and it was only when Dr. Greaves caught up with me, and called out the two men in the centre that they looked up and paid attention. Ah, Dr. Razan, the oldest called out, fat and plump with red cheeks like Santa. Good to see you, bloody tough going, isn't it? But you've never flown anywhere like this before. It's certainly something, answered as he took my hand and shook it.

I am Dr. Whittle, this is Dr. Shirley. He pointed to the whip-court thin man beside him, who looked very much like the classic ideal of an aged adventurer. And obviously you're acquainted with Dr. grieves. The mustachioed man beside me smiled and gave me a small nod. Now we've had a few of the staff put aside what data we've managed to collect so far and put it in your tent, which you'll find hopefully to your liking just over there. He pointed to some far corner of the camp and smiled as if that was all the introduction he needed. I ignored him, instead paying close

attention to the rope called around his shoulder, his spiked ice boots and the bundle of tools both men carried at their back. I'd like to see it, I said. I'll gear up now and join you. Oh, well, we sort of hoped you'd... No need to worry about my schedule, gentlemen, I smiled. That's my job. I'll be with you shortly.

I picked up my things and marched towards my tent, taking only brief notice of the small cotton heater I'd been provided. I hadn't arrived unprepared, and, despite what Mr. Whittle might have thought, I spent years working in the Arctic Circle, and was just as well equipped to deal with the climate as the best of them. By the time I was unpacked and ready, barely half an hour had passed. And yet, when I left my tent, I saw that the three doctors were nowhere to be found. I pulled aside a young woman, Megan away past, and asked if she'd seen where they went,

and she told me they'd announced their descent just after I'd entered my tent. I was seething at the news and had her show me the way. the entrance to the phoeia. Sure enough, there was fresh rigging buried into the ice, slack rope hanging loose over the edge. Thank you, I muttered, and attached my own safety line to the rigging. Accepting that I'd be travelling solo, the girl tried to talk me out of it, but I was already a metre down before she could finish her plea. I can't say exactly why I did it, except that I've been pulled into this venture at the very last possible minute, and I wasn't very happy about it. From Dr. Hagre's behaviour in the plane, I thought, perhaps, that the

researchers on site would be friendly enough, but it seems they'd figured out what I'd known right from the beginning. I'd been brought in by the university to harm the project's credit, not bolster it. I was a black enough sheep that from time to time my name will be stapled onto risky papers, willingly or not, to help ensure they sank in unfavourable journals. I'd learned to accept my fringe status years ago, but to researchers only just learning about the death of their career, I was about as welcome as a leper in a hot tub. Thankfully, the vertical drop wasn't all that severe and the journey down was short. The fissure penetrated a small cave system below the surface, and, after a dozen feet,

I landed on flat ground. I'd previously worked in ice caves close to the edge of the Canadian coast, and most of their her floor made of bedrock. But in Greenland, the ice sheet can be three kilometres in thickness, and there was nothing but water worn ice for my feet to find purchase. I felt a kind of vertigo, imagining myself hovering two miles over the earth. It was like another whirl down there. Fine moats of snow drifted lazily down from the breach above, and the gale force wind, ever present on the surface, had been whittled down to a distant whistle. It was not dark as you might expect, because the crystal blue walls turn any torch into a dazzling light display.

The effect was one of insulating warmth and uncanny beauty, but it made me feel small, too small to be mucking around in a continent-sized lump of ice, where even the minutest shift in material would leave me crushed like a gnat. I pushed on regardless, and the cave system opened up after a few dozen meters, but the vast empty spaces only doubled that feeling of intense. significance. Thank God there were clearly marked guidelines to clip into. I must have fallen half a dozen times and one of them brought me frighteningly close to tumbling into a

bottomless chasm. Without those safety lines I would have slid right on over the sloped edge and died but if those three adults could manage it I knew I could too. It was just a matter of following the trail and staying clipped on. By the time I arrived I was red-faced and sweaty and had more than a few bruises hidden by my thick coat. The three men couldn't see any of those, but they raised an eyebrow at my breathless state, and I'm sure I heard Dr. Whittle make some snide comment beneath his breath. I was getting ready to start tearing into them when finally I saw it, and I wasn't in much shape to do anything afterwards except gawk.

really did look like the photos. And, in fact, for a second there, I didn't believe my own eyes. I just... Well, I just couldn't piece it together as something real. If I had taken a picture, you would have called it fake. If I had sketched it or painted it, you'd think it a pretty picture of a dream, but nothing more. I have seen photos of glacial ice bisected by sudden geological change, seeing the clear blue crystal standing tall like an impossible snapshot of the ocean depths, but this was something

else. Just a few metres away from where I stood, the wall of ice began, and a few meters further, the prow of an enormous ship was clearly seen, frozen perfectly in time, impossibly large for any wooden vessel I've ever seen. It was like a jagged piece of rock or wood that jutted out from the darkness towards us, so that only the nose was visible. It looked like some colossal, aquatic predator, with his face pressed against a sheet of glass, and you couldn't help but feel a little afraid looking at it. How big is it? I said, stammering the words out like a frightened child. The air pocket is around 800 metres.

I looked towards the three men. I didn't even remember who'd spoken, but my face must have been. have said what I was thinking, because Mr. Whittle spoke up quickly enough. The nose is clearly visible about 100 metres tall. Whether the ship behind is 100 metres long, we can't easily say, but the sonar shows the cavity it's trapped in is 800 metres long. It could be half that, I said, and still dump all over everything I've ever understood by the limits of shipbuilding.

The largest ships currently in existence reach around 4 to 500 metres. This, this is a city that floats. It shouldn't exist, Dr. Shirley snarled, and I realised the sour-faced adventurer wasn't making the comment out of awe or even curiosity. It was more of a flat statement with the emphasis on shouldn't. Dr. Whittle and Greaves both noticed this, and something of an argument quickly broke out. Well, it does exist, Garrett, Dr. Whittle cried.

That issue has long been. settled. This is the opportunity of a lifetime, Dr. Grieve said. Please, gentlemen, this is truly something special. But Dr. Shirley was obstinate and difficult, and he never fully stated his case while I was present. Instead, he skirted around the idea that they should have never reported it, that they had somehow breached their scientific responsibility by not ignoring the evidence of their own eyes. In the meantime, I returned to the ship. absolutely breathtaking by its imposing size and jagged outline. It looked unlike any ship I'd ever seen,

pitch black and full of blunt hard angles, like an oil tanker made out of burnt matchsticks. This won't reach the outside world, I said, my loud voice cutting cleanly through their bickering so that they all look towards me. I'm sorry to say this, Dr. Greaves, but you won't be recognised for this kind of discovery, or in all likelihood any others.

Some truths are a little too big, and this is one of them. You can't say that, Dr. Greaves cried. We've had visitors from at least a dozen universities, and they've all seen this very thing right in front of you. And they won't be recognised either, I smiled. Some things break the scientific method, and this. Oh boy, this is a big one. But we have to try, he cried.

You said it yourself. the proof is in the pudding. I'm not surprised you're trying to pull us into your silly conspiracy peddling, Dr. Whittle snorted. None of you will see this work published, I told them, ignoring Dr. Whittle's remark, not even in small journals. To be honest, I thought it was all a hoax,

despite the things I've seen, and so does everyone else, and they don't have the benefit of my experience. The fact you so readily called in help will only make this worse for you, because the sooner it becomes clear, you really do have something. Well, that's when they show up.

They are welcome to it, Professor surely said, a glint of defeat in his eyes. I never wanted to be Galileo. I don't blame you, I replied, but there are worse hills to die on. As it stands, I'd say you have a week or two before some very stern-looking people turn up and start taking everything you have. At least, that's my experience. Of course, cried Dr. Whittle, here we go again,

the strange men in suits, the inexplicable stalling of a bright young career, threats, and even direct coercion. The difference here, Dr. Rolett, is that we have proof of our claims instead of parading some nonsense theory about prehistoric civilizations. I left that last part unanswered

and instead cut to the chase. You have seven to fourteen days, I said. Your careers are dead. There is no claim to be had, no place in the history box. I'm truly sorry, but sooner or later you must mourn the death of your life's work because it's happening one way or another. Why else would I be sent here to taint you all by association?

Any of your colleagues who openly support you will quickly find themselves out of pocket for all sorts of reasons. Dismissed as conspiracy all you want. I'm past arguing about it. But all you have going for you is that the people who matter still think you're lying. And that buys you time. Time to do what? Asked Dr. Greaves.

I pointed to the ship. To go get a closer look? There will be no credit, no claims, no glory, no acclaim. Just the truth for you and you alone. Scream this news from a mountaintop and all you'll get is struck by lightning. But for those of us who value knowledge for its own sake, there will always be the truth of what lies in that ship. So, I wrote to my hands together with barely contained glee.

Who wants to crack this thing open? Ryan was fiddling with the lighting on his camera, but I didn't have the hard to tell him none of it would leave the camp intact. Still, his expertise from remote camera rigs was very helpful, and there was something strangely funny about watching him explain the concept of a GoPro to Professor Shirley. As it was, we managed a jury rig a pretty half-decent solution. to just about every problem that had popped up in the last four days, and, with the recording equipment all set up, we were good to go. Now the cave was almost always occupied as various engineers and mechanics had worked tirelessly to first drill into the ice

and then establish a safe corridor to the ship's hull, all under sealed, airtight conditions. Tents were set up and quarantine procedures established, and standard hazmat deep pressure suits were hanging by the improvised bulkheads. Turns out that my connections weren't so unwanted after all. And by the time I had a drill flown in that was worth over 250,000 pounds, Dr. Whittle finally started warming up to me. Professor surely remained distant, but he broke one quiet evening while I was sat outside my tent and smoked,

coming over to ask how I'd possibly know the head of the company well enough to work that kind of favour. Proof is in the pudding, I said with a smile. My theories went down in flames, but the truth is still. worth something in the right places. How do you think I fund my research? Some people will give anything to know what no one else does, and they'll pay even more to tag along or play some vital role in digging it all up. But then again, you'll find out soon enough. He said nothing in return and simply stumped off in silence. His footfall was crunching in the snow. But whether he liked it or not, I'd play a vital role in making this all happen,

and I watched Dr. Whittle and Professor Shirley's suit up with a kind of glint to my eye. The Professor caught it at one point and turned visibly red and I had to look away to stop myself from laughing. This couldn't have happened without me, and I stopped just short of openly revelling in it. Once Ryan had the remote camera feed all set up, they pulled on their unwieldly helmets and started the long waddle to the bulkhead. I had felt a powerful sense of accomplishment all throughout this day. And yet, the sight of the two men approaching the door with a ship looming overhead left me frightened for them. The ship was a pitch-black splinter in the abysmal depths, and nothing about it looked welcoming. A floating city of Tar, too large to imagine moving around the open ocean.

My own experiences taught me that there were odd things buried deep in the earth that do not like to be woken up, and the question of who had built the ship and how remained hanging over all our heads. When I took the time to consult a few marine architects, they all practically laughed me off the phone at the suggestion of an 800-meter-long wooden ship. Even with all the luxuries of modern technology, they said, such a thing simply isn't feasible. One, only one, had floated the novel idea that it might somehow be workable if the wood scaled in size as well. But of course, he laughed, that had required tree over 800 metres tall to create a really solid structure with any hope of surviving the stress, and gravity puts a hard limit on how tall trees can grow. I hadn't liked to think too much on that. I wasn't sure how to file it away in my brain, so I left it floating around until it came back to me in that moment as I watched the doctors enter the bulkhead and disappear from view. It was a question that should have inspired awe and fascination, but that ship looked all too hungry, and I turned to the remote feed with a feeling of intense anxiety.

It took hours for the two men to finally cut an entrance into the hole, and the whole time a small army of students waited on hand to take away the steady stream of samples and being tested. By the time they cut the final section away, Dr. Greaves had joined me. me and we waited with bated breath. Here we go, Dr. Whittle muttered to himself, and I watched as he plunged ahead. The entrance was about two foot off the ground, and one of the men leaned forward in the darkness. His light was pale and chalky in the gloom, showing a floor coated in thick layers of dust that flared bright white in the camera.

Debris littered the floor, buried under the blanket of dust like cabins in the snow. When one of the men started to climb upwards, his movement disturbed a flurry of ashy flakes that swept across the screen like a blizzard. They flashed brightly in the camera's glare and visibility was poor. We could see no walls yet, just an empty space. Hesitantly, surely took his first steps and swept his head around to gauge the size of the room. It was enormous. Though the ceiling was low and the shadows felt claustrophobic, We hadn't had time to arrange for proper medical monitoring, but I could well imagine both

men's hearts were racing. Their breathing filled their helmets, and more than once they swallowed too loudly for our comfort. They walked onwards until, after a few meters, something came into view. It swept past the camera at first, and before any of us could tell him to swing back, had already done a double take and brought the object into full view. It was a cage. with little more than a pile of white dust, and beside it was an identical one with similar contents. A few feet behind it, a wall came into sight, and the men's torches caught sight of other crates all lined up in a row.

Their exact number was lost the darkness, but even with our limited sight, we saw that they were arranged in a repeating pattern of pairs. Two by two, I muttered. Dr. Greaves was pink, his face a puzzle I couldn't crack, Ryan's expression at least was familiar. What the hell? He groaned. I turned back to the feed and watched the two men follow the wall. The going is slow, and both scientists stopped often to collect a few lone items resting on top some of the crates. There were knives mostly, but one looked oddly like something the Egyptians used to remove the brain prior to mummification.

One by one they were bagged and put away into various pouches along the men's suits. They were meticulous in detailing what little they found, so the going was slow, but eventually a break in the wall appeared. It was a rounded doorway, and looking through it, we all saw a set of wooden steps rising into the darkness. There were wooden planks fixed to the wall with no sign of rails, and the thought of ascending them turned my stomach. Did you see that?

Dr. Whittle cried, and everyone in the small crowd that had gathered around us all jumped at once. From the back, laughter could be heard, but my eyes were wide and fixed on the screen. He was staring straight up at the stairs, desperately trying to see past the gloom. Did you see that? Dr. Whittle cried again. His voice suddenly frail. I did, I replied.

I saw it. Something moved. That's not possible, Doctor, Dr. Greaves said, grabbing the speaker. Check the audio recordings, Dr. Shirley said, his voice grave. I didn't see anything, but I'm sure I heard it. Ryan was already on it. While we had access to two standard radios, the suits included extremely sensitive recorders designed to pick out the faintest noise.

I didn't tell anyone on site, but they were actually specialist items used by ghost hunters to detect EVP. At the time, I'd found the irony delicious, sitting there as Ryan skipped through the first 20 minutes of recording. It wasn't irony I could taste, but instead the acid wash of terror that stung the back of my throat. We saw it before we heard it, a rising peak in the waveform that stood out from the other noise.

When it reached playback, it began as some ill-defined shuffling, briefly pierced by a loud and clearly defined thump, followed by a fading drumming sound akin to footfalls retreating into the distance. For the last few minutes, Whitler had refused to take his eyes away from the stairway, but surely his feet was roaming from side to side. He had focused on the doorway that appeared in the corridor a few metres down. I imagine he was terrified, just like the rest of us,

but it was clear he couldn't stop curiosity getting the better of him. He peered to the doorway and found an identical room to the last, filled with rows and rows of endless pale cages. What's that? He said, and approached one a few metres away. Whatever he saw, our cameras couldn't make it out until he was right by it. This pile of white and dust had a face. It emerged out of the mound like a primitive face carved into a volcano. know. Attached the two bars on either side of the cage were hands, frail and thin, like a shrivelled

monkey's paw. Of the arms there was no sign. Looks almost human, doesn't it? The professor said. It does, I replied. My voice like paper. Is there anything underneath it? Or is it just a pattern left by the dust? Why don't we find out? Surely replied. and I watched as he knelt down and pushed his arm between the bars. He gently poked the surface and it yielded to his fingers. But he must have felt something nonetheless because he spoke. It's not all dust, he mumbled, before pulling out a small section of skull that included some brow, eye socket and cheekbone.

He sifted through a bit more and found a few teeth that were too sharp and too long to be a primate, and he deposited them safely to the excitement. of us all. Wait, he added, what's this? That wasn't in the last room. He went further into the darkness until a small flat surface unveiled itself on the far wall. It looked like a kind of workspace, little more than a stone slab with a few large jars huddle around the floor beside it. One of the jars, about two feet tall, had been hauled onto the top and was open. Be careful, I said as he was, approached it, suddenly aware of how far into the darkness he'd gone.

Dr. Whittle, I added, turning to the second screen. Are you okay? His eyes were fixated on the stairs above him. His breaths were quivering, desperate, and no matter how hard I tried, he refused to reply. Professor, I said, returning to his feed. I think you need to return to Dr. Whittle. He was standing over the pot, staring down into the featureless pile of white, clay-like material. It was soft, yielding like soil to the small

scraper used to collect a sample. Professor, I repeated myself, you need to check on... The speaker beside me exploded into a cacophony of screams. The professor's own feed cried out as well, so that the whole workspace was filled with dueling copies of the same shrieking horror. I snapped my head to the side and tried to see what was happening, but the doctor's screen showed only darkness while the professor shuffled quickly to the spot where his colleague had once stood. He found only a lone strip of the doctor's suit, but no sign of the man himself. I was already shouting at Ryan to play back the recording of the doctor's feed while Dr. Greaves grabbed another screen and stared at the audio recording.

He was pressing one side of a pair of headphones to his ear, and his face had gone white in sheer terror. What is it? I asked, but he didn't. reply. He looked at me and I saw he was close to passing out. Professor, I yelled, grabbing the radio, you need to leave. Surely his speaker burst into protest but I ignored them and turned back to Dr. Greaves. What is it? I cried. What can you hear? Ryan, hovering just behind me who could no longer bear the attention, leaned forward and tore the headphone jack out of the computer. Both the

doctor and I cried out at once. No, don't! But it was already too late. The camp was filled with the sound of wet and painful splutters. Someone was hyperventilating close by, short, sharp, desperate breaths and occasionally those deathly

shudders turned into a small gentle moans of dying protest. No, Dr. Whittle whispered, his voice distant, but he repeated the word a few more times. No. Oh, please. There was a terrible crack, and some of us winced.

The hyperventilating stopped, with the frantic gurgles and wet animal panting continued. I turned the sound off with shaking hands. I could see that Professor Shirley was close to the stairs, one foot raised to go looking for his friend, and I cried out, Professor Shirley, I said, you need to leave. I have to find him, he roared.

You can't be serious. We can't abandon him. His voice was so loud it hurt the speakers. It was a sobering outburst. As his words died, the whole cave becomes silent until only the sound of dripping water and radiostatic could be heard. Suddenly, we were all aware of how alone the professor was, and so was he.

I could see him looking around, surrounded on almost all sides by aching shadow. This was an impossible nightmare carved out of tar, disorienting and distressing in ways that reeked of the uncanny. Leave, I whispered, and this time he didn't argue. He nodded, probably more to himself than to me. And at last he turned back the way he came. It was awkward to walk in the suit, but I willed him on to go as quickly as possible.

I don't know if it was our imagination, but during such tense silence, the white hiss of the radio seemed full of spectre. bumps and shuffles, and I could see the paranoia and fear affect Shirley. His feed was constantly moving from side to side, and occasionally he jumped at something none of us got here or see. I'm close to the entrance, he said at last. Come on, come on, come on, I whispered. Surely was no more than ten or fifteen meters from the exit when something shifted in

the pixelated shadows on either side of the blinding white portal. The professor stopped dead in his tracks and froze like a deer in headlight. In defiance of everything I knew possible, something stepped out into the light and barred the professor's way. It was tall, stooped against the ceiling in a blurry humanoid silhouette. The professor cried out and so did we all. The shape of the thing, the way it moved, sent shivers down my back. I felt like I was watching film from another world, but a part of my mind reminded

in myself, the event occurred no more than a hundred meters from where I stood. The professor was trying to back up, and this thing reached out towards him. Its giant, misshaping hand filled the screen, and the professor's cries rose to a crescendo. There was a sound like a tree falling, and the screen went black, and the professor's screams stopped. For a moment, I thought he was truly dead, until Ryan looked up from the workstation. His eyes were red and I could see he was crying But it took me a moment to realize what had caught his attention The professor's screams hadn't stopped

The microphone had been disabled But we could still hear him His voice was now tiny Fainly audible through distance, ice and thick airlocked doors But we could still hear him And he was squealing like a pig I was barely able to stand, but he managed to approach the door. I was close enough to touch it when the screaming finally stopped for real this time.

In those final few seconds, I was just able to make out what it was he was saying. He was pleading for it to stop. Is the air safe? I asked. Yes, quite safe. Now we've pumped oxygen into the cavity. Dr. Grease replied. My face was pre-examined. at the bulkhead's window.

From where I stood, I could just about make out the tattered remains of Professor Shirley's suit, sitting a few feet inside the hull of the ship. How long until the security detail arrive? The doctor asked, his head peering over my shoulder. Days, I answered. We pushed for time. I want what's left of that suit. You... you can't be seriously going through with this.

The camp was quiet. After the previous day's events, I'd forbid anyone from sleeping in the secondary sight and insisted everyone make the hike up to the old one on the surface. It wasn't just about safety. The doctor and I had devised the plan to snatch the suit and hopefully whatever few samples remained and I wanted no one around when we did it. For the thousandth time, I told him I'm deadly serious. Good God, I could sprint there and back in less than ten seconds.

Just keep the lights on, the door open and that shotgun pointed firmly at that hole. This isn't very scientific, he groaned, and dolphins don't look like mammals, but they absolutely still are, I said. Sometimes science isn't very scientific. I didn't wait for him to reply. I opened the door and stepped forward. I wore no suit for this encounter and took a deep breath, stifling the urge to dwell on the exact nature of the air I breathed, before breaking out into a sudden sprint. I felt like a kid running past the closet to get to the bathroom late at night except now I was running right towards the darkness not past it

I cleared the tunnel quickly reaching the entrance in a few seconds I wanted this to be over my heart was in my throat my scalp felt ice cold and my stomach was like a lead weight holding me down I was so scared I could have easily forgotten to breathe as I reached my arm into the shadow and grabbed a whole hold of the suit's cuff. I could feel myself losing control, but couldn't stop.

Not now. I pulled at the material and cried out in despair when something tore and I was left holding nothing but a small clump of thick, vinyl-like fabric. Damn it! I cried,

snapping my head back towards the petrified doctor. Keep that damn door open! I reached my hand out into the darkness, so far that my chest touched the floor and every single cell in my body started scrubs. screaming at me to leave. Without the suit, my perception was crystal clear,

and I could hear every crack and groan of that wooden superstructure. But I wouldn't back out. And when my hand failed to get a proper grasp of Shirley's old suit, I actually took a small running jump and threw myself into the dark. All that remained outside were my ankles. But this time, both my hands grabbed the suit, and when I leaned up onto my elbows and started to haul it, I felt the satisfying weight of heavy equipment drag along the floor.

A brief flush of history lasted barely a second. I shuffled back slowly until my feet touched the floor and looked up to inspect my hole when I saw a large white oval floating in the dark. It looked almost like a bowling ball if one of the holes was a little larger and further apart than the rest. When two of those same holes blinked, I finally realized what I was looking at.

It was a face as large as my torso, and the body it belonged to was cloaked with shadow. It was so still it was uncanny, exuding no emotion or thought or intent. I didn't know if it was scared of me, curious or hateful, and it made the sight all the more terrifying. Sooner or later something would give, but I wouldn't leave the suit behind, so I maintained eye contact even through the tears and moved as slow as a continental drift back back back out of the entrance

about halfway there I snapped into action whipping the suit over my shoulder before springing like a madman towards the exit for a moment the doctor looked confused but then his eyes fixed on something over my shoulder and I knew it had come out into the light thankfully the distance wasn't that far

and I flew past the doctor like a sprinter passing the finish line. I threw myself onto the ground and screamed. Shut the door! Shut the damn door! I relaxed, only when the doctor heaved it closed and turned the handle with a satisfying clunk. He had yet to look at me, instead fixated on whatever had been close behind. When I finally got back up from the ground,

I jostled him aside and stared through the window. That alien face, no eyes, No eyes, no nose, nothing but three aching cavities in a pale white disc, was staring at us from the hole in the ship's hull. It was dead still for the longest of times. All three of us locked into each other's gaze. When it did finally move, it was to tilt its head perfectly to the side like a turning wheel. There it stayed for a few more seconds, watching us like a curious dog,

before sinking back slowly into the monstrous ship. It's fungal, the woman said, holding a sample of the clay. It's unlike anything I've ever seen, except in some ancient fossils, and even then, nothing quite like this. Food, perhaps, the doctor asked. I wouldn't eat it, the biologist squirmed. It's going nuts under the petri dish. It may look inert, but whatever's going on under the surface, it's doing it at an astonishing rate. In the time we've had it, the sample has undergone tens of things.

thousands of generations. What about the dust? I asked, and the skull sample we retrieved. Similar makeup, but different. I'm not sure. Some of them are corrupted with the fungus, but just like the sample from the vase, it's inert. I taste contamination, but... Well, it looks different.

What do you mean? The doctor asked. I don't know, she replied with a shake of her head. In some of the samples, they share similar features. Dry air helped to preserve some cell samples in the skull, but that's even stranger. The marrow itself is fungal in origin, but there are blood vessels that look distinctly mammalian, not to mention the cranial structure is definitely primate. I don't suppose you can shed any lights on this, Dr. Greaves asked, turning to me.

I walked over to the sample and took a small piece of it onto my finger. Both the doctor and biologist hissed endless warnings at me, but I'm a doctor. wave them off. I crushed the small piece between my two fingers and then rolled it back into a single ball. I even took a moment to smell it. It's clay, I said. Or rather it's something that anyone without a microscope could call clay. What does that mean? The doctor asked. The deluge is the oldest myth in the world. Noah and his ark are found in the oldest recorded civilizations, creeping through Samarian, Mesopotamium, and Babylonian cultures. It's part of nearly every single creation myth, whether it's Hindu, Greek, or even Welsh,

I said. And yet, what does old even mean? The oldest officially recognized version of Noah dates to around 2000 BC. So what? Current estimates say the human race is millions of years old. Humans as we recognize them, anatomically modern humans, reach back anywhere between 100,000 and 150,000 years. The bulk of my work is focused on uncovering the truth of those lost epochs, my conventional

science would have you believe we lit fires and chase dogs. We certainly did those things, but I have spent my life trying to prove that we were not idle, that many people in those times achieved great heights, some even greater than ours. You believe this ship was built by the very civilizations you claim? to grieve's pause, briefly to correct himself. He couldn't treat my research like some fringe conspiracy theory anymore, not with a floating city, frozen in ice, a few meters away. The civilization you found evidence of?

I shrugged. Maybe. I've certainly come across the deluge myth in some of the works I uncovered in the Canadian wilderness. I would have tried publishing, but I was long past that sort of thing. What did the myth say? The biologist asked. They wrote of Duran Anash, a man compelled to construct an enormous ship at the behest of his gods.

It was to be a test of his character, of his faith, and just like our versions, he was to use this ship to repopulate the world after an apocalyptic flood that did, indeed, arrive in some form. But unlike all the other versions of this tale, Duran Anash was not a hero. He was a sculptor of clay, perhaps the greatest in the world, or to have ever lived. And the gods resented his arrogance. So one night they approached him and said his gift for sculpt was so magnificent it exceeded even theirs. And even though the world was due to end with a terrible flood,

they wished for him to be the benefactor of the blank slate that would be left over. He was to take a gift of clay. The very clay used to create all living things and spent his time aboard the ship fashioning any and all manner of life he desired. Durananash was only too eager to fulfill his destiny and drove his family into ruin building the ship. But when the flood came, it carried him and his ark away, but left the world untouched, although Durananash could not see this.

He carried on with his plan, not knowing that the clay he had been gifted was cursed and corrupted. How exactly, I don't know. Still, the gods were laughing at him, and so was the whole world. the moral being the wise shouldn't trust gifts from the gods. There was a long silence. I continued to fixate on the small lump of clay that wasn't clay. My heart was pounding. My chest felt tight.

I thought had entered my mind while I spoke, and I couldn't shake it. I couldn't get it loose. I wondered if, for a moment, this really was... What are you doing? The biologist asked, but I didn't pay anything. attention. I brought the tip of my finger close to my mouth and gently breathed, just like I'd

imagined God doing when I was in church hearing about Genesis. For a short while, nothing happened. I think Dr. Greaves said something. I didn't catch it. My finger was starting to tingle, and I squinted so hard it hurt my head. Slowly at first, but with gathering certainty, the small piece of clay started to squirm. It was moving. From beside me, from beside me, the young woman started to laugh a gasping exhalation of awe. She had moved in to take a closer look, but Dr. Greaves stepped back and cried out in terror. I still didn't speak.

I kept the lump on my finger and approached the table where I placed it gently, and we all stood, watching it crawl like a caterpillar. Get it under a microscope, I said to the young woman, hurry. She snatched a pair of tongues and went to gently plug the small worm, no larger than a grain of rice from the table. The metal had barely touched it

when something suddenly white and vainy shot out of the worm and groped around the tongs. It expanded and branched like the tongue of a ribbon worm, fogging across the table in pale rivulets so quickly that the biologist was forced to drop the instrument with a cry of terror. She jumped back just as the proposisist left the table and tonged the air,

roaming, grasping for someone else to take. kill it, Dr. Greaves cried. It's growing. He was right. In less than 30 seconds, its tendrils had reached out across the table, and we watched as it grew to cover three quarters of the table. Thankfully, the biologist had a senses about her. She started to splash something on the writhing pile of snow-white flesh.

The beaker she held was filled with all sorts of flammable chemicals. I snatched the few with the same universal warning symbol and began hurling them, until at last I felt some kind of satisfaction that fire would find purchase. By the time I stopped, the worm had started to grip and pulled down on one of the tent walls. Dr. Greaves took the initiative and ran forward, throwing a burning rag right at it from just a meter away. The fire went up with a loud whoosh and the mutated lump of clay began to change in bubble. The chamber we were in was large enough to house the small building. So, we waited nearby as the fire raised onward.

and took not only the creature but the tent as well. I took the time to steal the important samples away, but the young woman grabbed my arm before I could leave and made sure we checked the seal of each one. We couldn't risk the rest of that stuff exploding into life. I suppose that was the scientist dinner. But, standing there as the tent went up in flames, I felt the scientist within me die.

The worms screamed in agony in its final moments, and we all watched. Our faces twisted into disgust and fear, unable to turn away or block out the sound. It was screaming. In my voice. You know you shouldn't do this, the biologist asked. Since the fire, she had risen to replace Dr. Whittle and Professor Shirley in their absence, proving herself to be a capable manager of the scores of students and staff and an excellent scientist.

I hadn't expected to need a biologist for what I'd figured to be. to be an archaeological problem, but I was glad her expertise was on hand. The four men beside me were arming themselves with shotguns. The kind used to blow out door locks during police raids. They were small with good stopping power, and my hope was that in such a large space, they'd run little risk of doing too much damage to anything we weren't aiming at. All of the men worked with the same company that had provided the drill, and the team had a long history of corporate sabotage and all sorts of shady things.

They were used to knowing very little But I had given them a brief overview of what had happened to the last two men to enter the arc By the time I'd finished they all looked at me with acidic glares Damn spook One had hissed before spitting on the floor But they didn't have to like it They just had to aim and shoot if the worse should happen I thought our best bet was the hope that our numbers would discourage attack and allow us to roam in peace

Neither the biologist nor Dr. Greaves shared this view. They thought this was madness, but there was so far from learning just how cruel the world can be when it's deliberately set against you. I'd lost everything, and for what? Exemplifying the scientific principles I've been told with a light against darkness.

I found the truth, and I fought for it, and I wound up dragged through filth and muck and laughed out of every university until I finally slunk off and found other ways to live. Now I was being given a second chance to do it all differently, and nothing from heaven or hell was going to stop me. Gentlemen, I said to those assembled before me. Let's go.

With that I turned and made for the bulkhead. I gave no one, not even myself, any time to think or voice protests. That ship towered ahead like all my nightmares made real, and I had to go inside. I had to know more. We had glimped something in that tent We had pulled apart all the tangled knots All the myths, all the legends And cut right to the central truth

Of our long-forgotten origin The clay, the gods, the ship At night I was wracked with nightmares And in them the ship spoke to me In my own voice My pursuit of the truth It told me had elevated me beyond science This was something divine

and it was thinking of this that I passed through the tunnel with no more fear than a man going to the bathroom. I was even smiling for a while, and I gestured to the entrance like I was inviting the men to step onto an elevator. They looked at me like I was strange, especially after they climbed in and found the congealed and blood splatters where surely had died. Or that arterial spray had soaked the dusty floor into gooey pulp, and there were a few scattered pieces of rotter. bone and flayed skin, but the rest of the body we found no sign. Divine or not, I had no intention of losing my life on this little venture. I took control quickly and began to photograph the variety of tracks all around us. Most looked human, but quite a few were round overalls resembling an elephant's print.

Others were long in slithery, and others were completely unrecognisable. What exactly are we looking for? the man beside me asked A gallery or a workshop I said This was made by an artist He'd have at least one of those I knew he had no idea what I meant

But I gestured for us to move on We walked quickly past the very boxes Surely and Wickle had And I saw that atop a few There were empty spaces in the dust And where the men had taken a few tools While walking the same way The effect was oddly unsettling

but I didn't have much time to think. We were soon at the first doorway where we found signs of a scuffle amongst all the white dust. This was where Whittle had been snatched. Close by, I could see where surely had walked off towards the second room he'd found, but the doorway was out of sight.

The shadows in the ark felt like they ate light and our beams lit little more than narrowed discs that fell weakly upon the floor. Up, one of them asked, pointing towards the stairs. Up, I replied. The steps were ancient, but they held.

I knew from analyses they were a kind of organic woven fiber, harder than steel, but organic in nature. How that resulted in a ship this size floating, I don't know. But we climbed the first flight and found the steps to be as firm as steel. On the first platform, we found another doorway, and I had us make a short excursion, but there was nothing of particular interest.

We returned to the stairs and continued climbing, briefly poking our heads through each doorway, in the hope of finding something new. We never saw more than empty rooms with cages for a long, long time. But I knew there must be more, and with any luck it would be close to our point of entry. From behind me, I could hear one of the men was counting steps. He was grown in marks under the back of his hand with his thumbnail, along with the diagonal slashes to indicate left or right. indicate left or right turns. He was preparing for a worst-case scenario, a desperate flight in total darkness to safety, where he'd have to reverse each step one by one if he had any hope of making it home.

On the eighth floor, we stopped briefly. There were no railings on any of the platforms, and it kept far away out of fear of heights. One of the men stepped right up to the edge and dropped a glow stick into the chasm below, where it flew straight down, illuminating the gnarled, ancient walls and steps in neon glow green until at last it struck the floor and stopped shrinking in size.

From so far up, it was just a speck. Jesus Christ, the man cried, snatching his shotgun up before thinking better of firing. Somehow, the glowstick was moving. It bubbled side to side before disappearing into some unseen knuck. We're not alone.

Lone, he hissed. We knew that, I said. Come on, a few more thaws at least. We moved onwards, but from then on, two men remained with guns drawn to their shoulders, constantly turning side to side to cover the space between us. They, at least, managed to climb quite easily, but I was starting to lag.

Thankfully, the 12th thore we reached showed signs of human life. There was a thistle broom nearby, and a small table with bed. pots and bases. Some of the doors had hieroglyphs around them, and the post of this door were carved in fine and beautiful patterns. This was not a sterile, empty space, waiting to be filled with thousands of handmade animals, and I entered the hallway, feeling giddy with excitement. I pushed a few doors open and found old wooden beds next to small tables. There were small figurines carved out of wood and quite a few, along with small metal plates,

I think we used to hold candles. In total, we found 20 rooms with these simple and rustic signs of occupation. There were ancient blankets rolled up into shelves, plates laid out for food. One room even had a few toys left out on the floor.

They were crude, but clearly meant to be horses, and I couldn't help but laugh as I held one up to the light. Oh, we were busy, I muttered. But after that, the rooms became strange.

Signs of normal human life were replaced with something more manic, more frightening. It was in these rooms that the dust piled up highest, reaching up to our knees. The walls were scratched and gouged, and all too familiar faces were carved into the wood. Bowling balls? One of the men snorted, pointing towards one. I swallowed the acid in my throat and had us move on. Those pictures reminded me of crude cave paintings, and I had a strong instinct as to what had made them. We kept going deeper into the structure.

It was half a mile long, and I doubted we had any chance of thoroughly exploring any given floor, but I couldn't quite stop myself from trying one more door. I should have been more careful, but I kept on going until we were well over halfway in the ship, and the scratchy, low-hanging corridor we stood in, stretched off in both directions, lost to darkness. Suddenly, one of the men cried out in terror and brought his weapon to bear.

He fired before anyone had a chance to speak, and the sound was so loud, it practically flawed me. Good God, the man next to him roared. It was a damn rat, ceasefire. The lone gunman lowered his weapon and started to laugh. His pale face glistened in the light of my torch. His eyes were bloodshot and wide, but you could see the relief clearly on his face. It was just a rat, he repeated. I'm just a bit jumpy as all. What room did it go in? I asked. Two doors on the right, the leader answered.

I walked towards it, beckoning for them to join. What are we looking for? One hissed. It was only a rat. There aren't any rats on this ship, I said. I'm not alive. I pushed the door and a sea of dust, flowed out into the hallway like water, waging the door stuck in a halfway position. I stepped back and waiting for the hissing sound to stop and for the dust to settle.

Once it was quiet, I poked a light through into a small, mousy face staring at us from the corner, resting in the dust at chest height. It was an albino thing, a lot like a rat, but with webbed limbs and barbed tail. What the hell? one of the men muttered. The creature lifted its arms and blew out the sails between its hands and legs. They all jumped back,

but it made no more movements, instead staring at us intently and hissing. I noticed dark, eye like ovals on the skin it had stretched out, and I realised we were looking at a threat display. Nothing to be worried about, I said, just some kind of... Something fell from the ceiling and ate the rodent.

It happened so. So quickly, I had only flashing impressions of claws, teeth, and long spindly limbs extended to their furthest reach. One of the men turned his flashlight upward, and we saw what might be described as a praying mantis if they had reached two feet in length and had a centipede's body. Its clicking mandibles ground the vermin into dust and sprinkle down from above like salt from a shaker. "'It's eating it,' someone hissed.

"'Or at least,' I said, "'I think it is.' What does that mean? Don't worry, I answered. The mantis left us alone and we returned quickly to the stairway. For the next few hours we continued to explore the prow of the ship floor by floor until we reached the top. On each one we encountered stranger and stranger forms of life, including a wasp nest made by more of the small rat-like things.

About a dozen broke from a larger horde and rushed us, but stampin on them made quick work of our attackers. Each one exploded in a welt of pale, milky fluid, with their skin and organs flattened beneath our feet like wet soil. The effect was quite odd, and I even peeled one of the cleanest specimens of the floor and bagged it for later examination. Further on, we stumbled to across lone insects

buzzing in a small cloud like snowflakes in mid-air. They were like wasps, but with fewer legs and two pairs of shimmering dragonfly wings. We shrewed them away and found an arachnoid the size of a TV struggling on the floor. It was infested, rotting from the inside out, and we watched as many postules along the surface of its crustacean shell pot, and small larva came crawling out. That wasn't all. We found fungal flowers that had torn through multiple rooms, the meaty pale caps glowing white in the dark, small creatures with four needle-like legs roaming the ceiling with sharp mouths that peaked randomly at the wood like birds snatching up seed. All in all, we

saw a fair bit of the ship's life cycle on the upper floors and got to watch a lot of things eat, either nibbling away at the stalks of mushrooms or snatching smaller insects from the floor. And in every example, we watched as they grouped up their prey and left a sprinkling of dust. The only real clue we got as to how things worked was the rat hive, where I found a fat, swollen queen, surrounded by workers who were rolling up the matted dust and depositing it in small holes along the hive wall. They were eggs made from the same base clay dust that littered everything on the ship. I watched long enough to see some of the larger ones hatch into mulling cubs no bigger than my thumb.

At a guess, I'd say that a fair-sized lump of the ship was infested with these life-forms. In just a few hours, I'd filled every pouch I brought, and we were all lugging at least one duffel bag filled with pots and jars that clinked with every movement. I decided to call this particular excursion done, and we all moved as a group back to the stairway, ready to begin the descent. Not the worst thing I've done. One of the men sighed, as we checked our surroundings, checked for signs of being followed. They look scary, but they're just hiding away in the dark. Like a wax museum where everything moves, another said. Exactly, I replied, surprised just how accurate the statement was.

They were harmless. One of the men who'd been bitten quite badly by one of the rats grimaced as he checked the wound. He was already starting to fester and smell. Harmless my ass, he grumbled. I hope whatever they're hiding from finds and eats the damn lot. I stopped dead in my tracks. What did you just say? All these damn vermin, he growled, poking the leaking wound on his leg.

Something I has to eat them. They're all sneaking around, silent as hell. Did you notice that? It's the dark, he said. They don't worry about sight. They worry about sound. That's why they're all up here, another chimed in. I thought you'd have figured that out by now, Doc.

Damn, I cried. We've been looking in the wrong place. We should have stayed on the lower floors. What we're looking for would be down there. Did you hear yourself? One of the men asked. I thought you wanted to be safe. Didn't you see that glow stick moving?

Exactly, I answered, let's go. We descended the stairs and quickly returned to the entrance, rushing past one black doorway after another. The misty air of each hall was thick with floating moats of dust, and it reminded me of looking into a cabin of a sunken ship, which, I suppose we were. After a while, I stopped looking, not liking the look of the shifting watery darkness,

but the feeling of danger only sharpened by need to go on. We'd come so far, I desperately had to know more. Well, we found it. The bottom floor had strange tracks, not unlike the over ones we found by Shirley, recently made and slinking off into the dark further along the ship. Without wasting time, I had us follow them until the shaft opened up into a larger chamber. It was an aching groaning space towards the rear of the ship with the sea out of sight. If it wasn't for the cloying stillness, you could have thought you were

outside. But there were clear tracks through the dust, so many they looked like paths in the snow. This was a busy space, quite possibly even some kind of meeting space. Guys? I turned around to see one of the men gazing at the opening in the rear wall where we just emerged. Something was glowing green far off in the distance, where we'd been walking just minutes before. Is that? We had made a critical mistake. All of us faced the one direction,

and before either of us could say too much, one of the men near our rear was plucked, screaming into the air. He had been lifted head first by a grotesque hand as large as my torso. The knuckles grotesque and the fingernails cracked and bloody. With a single squeeze, it crunched and the man's head was pulped into nothing. His limp body falling to the floor with a wet thud. We started shooting, all of us, but the effect was pitiful. White clumps of soil flew off the monster's chest and face,

and the shot sent while shutters through its frame, but it weathered the strikes like a well-trained boxer. Once it was done shrugging them off, it was left with a hundred small puck marks that bled thick milk down its skin, but a strange gaping face with three holes showed no signs of anger or pain. It simply reached and grabbed another man, and I soon realized our hope of stopping it were close to nil. We should have retreated, run even, but a look behind us showed another strange thing emerging from the darkness. Its head, a glorious abstract carving, reminiscent of raindrops hitting a puddle.

Meanwhile, the ball-headed shape began to twist and pull out his captive with the detached curiosity of a child. It pinch his wrist like he was manipulating an action-fills. before pulling too hard and tearing the arm off hole, along with a thin strip of muscle that was left dangling from the torso. We were so close, I screamed, barely aware of what I was saying. I couldn't countenance failing at the stage, and without really thinking anything through, I decided my best chance was the strikeout alone. I ran past the dying man and the golem who held him, narrowly avoiding a sweeping arm

that reached the grab me. I could hear some of the other men screaming for me, but they had no chance to follow. I switched off my light and trusted myself to fate. From behind came the steady discharge of two shotguns that, after a few seconds, was reduced to a single, desperate man, shooting and yelling defiance into the dark. Do not stop. I won't, I muttered, crawling through the dark. Keep going, I will.

This is a gift. My gift. My words were a hushed sob. I was speaking just to hear the comforting sound of my own voice. It had been at least a day. By sheer chance I'd reached the small room all the way on the other end of the ship during my flight and I'd hidden away in it while listening to the ever-so-quiet footfalls of the clay men that lived here. It had been so tempting to stay in one place where I might avoid their groping hands.

But it wasn't that simple. I had no food, only had a small supply of water, and sleep was impossible. After a long time huddled in the dark, I finally pushed the door open and began to crawl my way along the right-hand wall, desperate not to make a sound. All my equipment had been abandoned, borrowing the light and gun. Whatever I brought out of the ship would just have to fit in my head. You're so close. I know, I hissed. The words sounded a little too loud for my comfort, so I stopped and waited the signs of the slightest change in my surroundings.

I had no idea where I was, but I could only assume danger wasn't far off. Thankfully, nothing moved, and I released a breath before continuing. The others failed. They all did, I whispered, a little more carefully this time. They never wanted the truth. No one wants the truth, I replied. You won't have to share it with them. They never deserved it.

You are so close to where he worked. I stopped. I couldn't risk turning the light on, but I waited to see if I could feel anything. Some possible change in air pressure that might tell me if I was near a doorway. I must have stayed like that for a full minute, only to reach my hand out

and nearly fall through a vacant spot in the wall. I was hardly a tunnel rat I couldn't even tell that I'd been kneeling next to an open room I might have laughed under other circumstances I crawled inside and pulled the door shut with aching care hoping for the best

I turned my light on and revealed a modestly sized space with rows and rows of desks I was the only living thing there it was a workspace with one corner filled with vases of clay and half-finished pieces lying haphazardly on the ground Some had been smashed, beaten, stomp. Others were still standing, precious, beautiful.

He really was a good sculptor. Each one was a meticulous and beautiful rendering of a different bird. They didn't look like perfect replicas of the real things, but rather like the ideal of how they should look. There was a shelf filled with thousands of pairs of sparrows, crows, parrots and hens, all inert but incredibly lifelike. like. I picked one up and noticed it felt different to the clay samples I had taken. I figured

it for a practice run, a way to hone his skills before trying for the real thing. Not like the others, I muttered quietly. He destroyed these works and many others. He did not understand the curse, did not understand why the real ones failed. How long was he on this ship, thinking the fate of humanity depended on him? I asked myself. He never stopped trying. So why did he smash these ones? Rage? Frustration?

He died of old age, alone. At the far end of this room was another doorway. I approached it, shaking, ready to enter the next chamber when the door I closed jotted forward with a terrible grind. It moved no more than an inch and I snapped around, fixing my light on it. Wild shadows flying around the room like gargaws and the cathedral spires, but it was still. For a moment, I thought I'd imagine the sound when, once again, the frame shivered and the door moved forward another inch. A single white finger probes the gap and reached around the door, soon followed by two others.

Run. I turned, just as a round head peered at me, but I didn't want to wait to see what it was. I ran, passing into another room filled with dozens of sculptures of life-sized deer, each one hauntingly beautiful, a complete far cry from the wretched misshapen thing that was chasing me. Others lay smashed on the floor, broken before they get ever be finished. These rooms were chained together in an open row of workshops where the ancient artist had practiced making all kinds of things. I ran straight through each one, trying my hardest to ignore the rising, boom and footfalls behind me.

His talent wasn't enough, I thought. You're getting close. The room started to change and I noticed that they are now filled with those familiar empty cages. It made me hope I was close to where we'd entered, although close is a relative term when trapped in a nightmarish labyrinthian city of pitch-black wicker walls. Left. I burst out of the cage room into yet another corridor and head.

I had it left without even thinking. Those footfalls continued, and as I sprinted, I found long white arms appearing out of doorways on either side. I ducked them as best as I could, but at the very last moment one grabbed my hood and lifted me from the ground. My heart was in my throat, and my vision narrowed to a static white tunnel. I think I peed myself, and I remember, but I quickly rigged my way out of my jacket before the arm's twin snatched at the space

where my head had been just moments before. I hit the floor running and carried on, legs paring like pistons while my lungs burned with acid. I could hear more of them coming and there was just enough oxygen left in my brain for me to start wondering what the long-term plan really was. Keep going, they won't follow.

I ran for what felt like forever until, eventually, I looked back and saw more of those strange things lingering far off in the darkness. It was only a fleeting glimpse, but I felt as if they should have been closer than they were. I didn't want to think they were slowing. I didn't want to feel that sort of hope.

But I found my feet moving faster nonetheless, as if whatever lay ahead really might just keep me safe. You're here. I stopped at last. Where I stood was a crossroads of sorts. Quite possibly in the same chamber we'd be attacked in the day before. Dozens of small footpaths had been carved in the dust by regular passage and they converged on some space far ahead. I followed to the centre where a

small crater a few metres wide had been made in the snowy ash. As far as I could tell, I was alone, so I took the time to catch my breath. But after that, I had no idea. So close. So close, I murmured. The air in that place had a reverent stillness. My torch seemed to stretch farther than usual, lighting the space around me in a cool lunar glow. Endless flakes of dust fell around me, and for a moment I thought of standing in a snow globe. I felt like I was in the heart of the cosmos, like the whole world was holding his breath. He blamed himself, blamed his mortality.

Something stirred, and I faced the darkness. Its footsteps were quiet, like a dears in the snow, but I could feel the vibrations in the soul of my feet. He needed something better than he was. It approached. I realised this was the truth I'd been looking for, the explanation for it all. He needed a guard. And he made one, I answered, my voice a quiver. Where there had been a number.

need for breath, the artist had made something to breathe in his place. In the darkness, it had stayed for the last 80 millennia, crafting endless creatures and shapes to bring to life. Urset's creations for an Ursaid's god. It had never stopped trying to fulfill its purpose. It stepped into the light, and I saw the face of a weathered old man with a furrowed brow and a grey crown of hair, something inherited from the one who'd given it life. He was born of racial characteristics that no longer existed, and yet I recognized the face of a man who was intelligent, patient, and committed. It was the face of a priest or a teacher, an idolized representation of its creator that stood 12 feet tall. Time, or perhaps the curse, had worn it down into a haggard leper of a man, skinny and gaunt with lesion-rid-ridled skin.

Even as it stood, parts of it fell to the floor in wet clumps, that writhed and died. I decided it must be blind, since it had no interest in me, not even passing. It strode past and reached down, grabbing some of the ever-present dust to compress and roll into slithers of skin it slapped onto its crumbling torso. It was refashioning its own body, even as it rotted to pieces. When one of its limbs came too close to me, I stood aside and let it wander ahead where I followed. Its feet carved wide paths in the ash, and I kept close as it wandered with purpose through the dark.

After a while, it came to a stop by some mounds of dust, and it lowered itself to the floor with a ground-shaking thud. Slowly it took some of the loose material and compressed it back into solid clumps of clay. Carefully, it began to fashion something. I couldn't be sure what, but I found all fear gone. I could have stayed there for days. I still don't know how long it exactly was that I stayed there. The god never moved, nor did I. I couldn't.

I was rooted to the spot by the sheer beauty of its work, and I watched with intense fascination as it rolled and shaped and twisted and pulled until at last it had the perfect image. Its enormous hands were deftly skilled, and the final product appeared whole. before me, almost as if by magic. It was me. My clothes, my hair, my face, even the coat I'd shaken loose just hours before. Every last detail was recreated with inhuman perfection.

The guard looked toward me. Its stony blank eyes regarded me with no human emotion I recognized before rising from the floor. It turned back swiftly towards the darkness and exited the light. and just like that, I was alone once more in the dark. Not alone, you have a gift. I turned to the statue.

It was perfectly still, almost as if it was waiting, waiting for someone to breathe life into it. No, I whispered. Yes. Why am I not surprised you're here? I opened my eyes. I was lying in the tunnel. just behind the pork head with no memory of how I'd got there.

Standing over me was a very grim-looking older man. His name, as far as I knew, required a level of clearance that was somehow above even the president's head. Because you make a habit of dumping all over my dreams? I grunted, pushing myself upright while wincing from the pain. I must have been out for hours, lying on the hard frozen floor. Shear look had stopped me from suffering hypothermia. Thank God I had my jacket.

You really shouldn't have gone in, he gestures to the ship. There's a million different reasons to leave things like this buried, and I would hope that over the years, even just a few might have sunk in for you. There are no good reasons to ignore the truth, I replied, before adding, how did I get here? Do you know that, at least, how I got out? The man shrugged. I was hoping you'd tell me, along with a few of the few.

other details, perhaps, he replied. Oh well, I said. Funny thing is, my experiences within that ship are classified. Really? He raised an eyebrow. I've come to the conclusion that the information I learned from my excursion is too dangerous to share with the public, and, uh, none of you many black dicks meet my steep criteria for security clearance.

So why didn't you have your people talk to my people? Very funny, he said. I don't know why you do it. It doesn't change anything. No one will listen. They don't need to, I said, regrettingly taking his hand as he pulled me up. Now, are you ass I was going to arrest me or is this carnival finally over? It's over, the man smiled. The others are being evacuated now. Charges will be pressed against Dr. Greaves for illegally taking donations from organizations associated with fracken lobbyists. He won't see prison time, but it'll never work legitimately again.

As for you, we didn't feel it was worth our time to tarnish you any further. At this stage, you'll be lucky to get something out there on the internet. The students, I asked, strongly encouraged to change their current avenue of study. You know how it goes. First the carrot, then the stick. We'll get them out on the field soon enough. I remember quite well, I replied. What about the samples?

Some kind of fungal parasite that leads to genetic traits from whatever it finds in the atmosphere Some quirk of temperature and humidity makes it best disposed to absorb breath, but nothing's technically stopping it from going all grey goo in the back of a warm cupboard When you factor in its potential ability to absorb memories, then who knows? Maybe even you might understand why it needs to be kept under our strict control We've had access to the sample for a few days while we waited for you to pop up. Its ability to absorb even the most complex of human memories makes it an apocalypse waiting to happen. We found your lead biologist dead in her lab

while the things she was experimenting on finished up her written report. That's a shame, I said. She was a hard worker and very smart. Yes, it is, he replied. I and me with disdain. Yet another avoidable death. Good thing you've got all the samples then, isn't it? I said.

Locked away for all eternity, I imagine. God forbid we get to study it. The man laughed uproarously, like I just made a very clever joke. Your words, not mine, doctor. He said, before leaving, like he'd won the argument, something he loved to do. But I didn't pursue. Instead allowing myself to be taken away by a crew of paramedics

to check for signs of injury. Far away, the man became marshalling several groups of people to work on sealing the ark away for all eternity. I watched as, once again, the world set itself towards the goal of destroying the truth I'd worked so hard to unearth. But this time, I didn't feel despair or dejection. I'd learned the full truth this time,

and although my stomach hurt like hell and my head was full of holes, I smiled from ear to ear. I knew the truth, the whole truth. Or so I thought. Christ, one of the paramedics laughed, shaking a cloud of white clay loose from my jacket. It's like you made of the stuff. Little by little, my smile began to fade.