CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 7 REDDIT HORROR STORIES TO END THE HALLOWEEN MONTH

Episode Date: October 29, 2020

LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "TRY IT. STAY IF YOU LIKE" Creepypasta►13:50 "The Horsefly King" Creepypasta►32:55 "A New House Appeared in the Neighborhood" Creepypasta►51:30 "When I was in high school, two of my classmates mysteriously died" Creepypasta►1:29:53 "DON'T Ride the Subway" Creepypasta►1:53:35 "There was something knocking on the air during my walk home" Creepypasta►2:07:23"There's Something in the Northern Prodigy Fields" CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►Jose Garcia: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/Zxm3mSUGGESTED 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-

The festival season is Aangbroken and that betekent mudder. And so, ging Kim to come to comason.com. com. On the look to a waterdict tent,

a comfortable lute bed, oh, so, knus, and Lupeart print regalarze. Miao. Now, he has Kim not for the modder.

Net so as the dancing the moddermand there, oh, wait just even, has he now only modder on? Oh, yeah,

only modder. Drove blithe? Goar for. Find what you need to need on Amazon.com. Something is changing the people in my apartment building. I don't know how better to describe the present phenomena, rather than to explain, as simply as I can, that they come back different.

When they speak, their eyes never move. They never leave for a second, piercing, dwelling shadow orbs that seem to know some deep secret that I could never understand. They seem to be all connected somehow, in some inexplicable way, as if they are all in on some cruel joke that I have. I couldn't follow. Unless I went to the elevator, of course. I mention this now, not because I'm certain at the time of writing, but because I have suspicions that have taken place over the past few weeks, things that have grown in me, which must be described here.

I am writing this because I am scared. I can hear it speaking to me, even now, that chime calling from down the long hallway. I need someone to know what happened to me if I come back different. You see, having my sights on this apparition and try my best to discover the source of this irregularity, I have come to believe that it is the elevator that changes them, the type with a drawing scissor pattern cast in iron that groans and shrieks when it pulls to a gradual close with every lift. There is something about it that I don't like, something that I haven't liked since I first moved into this place with my girlfriend, Sarah, nearly two months ago. It is something difficult to explain

As anything more than a pervasive feeling An inner sense of menace Regarding this particular elevator It seems to have an unnatural aura about it A delightful, almost cheeriness When that metal gate expands Welcoming you in Inviting

I think now would be a good time to let you know That I have never stepped foot into that contraption Not once Not even when the incredibly pleasant manager A spectacle Cherry Blonde woman in her early 30s, gave me a tour of the old structure and invited me in. I'm dreadfully scared of heights, and even more so of tight spaces. One look at those twisting metal frames, those drawn-in walls, that sometimes flickering red sun

of a light above was all it took for me to refuse, politely, and always take the seven flights of stairs up to our apartment. Let me tell you about the building. It is old, yellow brick, constructed in the 1910s, originally built as a hotel. with a snaring sort of ivy that gnawed its way up much of its face. It is beautiful, full of charisma and character in a way that nothing built in more modern times can ever be. The lights in the lobby and hallways are always on, an endearing rose glow, casting the interior

in a jaunty shine, one without any shadows at all. It was built by hand over many years, an artisanal creation, a work of art. I guess that is what enticed us here. the pulling inward sensation of light and the ground swelling of warmness that emanated from the place it felt like home the minute that we arrived Home

Home in a way in which we had never felt it A toasty hearth piping hot chocolate And a good book And somehow at different times The feeling of company Being pleasantly out together at a welcoming bar A place where everyone knew you and always would

Where the taps kept on flowing And sometimes Because everyone liked you the drinks were on the house. There was something else too, more than the unbearably kind manager, a swirling red hair and unusually invasive eyes. It was the quality in terms of the contract.

We had been searching for a place in the city for months, combing over a hundred different residences and never found one with an opportunity like this. A month-to-month lease, several hundred dollars less than anything else of similar life and quality in the surrounding. It seemed too good to be true, and after reviewing the contract sheet twice over and finding not a hint of dishonesty from the manager, we decided we would be foolish to pass on an opportunity like this. If we didn't like it, of course, we could always leave.

That was our understanding at the time. The first month was largely uneventful. We were getting accustomed to the neighbourhood, our new jobs in the city, cooking in a small half kitchen without a microwave. We noticed, even then, that the neighbours were a bit strange. The smiles were too wide and ate up much of their faces. Their eyes didn't seem to blink often enough, and they stood, still, mostly when we greeted them in the hallway and on the stairs. More than once, I had the bizarre notion that they stay that way,

even after we left, standing still and moving, even when we were gone. I wrote this off as nothing, because of course it was. things like this didn't exist and if they did wouldn't they exist off in some sequestered part of the country some rural province where the ghost of a widow was said to inhabit an old farmhouse we were in the city

we had hundreds of neighbours and none of them said anything about any of it they all seemed fine it didn't bother us at first not enough anyway not for the first few weeks we aren't particularly social and didn't spend much time with any of

of them. Who cared if they were a little off? That changed when we met our new neighbour in apartment 703. Henry, a sarcastic, sharply intelligent young man fresh out of university. He was working in an IT firm a few streets down from the building and moved in to avoid traffic. We connected immediately in a way that only like-minded people could and began to visit him in his apartment most frequently to play ball games at which he was an absolute savant. He provided sincere companionship, a quality we had been lacking since our move. We laughed frequently, and in jest, sometimes, we discussed how everyone else in the building seemed to have the same mannerisms.

And one particular evening, Henry even pulled off one of his socks and stuffing it on his hand in one motion, made it talk in a voice that mimicked the manager. Try it, stay if you like. We laughed so hard it hurt, and remarked at the same time that she had said the exact same thing to us. He said then, with a smile,

that if he believed in ghosts, they must have inhabited a building such as this. For some reason, this caused all of us to go silent for a while. Ghosts. Impossible. But still, I remember the night that Henry changed. I didn't get home until well after nine. Sarah had already prepared our famous garlic bread

and tossed Greek salad, which we were bringing over to Henry's apartment for dinner. We plan to play Monopoly after. As always, Henry would generously start the game with significantly less wealth to give us a better chance of overtaking him. Sarah scolded me playfully, kissed me at the door, and said that we would be late, even though we both knew that Henry wouldn't care. He probably preferred it. I combed my hair and we went next door.

No one answered on the first knock. or the second. We were getting worried by the third. His door was locked. It had never been locked before. Not even when he went to work, which we'd constantly tried to warn him could lead to trouble in the city.

He said he didn't have much of anything of value and if anyone wanted it, they could have it. Just as I was about to call his name and then potentially call the police, we heard something beyond the door. A low shuffling of feet. Slow, dragging across the scarred wooden floor. The door opened, and Henry was there, smiling so wide, it looked like it hurt.

When he spoke, his voice was too loud, and the words came out disjointed. Hello, friends, why don't you come in? Sarah and I exchanged a glance and followed him inside. When I asked him how he was doing, he avoided the question entirely. When we put our food on the table, he didn't even look down at it. He stared, still, into our eyes, moving from Sarah back to me every few seconds, as if his very motion was set as some sort of invisible timer. He didn't eat, and we didn't eat either.

We couldn't stand those eyes. We couldn't stand that jolly, huge grin, never faltering, even when his muscles began to twitch. We left as soon as we could. I mentioned that I suddenly wasn't feeling well, that I was overheated and might be coming down with something of a fever. Henry didn't take the news poorly. He kept smiling, smiling, smiling, smiling. As we left, I looked back just once, seeing the door still open.

Seeing Henry there with that savage smirk plastered on his face, its new permanent home. I wondered if somehow he wasn't quite. Henry anymore. I wondered if he was someone else entirely. And worse even, I wondered as we entered our apartment, enclosed and bolted the door, if he was still standing there, just outside, with those wide eyes and bright teeth, displayed out like perfect piano keys. I wondered all night, though I was much too scared to check the keyhole. We didn't see Henry for some time after that. We stopped seeing him go to work, and after another week or so, really. realized that we didn't really see anyone else enter or leave the building either.

The thought began to come more frequently then, that they were here, always here, standing straight, right behind their closed doors, grinning madly, waiting for interaction. I pushed it from my mind and tried to focus on my work. If we didn't like it, we could always leave. And maybe we would, at the end of the month. Then, Sarah took the elevator. She was running late for work and had far too much to carry that day for her presentation. I offered to help her down, but she refused. I waved to her out the door, feeling strangely frightened and completely unsure why.

It was 8 in the morning and there was no reason to be afraid. Nothing logical anyway. Nothing but anxious thoughts that filled my head with nightmares. I saw her step into the elevator, saw that metal moor stretch wide, protracting like jaws and snapped shut when she was inside. I thought, as I watched it envelop her in that bright red light and begin to take it downward, that something was horribly wrong. I wanted to call out to her, and I actually did run forward a few steps,

but she smiled and waved and blew me a kiss. She didn't come home that night. I called her work and was assured that she never came in that day. Her boss was furious But that was the least of my concerns I called the police and told them that she was missing They came and met me in the building I called her family

We looked for her But couldn't find anything They questioned me I didn't have any answers I told them about that morning And she had smiled and waved And climbed into the elevator on a way to work That was all I knew

We were perfectly happy I would never hurt her She was missing for three days before she came back. I stopped going to work and was lying in bed, alone in the dark. I was distraught. I didn't know what to do. I had been looking for her for days. I heard keys moved just outside the door, and my heart jumped.

The door knob turned, and I heard her feet shuffle in. I ran to her and wrapped her in my arms. Her muscles didn't move. She was standing straight, perfectly. Hello, love, she said. I'm home. That voice. I'd heard it before.

I grabbed a face in my hands and pulled her close. I could barely see her in the dark, but I knew what I would find there. Nothing, distant, cold, unbreaking blankness. That was two days ago. She doesn't come to bed. She's standing by the door. I don't know what to do. I haven't been outside in days.

I'm the only one left. I can't leave. I know that now. It won't let me. I know she lied. I can never leave. I'm going to take the elevator. I don't have a choice.

It's calling me now. My head is ringing. It's telling me what to do. I don't know where it's going to take me. I can hear the chime down the hallway. I can hear that metal gate pull open. inviting me, inviting me in. I'm alone.

I don't want to be alone anymore. I don't know how long the pool has been there. It seems to have always existed, to always have been laying in weight, waiting for something, or maybe for someone. It doesn't matter how long it's been since the rain. It never seems to disappear,

or even to get shallower. It's such a little thing, no more than about 10 feet round, with patchy tufts of tall grass piercing the surface. You must only come up to your ankles, but something about its stillness, it's almost blackluster, it's persistent.

In my youth, I never truly believed the thing to be cursed. I was told it was, and I was afraid for a time, but it passed as easily as a dream like many childhood fears do. Now, as an adult, as someone battered and wearied by the world,

you would think the place held even less meaning. I flatter myself that it does, usually. I do not believe in the horsefly king. Not in the light of day, but sometimes when the sun sets over the park and the sanguine glow of it hits the still water in just the right way,

or when the moon is cold and high over it, the place still captures the terror I have not known since childhood. The memorial park stands on the remains of a World War I battlefield. The barbed wire has been torn up, the craters from shelling, filled in, grass planted in the mud, and all that remains of the butchery is a plaque in

a picturesque little gazebo commemorating the battle. Sometimes children still find them buried in the earth. I was a child myself when I first visited the place, when I first heard the story of the horse fly king. It was a pale, sickly boy named Nicholas who first drew my attention to it, wearing a cheeky grin that only little boys and psychopaths can wear. I once saw him wrap a caterpillar open with a nail to see what colour its inside were.

He was that kind of boy, the kind you're afraid of as a child, without fully understanding why. You see that puddle over there? I'd simply shrugged my shoulders. It's a puddle. His grin grew wider. That's where the horseflies lay their eggs.

My skin crawled a bit, and I must have made a face. Like most people, I think I have an aversion to the repulsive biting creatures The idea of their eggs and lava crawling around in the filthy water Was disgusting enough But Nicholas didn't finish

Did you know only the females drink blood He didn't wait for a reply It's true, they need blood to lay their eggs I heard they take all the blood they suck up And they take it to this puddle and drop it in Right here That's why it never goes away It's a special puddle

At the age of ten, many years ago, such things didn't sound quite as ridiculous as they do now. I didn't necessarily believe him, but I had a morbid fascination all the same. Special how? Well, he dropped his voice low, like he might be overheard. That's where he lives.

Who? They're king, the horse flies, I mean. My mind immediately went to the more reasonable assumption that he was talking about some kind of colony, which was disgusting enough. A massive swollen horsefly at the bottom of the pool with a distended stomach and atrophied wings drinking up blood. What, like a queen bee?

That's disgusting. No, something else, something worse. The puddle remained still and black in the light. One of the wretched things was buzzing in lazy circles above it and the air shimmered. The heat, I suppose. I felt, or think I felt, something. Some change in the water's demeanour.

I know how it sounds, but before it was sluggish, sleepy. Now it seemed to have... Perked up somehow. To my mind, it seemed that some great, invisible head had turned to face us and listen. The feeling passed, and even at that age, I was abashed for feeling that a puddle in the grass was looking at us. What are you talking about? it's what, six inches deep?

Yeah, it's six inches deep. But five years ago, a girl named Emma wandered away from her parents and started screaming and screaming and screaming. She cried out for help and her parents were just over that hill there. It took them no more than 20 seconds to get here, but by the time they did,

she had drowned in it. Only six inches deep, and she drowned in it. I looked at Nicholas, wearily, trying to pass her out if he was messing with me. Did they get the guy? He seemed exasperated, like I was an idiot for not immediately following his insane kid's story.

It wasn't a guy! That's what I'm telling you! Nobody was around. She wasn't hurt at all. There's nowhere for anyone to hide. They would have seen him. Nobody else was here. It was... He gestured with his eyes towards the puddle again. Him. The horse fly king? You don't believe me? I had laughed at him a bit, more to make myself feel better than anything else. You can't be afraid of something you laugh off as ridiculous after all. He had grown angry with me.

All right, if it's so stupid, put your hand in it. What? You heard me. The childish grin returned. There's no such thing as a horsefly king, right? So put your hand in the water. Watch what happens. Just watch. Gross. I'm not sticking my hand in some dirty puddle horseflies lay eggs in. because you're scared he'll get you?

I'm not. This continued in the way children's arguments do, before I settled on a compromise. I would take a stick, lying nearby, and put it in. Stir the water a bit, smack the service,

and if no monsterate me, he had to admit he was full of crap. And I did. I hesitated a moment, staring at the murky water, and in that moment, it didn't look like a puddle. It looked like a diseased,

hole in the world, a window to a different place, an infinite world of blood and dirt and biting things. A moment in which I was almost convinced something was going to jump out and eat me. But it didn't. I put the stick in until I felt the earth below. It was only depression of a few inches after all. I laughed and stirred and splashed the water. I called in a sing-song voice for the horse Viking to come out and play, to come and bite Nicholas. He had pouted the whole walk home, like he had actually wanted something to drag me under. But it had been nothing after all. A scary story about a pool of water in the park,

told by a maladjusted boy trying to get a rise out of his mate. I didn't think about it for years afterwards. Sometimes I would return to the park and see the pool, just as stagnant, just as deep as it always was, shining in the sun with the colours of water so contaminated it looked like oil. I'd smile a bit to myself and remember Nicholas and his killing caterpillars and his story of horsefly kings and wonder where he was. I hadn't spoken to him in the years when I heard of his passing. It was hardly a surprise.

Everyone knew he'd been a troubled boy, grown into a neurotic young man. There were no gasps of shock when he took his life, only where he sighs and shaking heads. Tongues clicking and saying, I suppose we should have seen a coming and it was only a matter of time. But there were whispers. Gossip, really. That's all it was. I was raised to not speak ill of the dead and I never found out for sure.

So I hesitate to slander his memory or bring undue grief to those closer to him than I. But the way he had done it, people said. It wasn't natural. Nobody seemed exactly sure how he'd done it, only that it was horrible. I heard conflicting accounts. I heard he had choked himself to death, trying to cram flypaper down his throat. I heard he had taken a pin and stabbed himself through to the bone in hundreds of places all over his body, like how they used to testable witches in the old days, the man who told me

that had said. I heard one that gave me pause more than any other. I heard that he was found in his bed, staring at the ceiling, bone dry, but his face was frozen in a scream of horror, and that his life was lost. lungs were full of filthy water. Filthy water and eggs. A voice in my head wanted to correct the woman who told me that version. Not my own voice, surely.

Where did that thought come from? I still lay awake night and wonder. I was in my twenties then, too old for fairy tales. I did not believe in the horsefighting. I do not believe in the horsefighting. But the nightmare started soon after. My mind was full of anxiety, full of depression and that half-form mix of guilt and grief

when you lose someone you used to be close to or didn't know as well as you should. That's why I see the pool in my dreams. Why I've been seeing it for almost a decade. It was scary. A boy who scared me as a child killed himself. Nightmares are perfectly normal. Everyone is nightmares.

In mine, I'm standing in front of the pool and there are flies buzzing around it, much larger than any real flies. Their wings are grey and ragged and papery and you can see the veins, almost like bats, torn, buzzing, biting bats, with kiteness black skin and red eyes and a dagger from a mouth. I look closer and see their eyes are drops of blood

and they're not buzzing. They're screaming. They're screaming and flying in ritual circles around the pool has begun to ripple and change shape. Something is inside it. and it's coming to the surface, and, if I see what it is, I'll go insane and die of fright. And I awake in bed, screaming and soaked with a sweat of terror, the kind that penetrates through your skin, down to the bone,

and makes you feel so cold you forget how warmth feels. I don't sleep much anymore, so I lay awake and wonder whose voice was telling me it wasn't just filthy water, it was eggs too. I do not believe in the horse fliking. But I've gained something of a morbid interest recently. I wondered where the story came from, you see. Perfectly natural.

I thought maybe it was the depression left over from a shelling crater. The thought had a certain romance to it. A spot cursed by a man, or more probably a boy. His bones and tendons and flesh blasted apart and filled with shrapnel and mud. All for a senseless war. That would make a wonderful story. But it had already been there. I know, because I hunted tirelessly for any first-in accounts of the battle

that park desperately tries to make pretty, like makeup covering a black eye from... Forgive me, it's anxious work writing this all down. I don't want to give the impression I come apart at the seams of such fantastical and childish things. Yes, the battle. A journal from one Lieutenant Ronan spoke of the damn thing. It seems impossible it should have survived a century and all the landscaping,

but somehow it did. A persistent blemish, if nothing else. It seems our boys had dug their trenches just a few yards behind the thing, and that, even then, it was a source of vague repulsion and horror. Ronan never uses the term horse-fliking. I still don't know when Nicholas came up with that. If, perhaps a voice, not quite his own, just said it in his head one day. the same voice that assured me yes,

eggs in his lungs, and once is in the ground, I get distracted easily, it's hard to gather my thoughts. At any rate, the police mentioned as the probable cause for one private McBride getting trench foot. Ronan said he'd walk through the water

going to scout no man's land and that he thought something bit him. He was a healthy boy, 19 years old. But that night, when they stripped his boot off, they cut through the sock that was stuck her skin, like flypaper. His foot had already become to rot.

There were maggots in it, Ronan said, and he had started screaming. They had to take his foot off. He didn't survive the procedure. A few nights later, one of the sentries was found in the barbed wire. He had caught himself on it somehow in the night, and ripped himself open and maybe a dozen places struggling to free himself. Ronan stops to describe the smell of his organs, hanging out of his stomach. his intestines drooping in the dirt

the century's blood ran in a rivulet straight into the pool it was strange he remarked in his next entry that no one should hear him screaming he must have been in that wire for upwards of an hour before he died but nobody heard him

to a man not one of the soldiers had heard him scream it seems after that incident the men avoided the thing like the plague for their few remaining days on earth The battle was a catastrophic failure The boys budged and shelled and gassed Sometimes I wondered what became of the Germans who killed them

There's a cold certainty in my heart That they didn't fare much better I do not believe in the horse-viking I've just done some digging that's all A friend of mine died Not a friend A terrifying boy died a terrifying death And I have grown anxious

And that is all But, after the war, when the park was first planted, one of the men who had landscaped it was found laying next to the pool. Every inch of him was covered with horseflies, a black crawling mass covering his skin. They'd bitten him to death. They had bitten him on his tongue and his eyeballs and crawled into his throat. In 1954, a woman who frequented the part suddenly went raving mad. She nearly killed herself trying to destroy her ears, trying to, quote, make the buzzing stop.

She died in the hospital, her hands clamped over her ears. In 1978, a man murdered his own wife, his own pregnant wife. I will spare you the details, but you should know the police found him next to the pool, having slit his own throat after dropping something small and bloody into it like a sacrifice. In 1993, the girl named Emma disappeared. Nicholas hadn't known the whole story. She didn't drown in the pool, not immediately. She vanished without a trace.

They searched for her for three months before they found a body face down in the pool right where she had vanished. And then, there was Nicholas. I know what these things are. Isolated incidents, a meaningless correlation, my own confirmation bias. Every minute of every day Someone walks right past the dirty puddle And nothing happens to them at all But sometimes

Just sometimes When the sun hits it just right My nightmares have grown worse of late Nicholas' voice is hard to hear He gurgles and water keeps pouring out of his mouth As he stands over me in bed I think I see something wriggling in his voice box He tells me

The Horsefly king bit him good just like I asked bit him so he burned and burned and drowned but didn't die he can never really die he says the eggs need blood and the blood needs pain and all the stagnant water in the world

is his domain the pools of his eyes and he sees everything I do and to me it's been decades but to him I'm an amusing little distraction for a moment Nicholas smiles and I can see his teeth are black

as he says, like a boy, pulling the wings of a fly that bit him. That's what you are to him. You bit him, and he will do things to your body you didn't think were possible. He will make you scream

and scream and scream. I do not believe in the horse viking. Instanitis ringing in my ears, that just sounds a bit like a bus sometimes, and that red circle in the sky is the setting sun and it reflects off the water. It is not the eye of a great fly or a drop of blood drawn from God's flesh

with the unholy dagger mouth of an abomination that tortures men and women for decades because it feels a moment of boredom, I fear some horrible fate will before me. I think I may be sick. Whose dark dreams are these? Whose deranged thoughts? Not my own. They can't be my own. It is as if a fever has come over me, slow-cooking my brain in my skull.

I say it is only sometimes. I try to force myself to assure you, it's just my writing about it that has made me come undone, that I am a sane man, that nothing is in that water. There are no ghosts or goblins or beasties in this world. I tell myself that all the time. But when Nicholas floats over me at night, and there's still water dripping from my ceiling onto my face, he tells me the horse fliking likes the taste of liars the best. I purchased a revolver. I don't know what I intend to do with it. I dare not tell anyone They look at me strangely enough

Since I fell into the bottle They fear I may do harm to myself I fear someone Something else might That's why I'm going tonight I'm polishing off this bottle of bourbon And leaving this letter for friends And loved ones to grimace and sob over

And doctors to dissect and fools to laugh at I'm taking my gun And going down to that water I'm going to walk in and wait a little while and see what happens. I'm sure I have nothing to fear, after all. I do not believe in the horse fly king. Mount Harmon is where I've lived my whole life,

where I tell this tale from my childhood. It's one of these small towns in New England, where everybody knows each other, the kind of place that looks like it hasn't changed in 50 years. The beast attraction is the gas station where most people buy their groceries, as well as gossip about the residents. You get the idea.

There's not much going on here. Anyway, it was really weird when a new neighbour showed up. Not a person, mind you. An entire house. It just showed up out of nowhere. Mrs. Danforth was the first one to notice, naturally, as it was suddenly right next door to her.

She called Sheriff Franklin, and once people saw the Sheriff heading over towards a road, everybody knew something was going on there. Vinny, my older brother, was the one who told me about it. Ricky, frankly, just rode up to the Danford Road. You want to come check it out? I did. It beat whatever mind-omen thing I'd been doing. We grabbed our bikes and made our way up the hill. My brother and I figured one of the Danforths had died. They were quite old. Hey, where did that come from? I nearly crashed into Vinny as he broke abruptly, seeing the house that had not.

never been there before. We both sat with our mouths hanging open. The sheriff's cruiser was parked on the other side of the road. The Danforth stood, talking with him on their porch, all three peering at the new house in fear. It was large, three stories, with a long curved driveway that led to a barn beside it. Despite being a new structure, the house itself looked like it had been sitting there for about 200 years. The paint was deteriorating, the porch sagged, and the upstairs windows looked like they were cracked. We watched the sheriff

go timidly up to the end of the driveway, ducking low and trying to look through the windows. By now, more people had joined us, and what seemed like a safe distance from it. Other kids from the middle school gathered around us where we had parked. A few speculated on what the house could be. It's a ghost house, no doubt.

Donny Maren said, his confidence selling his theory to a few onlookers who nodded in agreement. Nah, it can't be a ghost house. It's solid. Plain to see as you and I, Tim Desmond pitched his opinion in. Yeah, well then, how did it get here? Donny asked, folding his arms and wrinkling his nose at Tim.

They glared at each other. Maybe it was invisible. Tim finally retaliated, folding his arms as well. That's stupid, and somebody would have crashed into it. Their debate got rather heated. It seemed that no one really knew what to do about it. Franklin and Deputy Revis brought down cordial. tape and roadblocks. It wasn't reassuring to see the way they kept a close watch

from the house the whole time, neither daring to put the tape on the structure. They closed down the entire road instead, keeping everyone from getting near it. Not that anyone dared to. A town meeting was scheduled to decide how to proceed. For the first time in my life, I wished I was allowed to attend, opting to listen crouched down by the window instead. We weren't the only kids. who made their way to hear the outcome. Donnie and Tim were there, along with about half our middle school. The meeting was long,

involved a lot of shouting, caused tension between families, and in the process gave all us middle schoolers reason to pick on each other for where our families aligned themselves. It was a thrilling thing to be spying on, in other words.

They ended up forming two sides, one that thought the house should be demolished or the other half said it should be left alone. There were various reasons for either side. I was curious how our parents would vote, not hearing their voices arguing along with the rest. As people started to make their way through the doors, we all fled, trying to act like we'd been playing pickup ball. Grim-faced parents called on us to go home. So, how are you going to vote, Pop? Vinny couldn't wait any longer when we crossed the front threshold, badgered my father,

before he had slipped his shoes off. He looked at Vinny and I, and simply pointed upstairs. This was his way of letting us know he would be talking to our mother in private. We ran up the steps, both shoving each other for the best spot on the top of the stairs to hear down into the living room. As usual, Vinny won and cupped his ear. I found myself holding my breath, eager to hear what my father had to say. It would probably be safer to leave it, when mother decided to start the conversation after a long spell of silence.

How do we know it isn't dangerous keeping it up? The discussion was less exciting than we had hoped, but it ended with my father saying he thought it should be demolished, and if it came to it, he would help take it down. My mother said she wished he wouldn't. We had a quiet dinner that evening. Our parents sent us the bed earlier than usual after. I tapped on Vinny's door when I heard snoring coming from the master bedroom.

He let me in, shutting the door quickly. I could already tell he was eager to discuss something. We should go look at it, right now, he whispered excitedly. I wasn't entirely surprised to hear him say this, but my stomach was already filling with butterflies of the prospect. Vin, what if we get caught? I was trying to reason. The argument was shaky, though.

We were seasoned veterans at leaving our house at night. Vinny scoffed, putting his sweatshirt over his head. He started tying his laces. It seemed I had little chance. of persuading him not to go. Don't tell me you're going to wuss out. He looked at my nervous posture. I bit my lip.

I knew it was a bad idea. But I didn't want him to go by himself though. No, I'll get ready, I said, regretting it immediately. I went back to my room and got dressed, then met Vinny by the back door. We grabbed our bikes out of the yard and peeled up the hill. Vinny was eager to get there, going extra fast. I, on the other hand, felt like each pedal was putting me closer to certain death.

Once we got to the roadblock, Vinny parked his bike next to it and left me behind, making his way up to the driveway. I glanced up at the house. In the dark, it looked all the more menacing, hostile even. I shuddered, hoping that we wouldn't be staying long. Vinny had his toes at the bottom of the driveway, staring up at the house with a longing look. This is as close as anybody has gotten, he said softly. He was right. Not even our sheriff had been where he was.

I couldn't bring myself to stand next to him. Something primal told me not to. He stared at the house for a long time, inching his toes a bit further into the driveway every now and then. Once his heels were completely across I got nervous Vinnie let's go It's late This isn't a good idea

We have school tomorrow He finally turned away from the house Addressing me with disdain Fine but we're going to come back This is important stuff man It's like we're exploring the moon The next day the school was a buzz The only topic was the house

Even the teachers got into our debates The votes were to be tallied the next day To see what to do with the house itself After last bell I made my way over to the bike rack To meet Vinny Unsurprised to find him bragging About our midnight excursion to Donnie

And a few other eighth graders Is he full of it or what Danny asked when he saw me coming up I shook my head No, we really went to see it I replied Donnie spit on the ground and addressed Vinny I called BS

there's no way you went to the drive. Let's see you do it again. Vinnie rose to the challenge. eager to prove to Donnie he wasn't afraid. Okay, Donnie, meet me tonight. I'll show you. Be there at midnight, he told him. That night, I waited for Vinny to signal to me

that it was time. When he came to get me, I tried to convince him to bail. He wasn't having it. No way, and have Donnie tell everyone I was too afraid to meet him? Uh-uh. Plus, what if they pulled up? it down? Did you want to be able to say that you were brave enough to go up to it?

It didn't really matter to me. I was only feeling dread at the prospect of returning. Again, I found myself being dragged along, not wanting Vinnie to be there alone in case Donnie didn't show. As we got to the roadblock, I could see Donnie's silhouette and somebody else parked beside him. As we got closer, I realised it was Tim. I told him we were going. He wanted to come too. Donnie gestured to. Tim. I was kind of glad to have more people around this time. I hadn't liked the way Vinny was looking at the house last time.

He made me think I might have to drag him away from it. The more than merrier, hey? Right, Donnie, watch and learn. Danny strode toward the driveway nonchalantly as we watched from the road. I held my breath as Vinny went even further than he had the night before. He went up the drive about 12 paces, then turned around. facing us with a huge grin on his face. Tim clapped sarcastically.

Vinny took a bow and ran back over to us. All right, so I guess you're not so full of crap. Donny relented, but I can do better than that. He marched up to the driveway, taking a nervous glance at the house before he ran up just ahead of where Vinny had stopped. Tim clapped again. Donnie flitted us off before he came back over.

My stomach was churning, feeling that we were really pushing our luck. Vinny was mad that Donnie had outdone him, saying he would do better than that. I begged him not to, making myself look like a wimp, but I was finally able to prime away. Hey Vinny, maybe leave the baby at home next time, Donny said, climbing on his bike and taking off down the hill with Tim.

Vinny gave me a lot of crap the whole way home, saying that I cost him a victory. I didn't care. The new rivalry made me feel nauseous. I knew nothing good could come of it. The next day, we had the outcome of the vote at noon, which ended in dramatic fashion. Mrs. Danforth had begged the town to leave the structure up, saying she thought demolishing it would only release whatever was held within onto the world.

She shocked everybody by saying that they were moving out, going a county over and leaving the house for the last 50 years, and the town they had lived in their whole lives. about 20 people pitched in to help them load up. Then they were gone, Mrs. Danforth weeping as they rode away. The only thing this meant to Vinny was that he could now venture to the mysterious house

whenever he felt like it, without anybody around to see him. He and Donnie up the ante when they all met up to play the game again. They had a wooden chip that was painted blue on one side and red on the other. After they argued over who got to pick the colour first,

Donnie ended up with red and Vinny with blue. They would place the chip at their feet, leaving their colour right side up until the other person came to pick it up and walk it further. The first day we used the chip, Vinny made it halfway to the barn. Donnie claimed he had something to do when it was his turn, opting to call it quits at that point.

Every time he went, he would go a little further, able to be Donnie by a few feet. Tim and I were there, only to be witnesses, it seemed. Some words circulated about the game they were playing, but even though Vinny was prone to bragging, he realised if he confirmed it, somebody would put a stop to it. Donnie was just as tight-lipped, surprisingly.

The game continued. Vinny, now only a few steps away from the barn. Every piece of me told me to stop him, to prevent him from going any further, but some morbid curiosity would overcome me, wondering if my brother may just prove to us the house was ordinary after all. As he smugly placed the chip down

and strode back to us, Donny was scowling. He looked like he was ready to prove something. All right, Vin, get your notebook out for this one, he taunted. He jogged to where the chip was resting, but unlike they had done up to that point, he tossed it up towards the front porch.

It landed with the blue side up, just below the steps. Tim and I exchanged looks. Vin his expression didn't change. Donny chuckled as he walked back, popping into Vinny on purpose. I changed the rules. Whoever side at Lanslan has to walk to that spot now, he said. Vinny looked like he was going to war as he made his way toward the chip.

I put myself in front of him. Vinny, please don't, I begged. He shoved me aside. His eyes were focused on the porch, barely registering me. You know I have to, was all he said. said, continuing on his way. It was nerve-wracking to watch him go. Each step he got closer, we grew more tense.

Even Donnie began to second-guess himself. Hey, Vinny, let's just get another thing to mark with. I think this might be a bad call, he shouted to no avail. Vinny had let this thrill become an obsession. There was no stopping him. Finally, he was bending down to pick up the chip. He held it high for us. to see before he placed it on the top step, blue side up.

We left after that, silently processing the last round. Vinny had purposefully called on himself to go up the steps. It seemed he no longer had anything to prove to Donnie or anybody else. He was caught up in the rush he got from it. He came to me that night with an idea. I'm going in next time, he said. It didn't surprise me, but I found tears. running down my cheeks.

I know nothing I said would make a difference. I nodded my head. I'm going to tie a rope to my waist. If anything goes wrong, you guys can just pull me back out, he continued. I fell asleep crying that night, not knowing how to stop what I feared would happen tomorrow. Tim and Donnie were waiting for us the next day, gravely silent, waiting for Vinny to address them. He tied the rope and explained what he wanted them to do. asking me to be at the front line.

Vinnie, I love you, I whispered, try not to cry. To my surprise, Donnie and Tim were also misty-eyed, clapping Vinny on the back and wishing him good luck. Vinny looked at us fondly, giving me a hug before turning away. I watched the rope uncoil by my feet until there was nearly nothing left. Vinny was on the top step. He looked back at us, then, reach for the door. I wanted to scream it in to stop, to turn back and take me home, beg him to read me stories out of his favourite books, to ruffle my hair, to flash me his wicked

smile. But I couldn't. Some part of me had to know, just like he did, what this house was. I tightened my grip on the rope as he pushed the batter door open, revealing the dark entryway. He was there for a few seconds. Then he disappeared from view. The rope nearly escaped from me. Something had yanked all three of us forward into the driveway. I kept my feet dug into the dirt, but it was no use. Whatever had a hold of Vinny was taking us all with him. My hands were being ripped apart.

Tim and Donny were screaming behind me, all of us still keeping the rope in our grasp despite the agony. I was wailing, barely able to breathe from the exertion and terror. We were heading at the front steps with alarming speed. My heels left the ground, and I tried braising myself against the steps, pushing back with everything I had. By then, Tim had let go, screaming at Donny and I to do the same. I flew upwards, smashing my knees and shins into the splinted wooden steps, being dragged to the doorway. I let out a cry of despair, fear, rage.

I let go, just before I was pulled through the dark entryway, falling to the porch and rolling to my feet, desperate to catch a glimpse of what was happening inside. I would never get one. The loop that had been tied around Vinny's waist was tossed out at me, the door slamming shut immediately after. In my shock, I lay down, unable to comprehend what had happened.

Donnie ran up the steps and pulled me to my feet, taking me down the steps and away from whatever was in that house. The rest is a blur. I made it home. Tim and Donnie had to retell what had happened up there. I was too shocked to speak. I moved into the old Danford house when I got older. I didn't buy it.

It wasn't for sale. But nobody was going to stop me from living there. I spent my nights on the porch, looking into the upstairs window. My brother, staring back, surrounded by darkness. Not a day older. than the last time I saw him. It started with my 10th grade English teacher, Mr. Baldwin, shown up late for class. Before his arrival, several of my classmates had made the usual joke

about being legally allowed to go home if Mr. Baldwin didn't show up after 15 minutes. That's right, kids had been making that joke as far back as the 80s. But after 15 minutes, Mr. Baldwin still hadn't shown up. A sense of her knees started to creep its way into the classroom. No one left or got out of the desks. We simply sat there and watched the clock tick away. I guess teachers play hockey too, my best friend Owen said to me. Owen Filder was a sardonic and sometimes aloof boy,

with dark hair and fair appearance that I was envious of. What do you suppose English teachers do when they play hockey, Pete? Do you think Mr. Baldwin is curled up with a dictionary somewhere? It's not just him, I said, suppressing a laugh and hugging a thumb behind me. There was an empty desk there. Larsen never came today either. Hal Larson was a quiet boy. He was genuinely good-humoured, but always so quiet.

I had run into hell outside of school over the weekend, and he had said something strange. But I tried not to think about that. No one had showed much concern about his absence. After all, students were absent all the time. Kids got sick or played hockey. But teachers. Well, teachers were always there, weren't they?

And when they weren't, there was always a substitute teacher there in their place, ready to prove themselves. Maybe they're both dead, a boy sitting behind me said. His name was Caleb Summers. Not that I would mind, one less boring teacher and one less numb-nuts in the world. No, I wouldn't mind at all. Good riddance, have a nice trip, see you next fall. Shut up, rat boy, Owen said. Once in ninth grade, a rat had found its way into the school.

When Caleb saw it, he screamed a hyped scream and nearly fainted. Since then, I only got into calling him Ratboy. Normally, I wouldn't be one for calling names. But Caleb Ratboy Summers was a shrewd and nasty kid and had a tendency to get on people's nerves. He was like a mosquito that kept buzzing at you and wouldn't stop, no matter how many times you swatted him away. The nickname was well suited for him.

bite me fielder Caleb said as he gave Owen the finger I'd rather bite into a cyanide capsule Owen said flipping the bird in return You shouldn't say things like that Caleb Another boy said He had a not so subtle southern drawl That I was found endearing

His name was Chester Higby What if they really are hurt Ah screw off Hick Caleb said I'm sure they're both fine Probably making out somewhere The banter eventually died down and a terrible silence had taken over the class. Then, approximately 35 minutes after class was supposed to have started,

Mr. Baldwin stepped into the room. His face was pale and sweaty, and he looked nothing like the cool and hip teacher I was used to seeing at the start of every day. He looked tired, so very, very tired. Hey guys, Mr. Baldwin said in a pallid voice. Hey guys? Normally Mr. Baldwin would start the day with the day

the hearty, morning class. And whenever we didn't respond enthusiastically enough, he'd say, in an even louder voice, I said good morning class. I don't know any other way of saying this, so I'll come out with it. Mr. Baldwin said,

your classmate, Hal Larson, is dead. I was just in a meeting with the rest of the faculty. We're cancelling school for the day. You're welcome to use the phone in this room or in the main office to call your parents if you need to. We'll also have grief support later this week for those of you that need that.

I'm so sorry, guys. I'm just so very sorry. A sort of dumb shock had taken over our class. Mr. Baldwin started sobbing, and it was weird seeing him cry. You never saw teachers cry. Occasionally, you saw them at the supermarket, and that was strange enough. But you never saw them cry. No one said anything for what felt like an eternity,

and then a girl started sobbing as well. Other students had similar reactions and some asked Mr. Baldwin what happened but he wouldn't say most of us just hung our heads in a kind of numb sorrow. This was the first time I'd experienced death this close.

Sure, I had distant relatives that died but I saw Hal Larson every day of the week and now now he was dead. It felt unreal. I thought of the encounter I had with Larson outside of school. I tried to forget it, but it was hard to forget now. The memory rang loud in my head.

Pete, you're not going to believe it, Larson had said, running up to me a couple days ago. His face was sweaty and he was more energetic than usual. And he had a very intense look in his eyes. I just saw my dead dog, man, and he was glowing. He was glowing. I missed him so much. I saw him, I swear it. Before I could even respond, he ran off.

I shook away the memory and looked back at Caleb. When our eyes met, a defensive look came over his face. What the hell are you looking at Pete? It's not like, I didn't think he was actually. But his voice trailed off and he simply looked away in shame. Of course, rumours immediately started flying about how Larsen had died. This was of low and nasty kind of gossip that only high school. is can make. It wasn't until the evening news that we found out more details.

Hal Larson's body had been found near a pond, completely lifeless. There had been no signs that he had drowned and there were no signs of a struggle. The police said they were treating the case as a potential homicide but weren't rolling out drugs or some kind of illness. It was all the information we were given. School resumed the next day but it wasn't anything but a normal day. The school had brought over grief counsellors and experts who spoke to us at length about dealing with death and letting it all out.

The police came as well and asked if anyone knew anything. I told them about my encounter with Hal what he said about his dog. But the officers just looked at me with raised eyebrows and then dismissed me like I was some annoying child. In between

classes as kids walked to and fro in the hallway, more rumours spread. Alien man. It was the aliens that got him. He obviously odied. I got a cousin that odied. Hey, he got any more pills? What if there's really a killer out there? Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus.

I swear I saw him the other day. He said he saw his dead dog. Isn't that kind of strange? Said his dog was glowing. He was into some weird stuff, man. He was such a sweet guy. He was such an asshole. He was in with the wrong people. Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus. What if I'm next? It's wrong. Chester said in one of our afternoon classes,

all these terrible things that people are saying about Larson, he's just not right. But he's savages, Owen said. Guy has been cold for more than 24 hours, and people are piling on him. Makes me want to hurl. But what do you think happened? I asked sincerely.

I hated the gross rumours as well, but there was a part of me that deeply wanted to know why Larson had died. His death was a total mystery. It was almost as if the life had been so. sucked from his body. I told Owen and Chester about my encounter with Larson, and neither of them could make sense of it. I don't know, Owen said, sadly.

I don't want to know. I hope it was peaceful, Chester said. I hope whatever happened, he went peacefully. No one dies peacefully, Caleb muttered under his breath. Shut up, rat boy, Owen said, turning toward Caleb and disgust. Nobody asked you, and stopped saying creepy stuff like that. Caleb made a face at Owen but said nothing else. It seemed to me that he was still dejected and ashamed of the comments he had made the other day,

back when we all thought Larson was alive. To make matters worse for Caleb, more and more people were finding out about what he had said. Maybe they're both dead, not that I would mind. No, I wouldn't mind at all. High school gossip was like a terrible game of telephone. Someone said one thing, and that one thing was stretched and pulled and changed until it no longer resembled the original thing it once was. Words were like wind, always flowing and changing direction.

It was Summers, man. It was Summers that did Larson in. You hear what Summers said? He said, wish I'd killed Larson. No, no, he said he did kill Larson. Did you hear, Summers hated Larson. He had been planning this for years. Summer's messed up in the head, he's a freak.

Glowing, said his dog was glowing. How did Sommers? just do it. Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, what if I'm next? Somers is going to get it. It didn't matter what Caleb actually said. His words had taken on a new life. And word eventually reached the adults about Caleb's little joke, or one of the telephone versions of it, and the police came to speak with him. Nothing came out of it, legally at least. But from that point on, whenever Caleb walked the hallways, people stepped away from him, Like he smelled, rather plague.

People would sneer and sometimes pushed him into a locker. Caleb Summers had become a leper. I almost feel sorry for Summers, Owen said one day after school. We were watching Caleb leave the school. Some kids were heckling him. Almost. Come on Owen, I said. Caleb, he sucks, but he doesn't deserve this.

Doesn't deserve it, Owen said, irritated. This is Caleb Summers we're talking about here. The same Caleb Summers that laughed at Molly Hansen when a cat went missing. The same Caleb Summers that called Darren Lower, you know what? The same Caleb Summers that cut Larry McDaniel's bicycle tires. Far as I'm concerned, Rat Boy is getting what he deserves. I guess, I said.

But he didn't have anything to do with Larson. This is high school, Pete, Owen said, matter-of-factly. So Rat Boy will get hazed a little bit. no one actually believes is the killer by next week people have forgotten all about him I could do nothing but shrug and hope that was the case

a vigil was held for Hal Larson on Friday night it was a beautiful ceremony that took place in the high school's athletic field Larson's parents spoke and many of his teachers and classmates were scheduled to speak as well everyone lit candles and the whole field was bright

with little orange flames I was with Owen and Chester near the I hope I never see my mom cry like that, Chester said. God, that was hard to take. I feel so bad for his parents. I don't know if my mum would be happy or sad if I died, Owen said. I couldn't tell if he was joking. It was hard to tell sometimes.

I wonder if I would get a vigil like this if I died, I thought morbidly. Mr. Baldwin had taken the stage and was giving a speech, but his voice faded away into the background. because of what I saw. I saw three people who were walking away from the vigil. Even in the dark, I could tell one of them was unmistakably Caleb. The two other figures were leading Caleb into the school. No, forcing him was more like it.

I nudged Owen in Chester and pointed at the three figures moving in the dark. Oh, this is not good, Chester said in that southern drawl of his, We have to check it out, I said urgently. Ah, do we have to, Owen said, but eventually sighed. All right, let's go. The three of us put out our candles, made away to the school entrance and slipped inside the building. We walked down the school's darken hallways. It was eerie being in school after dark.

It didn't take long to find them. They were in the gymnasium. It was the screaming that gave them away. When we walked into the gym, Caleb was on the ground. in tears and his nose was bleeding. Two students were standing over him. One of them was kicking Caleb, kicking him hard. The student who wasn't doing the kicking was Alex Hux.

He was the quarterback of our football team. Alan, in a lot of ways, was unlike most jocks. He was an all-round decent guy, who was nice to everybody. He hung out with the other jocks, but he'd also play cards with the nerds. He'd a vast comic book collection, aced every test, and would sling a football. was 60 yards without even trying. He was a total boy scout, but tonight he towered over Caleb

like some sort of vengeful Greek god. The other boy was Trevor Mattison. If Alan was Superman, Trevor was his Lex Luthor. He was fond of leather jackets and smoked regularly. He didn't care about school spirits or football games,

and he flunked at almost everything. I don't think he had ever read a comic book in his life. He was the one who was kicking Caleb, Alex Hux and Trevor Materson were both on two opposite ends of the high school spectrum, and seeing the two of them standing together was a surreal experience. Superman and Lex Luthor had joined forces. There had been so much heat on Caleb this week, so much frustration taken out on him, and now it had all come to this boiling point, where two students stood over him like a pair of lions ready to pounce on a gazelle.

What the hell is going on here? I said. Alan and Trevor turned around. Caleb looked up, but there was no relief on his face. What did it look like? Trevor Matterson said. And there was a madden and gleam in his eyes.

We're giving some as what he deserves. I didn't do it, Kelip said out of breath. Shut up! And Materson gave him another kick. Stop that, I yelled. Come on, Alan. This is insane.

He didn't do anything. What about you feel? "'Alan said darkly. "'In his face, which was normally so cheery, "'was a cold slab of stone. "'You hate some as much as anybody. "'You don't think he deserves an ass-kicking.' "'I think,' Owen said.

"'There was a slight hesitation in his voice. "'He looked at Caleb's pathetic form on the ground "'and gave another sigh. "'I think Pete's right. "'Much as I don't like Rat Boy, "'he's no killer. "'We were all there when he said what he actually said. It was just a dumb joke.

It was in poor taste, but that's all. He didn't even know Larsen was dead at the time. You boys are taking this way too far, Chester said softly. You didn't hear what he said tonight, Alan said coldly. Tell him what you said. Go on Summers, tell him, Trevor said. Tell him what you told us, you freak. At first, it didn't seem like Caleb would say anything.

He simply rubbed his bloody nose on his shoulder and spit on the gymnasium. floor. Then he spoke. His voice was pallid and pitiful sounding. I saw him. I saw Larson. I saw him tonight. He was glowing. No one said anything. He simply stared at him in dumb shock. In the back of my head, I thought of my encounter with Larson. I could tell Chester and Owen were thinking the same thing. Glowing. Larson had said his dead dog was glowing. And then Alan spoke He came running up to the vigil

Saying this nonsense Larson's alive Larson's alive Can you imagine It's bad enough What's been said about him this week He couldn't just stay away tonight Couldn't just leave it alone

He had to come and try Roll everybody up with his BS Had Larson's vigil for crying out loud Imagine if Larson's parents had heard him You should have stayed away summers No one wants to see your face So Hux and I got the idea Of bringing him in here

And giving him some justice Trevor said And again There was that maddening gleam in his eyes again We cut him away before anybody could hear him I gotta admit I didn't know Hux had it in him Alan didn't say anything

He simply looked down at Caleb with complete disgust I saw him Caleb said And there's no hysteria in his voice He spoke as if every word was true Trevor brought up his leg for another kick No wait I said

and bent down to get eye level with Caleb. His face was a mess of blood, snot and tears. I had gone to school with Caleb for years. He had not been a nice kid. He lied and said terrible things, poked at too many people. But there was something about what he said.

Maybe he was lying. But what if he wasn't? What do you mean you saw Larson? I saw him, Caleb said, hoarsely. I saw him by the park. not too far from the pond. He was glowing and smiling.

He waved to me. I swear, I swear he did. I know he's dead, but I saw him. Oh, give me a break, Trevor said, and he connected another kick with Caleb's stomach. Caleb groaned, and it seemed to me that Madison was enjoying all this a bit too much. Stop that, I said, and then shoved Trevor.

What the hell's your problem? Trevor said in response. He raised one of his first. and his knuckles were flaked with scabs and dry blood, probably from his countless other fights. You want some of this, too? Why are you defending him? Alan said. Well, what if he's telling the truth? I knew how ridiculous it sounded the moment the words came out to my mouth,

but there was something about Larson's death I couldn't ignore. His body had been discovered by a pond, completely lifeless. There had been no signs of struggle, and so far, no official statement. on his death. What if something had gotten, Larsen? Something terrible, like I'd have a nightmare or a campfire story. Something that lurks in the dark, but glows when it wants to be seen. I know this sounds crazy, I said, but I ran into Larsen before he died. He said, he told me he saw his dead dog. He said his dog had been glowing. You started that, Alan said, raising an eyebrow.

I thought he was just another BS rumor floating around. It's true, I said defensively. I did run into Larson and he did tell me that. And now, now Calib is saying something similar. Because he heard the rumor, Trevor interjected. He heard about what Larson said and now he was trying to spin his own BS on it to rile people up.

I don't doubt that you did run into Larson, Alan said to me, and I believe he did tell you that he saw his dead dog. Maybe he was under something. Maybe he was messing with you. Who knows? There's a lot we don't know about Hal Larson, only that he didn't serve to die.

But Summers here. Summers, I don't believe. Summers is a parasite, and he's trying to disrupt the vigil. That, I can't stand. But what if Caleb's telling the truth too? I said, thoughtfully. And what if Larson really did see his dead dog

and he went looking for it? And then it got him. And maybe. Maybe now the same thing that got Larson, He is pretending to be Larson. Again, I was painfully aware of how ridiculous it all sounded. You hear what you're saying, Trevor said. Larson got done him by something pretending to be his dead dog.

You're worse than Summers. At least he knows is full of crap. I admit it sounds far-fetched, Chester said, but I've heard of strange things like this back in Louisiana. There are folklore, legends and such. Yeah, and maybe the Bougarman is real too. Trevor said mockingly.

In fact, I think I saw Santa Claus last year. Only he wasn't a living present. He was stooping a hooker behind the convenience store. Ho, ho, ho. I don't buy any of it, Alan said. You're just trying to prevent the inevitable. Somers was going to get his ass beat sooner or later. Stop protecting him.

Well, why don't we just go and check it out? Owen said. He had been quiet for a while. I could tell he was having trouble with this situation. He didn't like Summers. But Owen wasn't a bad guy, and he wouldn't want someone getting beat up like this, especially if they were telling the truth. Maybe Summers is lying, or maybe he isn't. There's only one way to find out, isn't there?

Let's just go to the park and see if anything's there. No one said anything. The only sound was Caleb's pitiful wheezing. Then the look came over Alan. It was a look of regret and shame, as if he finally realized what he and Trevor had been doing. He looked down at Caleb's bloody figure and winced. He looked more like the Boy Scout I knew him to be. Fine, Alan said soberly.

We'll shake it out. He even bent down and helped Caleb to his feet. Caleb tried to push away, but Trevor latched one of his arms around him. But if there aren't any dead dogs or glowing boys, Trevor said, and another mad smile crossed his face, They will really give you something to talk about, Summers. The six of us made our way out of one of the school's side entrances. We were away from the vigil which was still going strong.

I could hear the sound of the school choir singing. On this side of the neighbourhood, there wasn't anyone else in sight. We walked on with Alan and Trevor in the vanguard, Chester and Caleb in the middle, and Owen and I in the rear. For all the beatings he had taken, Caleb was walking strong. He seems more composed now. Alan and Trevor would continuously look back at Caleb to make sure he didn't try to run away.

Do you really believe this? Owen asked me quietly. I don't know, I said. But it didn't sound like Caleb was lying. Yeah, okay. But Pete, if he isn't lying, what the hell are we going to do if you run into this thing? Oh, I said a little pathetically. I guess I don't really know.

Owen gave a wild bark of laughter, shook his head and we walked on. Eventually we made it to the park and it was an eerily quiet night, so quiet in fact that not even the crickets were chirping. Well, here we are, Trevor said, You-hoo! Are there any glowing monsters here? I saw him, Caleb said. He was here. I swear it was right here. We looked around the park.

But there was nothing but darkness. Trevor and Alan began closing in on Caleb, like sharks drawn to blood. Could Summers really have been lying about it all? Is he really just a pest, trying to stir things up? Did he come to the vigil just to mess with everybody? To dance on Larsen's grave. You said he was glowing, Summers.

You said you saw Larson and he was glowing. Show us, damn it. Show us. Well, these guys are going to break you in two. Well, there ain't no one else here but us, sunshine. shine, Trevor said. We're tired of your lies, summer, Alan said darkly. He was here. I saw him, I saw him,

Calib said in a panicky voice. Sweat had broken out on his face, and the rivulet streaked through the dried blood. Guys, come on, I said, but Owen placed the hand on my shoulder and shook his head. Hux was six-three and nothing but muscle. Madison had years of experience of getting into dirty brawls. I wouldn't be able to start.

stop them any more than I could stop the sun from rising each morning. And now Caleb Summers was going to get it. What's going on here? We all turned toward the sound of the voice. There was a policeman walking down the road toward us. Caleb didn't waste a moment. With Alan and Trevor distracted, he immediately ran the other direction into the dark. He was gone in seconds.

Alan Hux, is that you? The officer said when he finally got near enough. Every cop in town knew Alan Hux He was the star of a high school The Pride of a Little Perfect Town Mattison Is that you too Every cop also knew Trevor Mattison

Though obviously for different reasons It's me sir Alan said What are you boys doing out here The officer said eyeing the five of us suspiciously He seemed just as surprised As I had been to see Hux and Madison together

We just left the very vigil, Alan said. We're all heading home. Is that right? The cop said, scratching his nose. Who's that other boy I saw? The one that ran off. Other boy? Mattison said innocently. What other boy? You fell to see another boy here. He looked at us and there was a glare in his eyes. A glare that said, don't you say damn thing. All right, all right, enough, Madison. The officer said somewhat darkly. I sure as hell don't know what's going on here, but you boys go home now.

There's no curfew yet, but that might change. Go on now. The officer made his shoeing motion with the back of his hand, and the five of us started down the road. Eventually, Alan and Trevor split off from us and disappeared like wraiths in the night. You almost made me believe Pete, Owen said when he was just the three of us left. Can you imagine if something had shown up in the park? It'll get worse for summers now, Chester said. bleakly. Hux and matters

and won't let this go. They'll tell others what Summer said tonight. It's going to get real bad for him. He needs to stop stirring things up, Owen said. I mean, coming to Larson's vigil tonight, saying the things he said, what did he think it was going to happen? At that, Chester

and I merely shock our heads. What a careless some has been thinking? What did he hope to achieve by being such an annoying pest? Was it some kind of retaliation for the way he'd been treated by others this week? Didn't he realize they was making things infinitely worse? Why would he lie about seeing Larsen in the park?

Couldn't you feel the fervour that was taken over the school? The town even? Didn't he know? People were upset about Larsen's death. Not just the tragedy, but the mystery of it all. Didn't he understand that Larsen's death was a blotch on our perfect little town and people were screaming for answers, screaming for justice? I saw him.

He was glowing. Things did get worse for Caleb. summers after all. Hux of Matterson told people about Caleb's antics of the vigil and words spread very fast. If he hadn't been already, then there was no doubt that Caleb was now public enemy number one as far as our high school was concerned. More and more people started shoving him in the hallway. Teachers who would normally put a stop to that simply looked the other way. Once, while walking down the hall, I even saw Mr. Rathers bump into Caleb. He bumped in so hard that Caleb nearly fell over. Mr. Rathers didn't even acknowledge Caleb. He simply kept walking. And as for Caleb himself,

well, he looked like a walking ghoul. His face and body were bruised from the beating Alan and Trevor had given him the other day. His skin had gone as sickly pale from all the stress, and his eyes were constantly narrowed as if he was always expecting some sort of attack. He didn't speak much either. He simply kept his head down, only darting his eyes up every once in a while to make sure no one was coming behind him. Caleb was once a lively person who would often say terrible or nasty things. But now he was like a scarecrow, a walking scarecrow that said nothing. A scarecrow that constantly looked over its shoulders for fear of having his straw ripped out.

Did you hear what Somers said at the vigil? Can you believe it? He said he killed Larson, admitted it right out in the open. I heard he had a bomb on him. He was planning on taking everyone. went out right there and then. Summers said he's going to do it again. Who do you think we'll get it next?

Summers, man. Watch out for Summers. Oh Jesus, oh Jesus. Glowing. He was glowing. Worst of all, Caleb Summers was alone. He had no friends, no confidence, no one to protect him in any way.

He was on an island, surrounded by sharks, hundreds of them. Owen and Chester had cautioned me against trying to comfort Caleb or help him in a little. anyway, for fear that some of Caleb's would be attackers would turn their attention

to me, especially since I was the one that started the rumor about Larson saying he saw his dead dog. No grief ever got back to me though. It only ever was targeted at Caleb. I still felt bad for him even though he had lied about seeing

Larson in the park. Did he lie though? Are he still sure that he lied, Pete? Are you okay with what's happening right now? I wasn't okay with It was a part of me that still believed Caleb, believed that he had seen Larson in the park days after he had died, the same way Larson had seen as their dog. There was something lurking in our town, lurking in the shadows, and he was praying

on people, but no one was noticing it, no one but Larson and Caleb. It was Caleb versus the rest of the school for days on end. Caleb couldn't even take the school bus anymore. The kids on there would crowd around and gang up on him. And the bus driver would simply whistle and keep on driving. He had to run home at the end of every school day. Some kids would follow him on bikes and throw things at him. It was terrifying how quickly people had turned on Caleb.

We know it was you, Summers. We know it was you. What were Larsen's last words, Killer? What did he say? Why'd you come to the vigil, Summers? Why'd you come to the vigil? Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, I'm next. I'm next.

glowing, I swear he was glowing. Someone should put an end to summers. Throughout it all, Caleb never said anything. Never fought back. He took their jeers and punches on the chin. He simply trucked on, like a scarecrow, floating down a river. It didn't matter how many stones the scarecrow ran into, or how many branches it got snacked on.

It simply kept floating down the river, even as it lost all its straw. Eventually, Caleb... ran out of straw. He was found dead just a couple weeks after how Larson had died. His body had been found not too far from the park where he claimed he saw Larson the night of the vigil. According to the reports,

his death was eerily identical to that of Larson as well. There are no indications of how he died, no signs of a struggle. He had a couple of scrapes and bruises from his continuous tormentors, but other than that, it was as if the life had been sucked out of him. At first, I thought that maybe one of my classmates had taken things too far,

that Hooks or Madison had finally decided to give Caleb what he deserved once and for all. I decided to put an end to Caleb Ratboy Summers. But I knew that wasn't true. No one from my school killed Caleb, not directly at least. Caleb had been killed by the same thing that killed Hal Larson, a thing that lurked in the shadows. it seemed to glow as well, a thing that could take the appearance of a dead dog

or a dead schoolboy. But in some ways, maybe my school was still responsible. Maybe they had picked on Caleb one too many times. Maybe Caleb went searching for that thing that lurked in the shadows, hoping he would put him out of his misery. In the end, it had.

Caleb Summers was dead. After Caleb's death, our school closed. down for a couple of days and a strict curfew was put in place. A strange thing happened after his death. It was as if the violent fervor everyone had against Caleb had broke, and a sort of shame and disgust had overcome my classmates. Shame for how they had treated him. Yet, even though their shame was clear to see on their faces, none of them would admit to how badly they had treated Caleb. Poor Caleb, he was such a nice guy. He was an angel, wasn't he? Can't

believe he died. I hung out with him at Larson's vigil. Niceest guy in the world. Let's pour our toast for Summers. To Caleb Summers. Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, I'm next. They're pretending like it never happened, Owen said to Chester and I one day. We were hanging

out in my backyard. The curfew wouldn't be for another hour. Like Summers wasn't on top of everyone's hit list for weeks on end. We're guilty in all this, Chester drawled. We should have Listen to you, Pete. We should have stuck up for Caleb. It all went too far. It doesn't matter now, I said glumly.

Do you think whatever got Larson, got Caleb, the glowy thing? Chester asked, and there was a clear fear in his eyes. I simply nodded. After that, Chester left, saying he had to be home. It was just Owen and I, and for a while, neither of us spoke. Then Owen said, Did I ever tell you I was best friends with summer when we were kids? I shook my head.

It's true. Back in elementary school, before you boys moved here, I used to hang out with him all the time on the weekends. Our houses aren't that far apart. He got me a pop gun for one of my birthdays. Can you believe that? I still have it somewhere buried in my room.

The strange thing is, I can't remember why we stop being friends. It's just a blur to me, Pete. One day we were friends, And the next day we weren't. One day I was hanging out with him, and the next day I was hanging out with you and Chester. Why? Why did kids stop being friends with each other?

Why did they stop Pete? When did he stop being Caleb Summers to me and become rat boy? I wish I could say sorry to him. God, I am sorry. I'm sorry too, was all I could say. Eventually, Owen left. It got dark and curfew set in. The stars were out and the moon was bright.

There was a small open field behind my house. I was going to go inside when something caught my eyes. There was someone standing in the field. It was Caleb Somers and he was glowing. Caleb, is that you? I said in shock. I hopped my backyard's fence and ran into the field. It was Caleb. His skin was white and there was a glow to him.

He was waving at me, and he was smiling, gesturing for me to come closer. I felt as if I were in a trance. I needed to get closer to him. I had to get closer. Caleb, I can't believe it's Caleb. And then it happened. Caleb's summer's vanished. I was standing in the field instead,

was something black and oozy-like tar, with tentacles like a squid. It had red eyes, and they glared at me hungrily. One of its tentacles made a swoop at me, but I quickly jumped back. I gave a shout and then ran back to my house. I jumped over the fence, ran inside the back door of my house and locked it. I fell against the door, gasping. I knew instantly what I had just encountered. It had been the thing that killed Hal Larson and Caleb Summers,

the thing that lurked in the shadows of our perfect little town. I had only survived because it had mistakenly dissolved its illusion a moment too soon, had it pretended to be Caleb for only a second longer. Eventually, a little perfect town went back to normal. School and life resumed. No one died for the rest of the school year, and during the summer, I found out my father had gotten a job in California. We moved away from that town.

Owen, Chester and I said we would always stay in touch, but eventually that stopped, and I lost contact with them. I haven't spoken to them in years. I never forget about them though, or about Hal Larson or Caleb Summers. Part of me wants to go back to that perfect little town, see if Owning Chester are still there. I wonder what they've been up to all these years. But another part of me is afraid. Afraid that when I walk those streets at night, I'll see something glowing in the dark.

And it'll be Caleb Summers waving at me. Caleb Summers smiling and glowing. You make bones out of sand, hot blood turns into glass. When flesh grows in, invited for the parts of the earth that keeps such secrets, a trek through the desert will temper the bones. Like everything else, it starts out fragile. It would have seemed poetic in a way if it hadn't come from the little girl I was sitting across from on the subway. It was actually disturbing as a small, bright face looked at me as she spoke.

I looked at a mother, or who I assumed was a mother anyway, and expected something to be said. She just looked down at a phone, scrolling with her thumb intermittently. I looked left and right to see if any other people had heard, and were as off-put as I was. But the same before subway car didn't carry another person that was paying attention to anything outside themselves. Just me. Me and the little girl that spoke of glass and bones. I opened my mouth but couldn't decide what to say, so I shut it again and pressed my lips into a thin, polite smile.

I'd never been good with people, not strangers anyway, and that was under normal circumstances. This didn't feel like normal circumstances. The little girl smiled back and kicked her legs back and forth as she sat on a seat. Unease spread through my body as I looked up away from the child and tried to force my tense muscles to ease up, relax. We passed an intersection at just the right speed for me to catch a glimpse down it.

I could see the tunnel of fluorescent lights and tracks going on and on out of sight. It was gone in an instant. I didn't know that there were places where the tracks crossed in the subway, but then again I had never ridden one until I moved not long ago. I was still acclimating to public transport

as my last home didn't have much to offer. The image of the tunnel, an unexpected gaping hole in the wall, stuck in my head. It's not really like that. My attention snapped back down to the little girl when she spoke again. My stomach tensed up as I looked at her. I tried to push away the feeling like I had done so many times trying to swallow my anxiety away. My eyes flickered to her mother again, but she was still concentrating on a phone. What's that, sweetie?

I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth. First of all, calling a random little girl, sweetie, made me cringe a little. But on top of that, I found myself dreading her response. The subway? It's not like this? Oh, okay. My impulse to try and carry on the conversation, to be polite, was crushed by my growing unease. It had started as a small bloom in my stomach, but it was vining out and starting to cling to

insides, making my muscles feel like they were forming nuts. I smiled again, but it didn't feel polite. It felt desperate. I tried to casually glance around, but once again nobody was paying attention to me or the little girl. I reached into my sweater pocket for the small paperback I usually kept on me. The book was usually a good excuse to keep your head down and keep to yourself. I didn't know if it would dissuade the little girl, but I had to try. My stop wasn't for a while yet. In fact, there wasn't any stop for a while yet,

so I knew for certain I would be stuck with her until then. I read a paragraph of my book once, twice, three times. I couldn't focus or remember what I read. It's like the words were whispered from far away by my internal voice, and I just couldn't make them out. I sighed, now frustrated on top of everything else, and looked up. not at the little girl, no, but above her out the window. We passed another crossing, another tunnel running through the one I was currently gliding down,

and I remembered that I never noticed them before. I hadn't been on many trips yet, sure, but it began to seem odd. I put it down to usually being able to read my book with no issue, keeping to myself. Do you want to know about the secret places where flesh is reborn? I didn't even bother looking at a mother for a reaction, or anyone else for that matter. I realised that this child and I were effectively alone in the subway car. I wanted to scream, just to see if anyone else would look at me, but I took a breath instead. The thought was ridiculous, of course, and I wanted nothing less than to cause a scene.

Excuse me? The tremor in my voice did not deter the little girl's happy face and a little girl's happy face and wide, sparkling eyes. Everything comes from somewhere, the sand, the blood, the flesh. You have to know where to gather the ingredients. I don't understand, but I don't want to talk about this. I was more forceful than intended,

but hoped I got my point across. Children don't offer heat as subtlety anyway. I turn my face back to my book pointedly. To find a small black beetle sitting on my wrist, I jumped, dropping my book and shook it off. I brushed my clothes to make sure I wasn't still clinging to me somewhere and a sense of revulsion joined my growing panic. I then wished more than ever

I had gotten a prescription from my doctor that tied me over in my new home. Getting into an office as a patient was more problematic than expected and I had leaned on my scant supply of anxiety meds to get me through interviews. You have to go to the deep, dark places where the sun doesn't reach and the soil is fertilised by the remembrance. remains of the giants. I tried to pick up my book, but just looking at the floor made me dizzy. I was afraid if I leaned over, I would succumb to the nausea that was intensifying with

every click of the tracks. I looked up as we passed another tunnel, another intersection, another long, empty corridor, and it raised goosebumps on my arms when I realized it was different. It was shorter, darker, the quality of the lights were degraded, and they flickered. I realized I saw too much for a passing glance and my stomach dropped How did I see so much as fast as we were going? I watched the walls zip by like usual

Do you know how deep the subways are? Do you know how deep this subway is? I didn't want to look at her But I had to I couldn't stop my body from casting my eyes down to her She hadn't changed at all Nothing in the subway car but me ever changed at all and, just looking at a beautiful little face, made my blood run cold.

I pictured blue blood, starved of oxygen, flooding around glass bones inside my body, and I hated my own brain for creating the thought. It was getting hard to breathe. Do you count the steps down from the surface? She asked while smiling to expose a neat, square little teeth that had two missing spaces along the top row. I don't. But that was a lie. I counted every time.

I've always counted stairs and ceiling tiles and daisy petals. It felt like I was always counting something just to keep my mind from spiraling away from me. I tried to remember how many steps there were from the surface to the subway. How many steps did it take for the sunlight to transition into the dim, live there's bulbs below the earth?

I couldn't remember. I couldn't think of it, though I'd done it a dozen or so times by then. I noticed that, in the back of my mind, I was still counting. I'd never really stopped counting since I left the sidewalk. I shook my head to try and erase the countdown, my awareness of it. I tried to will it away, but the numbers ever growing stuck to my consciousness. Spite lasts.

It lasts like nothing else does. I put my face in my hands, but the girl didn't stop. Do you know what kind of spite trickles down from the giants, having a whole world taken from them, a paradise to be ruined, spite that sits in the earth longer than the bones do. It festers and bruise and feeds. Hey, is this your daughter?

I practically shouted at the woman, engrossed in a phone, but she didn't even startle, let alone look up or answer me. It feeds on fear. The girl didn't stop talking in a childish but even tone. It's a voice that now fills me with terror that threatens the leap from my throat. Hey, anybody! I shouted down the subway car

one way than the other. Is anybody else hearing this? Can any of you hear me? Nobody answered or moved or so much as sniffed in annoyance of my outburst. Spite digests fear like stomach acid digests food and the earth creates flesh like a womb.

I look out the window, desperate for any sign that we were nearing my stop. I thought to myself That this just has to stop It has to Please, just something make it stop All I saw was another

identical but unfamiliar tunnel It was shorter It was darker It felt like not just another direction For trains to follow But this whole other place No, it was in a place But a thing that was drawing closer

And closer the longer I sat there It felt malevolent And my heart was then hammering inside my chest. My skin prickling with anticipation for something unidentifiable and horrible that was bearing down on me on everyone in the subway car

if they existed at all. But why would I even think that? Of course they exist, I told myself. I looked down to see more beetles in my hands and I shook them off frantically. My skin was crawling so viscerally I hadn't even noticed the bugs at first.

I don't want this. It was practically a small. sob as the words came unbidden out of my mouth. You don't get to choose. A god is forming. A great, horrible god is eating and growing and waiting. The girl laughed, but it was humorless. It wasn't mocking or cruel.

It was just the sound that reverberated in my brain, threatening to break apart the tenuous grasp I had in reality. Or at least what I thought had to be reality, because it couldn't be that. No, it couldn't be that horrible soul. way car, full of people who couldn't hear me, and a little girl that certainly didn't act like a little girl. Another gaping hole in the wall appeared across from me, through the window. I couldn't tell if my skin was just prickling from terror, or if the feeling of movement on my face

was tears, or if it was all beetles, but I couldn't bring myself to look away from that tunnel. I just clawed to my clothes and hair, as I was transfixed by the gaping void across from me. I wasn't even pretending to be a tunnel anymore The break in the subway was jagged And the hole was darker, yet more alive The broken subway tiles were like teeth And the flickering lights, more like the wet glistening Of the inside of a mouth

That's when I finally screamed I screamed as we passed the horrible hole in the subway wall I stood and screamed And brushed more black beetles from my body And screamed I screamed so hard that my vision went blurred from the effort. I screamed so long, I went deaf to the sound of it. Spite, fueled by fear, will feed a god, a god to break anything unbroken, a god of vengeance.

The little girl's voice seemed so far away, but it stirred something inside of me. Suddenly, I didn't have the energy to be afraid anymore. The terror had burned up everything inside me. The anxiety and the stress and the confusion had completely fried my brain. I didn't even realized I'd stopped screaming until I noticed that I could hear the rhythmic clicking of the tracks again. I sacked back down, suddenly calm. This was either real, or it wasn't, but either way, I needed to protect myself. There was no way out, so I did the only thing that years of all sorts of anxiety and a fair amount of trauma had taught me to do.

I shut down, I disassociated. Like a clockwork doll, my gear shut down one by one. from head to toe, and the world around me, whatever world it was, became a poorly painted stage I was nothing more than a prop on. Had everyone else already been pushed this far? Is that why they didn't respond? The little girl's legs stopped swinging. What are you doing? Her tone changed for the first time since she had spoken about the bones made of sand. It seemed like hours ago by then. Maybe her whole day. I'm sorry. I'd try. my book.

My voice itself sounded like an afterthought, monotone, as I numbly reached to the floor. As I grasped my book, several black beetles fell from my sleeve with the legs curled against the bodies. I dusted off the cover. There we go.

I didn't really mean to do or say anything. My body was on autopilot, subway mode activated. The earth is full of boiling blood from creatures ages older than your earliest ancestors. Oh, I cracked open my book, just an extra in a play, acting out their role as a weekday commuter. The anxiety left and had taken most of my senses with it.

You'll all be ruled by an incredible monster. The little girl started yelling and stood on a seat. You'll succumb to an ancient stomach. She may as well have been quiet, radio static, crackling across from me. I could hear her, but I couldn't process the words in any meaningful way. everything but basic functioning was turned off I barely realised I should care and even that dwindled away

I turned the page of my book having not read a word I started counting until it was reasonable for a person actually reading to need to turn another page I counted to 100 then proceeded as if I had read every sentence What are you doing

Who's her turn to sound scared Maybe angry It was hard to tell I looked up and she was then blocking the window, but I glanced ahead anyway, as if I could see through her, and I could barely see anything from the haze of my own defence mechanism. I just noticed the wall flitting by in my peripheral vision. I looked back down in my book and started counting to the next page. It felt like my organa and bone and brain were wrapped up in cotton.

Everything was dampened, muted. It was a comforting feeling. so many times in school, with my family, work, college, in public, I shut down to protect myself and get through whatever horror was happening around me. I heard the girl, or whatever she was, thumbed back down in a seat. A familiar hiss reached my ears that signified my stop was approaching. I closed my book and put it in my back pocket. I folded my hands in my lap and stared ahead with a polite smile stuck into place.

default, innocuous, a carefully crafted expression as did not invite any attention. The girl's hand suddenly shot out and gripped my arm, incredibly firm for such a small hand, but I didn't so much as flinch. I was used to much harsher treatment

from much larger hands. I learned to not react decades ago. Reacting makes it worse, whatever may be coming. Shut down, endure, survive. You won't stay with me. She sounded more like a little girl than she had the whole time. A real little girl.

I'm sorry, sweetie. My fake customer service voice dripped from her mouth. This is my stop and I have to go to work. But it's been nice talking to you. I didn't mean any of it, but I didn't have to. But... Her mother, or whatever it was, finally came to life at that. She pulled the child back into a seat.

Come on, hon, leave the nice person alone. It's time for them to go. Maybe next time you'll make a friend that stays longer. The woman smiled at me as I stood and grabbed my things. I mirrored it back at her. I heard the subway car doors open and I moved towards them. It wasn't until I was out and moving quickly to the stairs that my brain allowed me to register what I had seen on my way out.

Every other person in the car, every single person who wasn't me, the girl or a mother. It was a corpse. They were in various states of decay and the more advanced ones were writhing with black beetles. When I was finally in the sunlight and the open air, finally out of that bizarre hellscape,

finally out of that disgusting mass grave, I vomited. There was no bush or trash can to throw up into, so I pitched forward and heaved hard several times until my stomach was completely empty. Then, I fled. I didn't want to be aware of anyone or anything around me. I just walked as quickly as I could towards my job.

Work. I felt like that would be safe and I could breathe. I just needed to get to work and everything would be okay and the nightmare would be over. I finally walked into the front doors and it was like walking into a whole new, clean atmosphere and I could breathe deeply for the first time since I boarded the subway and sat amongst the... I couldn't even think about that though. Whatever it had been. I couldn't let myself think about the trip,

or the doctor's appointments I needed, or the therapy I needed, or the exorcism. I didn't have the time or the energy to sort out any of that. Who would believe anything I said? I took a deep breath and started heading to my desk. Hey, early as always, my cubicle neighbour made his way toward me.

I looked up and tried to smile. but I must have faltered because his face turned down just a hair. Are you okay? Can I get you a drink? He gestured with his mug of coffee. Uh, yeah, I'm okay. Thank you though. Just a rough subway ride. I laughed as if to brush it off, but it sounded hollow to me. Thinking about a trip from your old job? His eyebrows seemed to arch impossibly high on his head.

No, just now, but it's fine. I just want to get to work. I smiled, winningly, to assure him that I was indeed okay. Instead, he frowned even harder. We don't. He lowered his voice and came a bit closer. We don't have a subway around here. I felt cold all over in an instant.

What did I say? I meant food. I hit up subway for breakfast on my way over. I hoped, with every particle of my own, my being, there was actually a decently local subway sandwich shop. It was a hassle, not worth it. Okay, if you're sure. He considered me for a silent moment, but apparently figured whatever I was going through was harmless. Why don't I grab you a bottle of water? Sure, that would be great, thanks. I walked back to my desk on numb legs and sat down. I was frozen for a moment. I let myself

count of 30 and after that I had to get moving. No subway here? I'd ridden it over a dozen times. I killed the thought before it could awaken new panic. For 30 seconds, I just sat like a dummy again, pushing everything unnecessary out of my mind. Then I turned on my computer and started unpacking my things. Once everything was in its place for the day, I reached into my sweater pocket. The book was more than just for emergency reading.

It was a comfort It helped ground me When everything else felt wrong Some people have worry stones Or stress balls or jewellery to fiddle with I ruffled the pages of a worn paperback It was gone I'd either dropped it in the

Or it fell out of my pocket when I'd been throwing up Either way, it was gone And I felt a bit naked It was still my probationary period at work So I couldn't just beg to go home early But I still considered it a moment when my fingers met the inside seam of my pocket with no resistance. I took another breath and logged into my computer.

The rest of the day went on perfectly normal. No giants, no bones, no gods. My neighbour seemed pleased in the positive turn in my mental state since that morning. There was no trouble, nothing that made me question existence or my sanity. Near the end of my shift, I started getting nervous though. Part of me wanted to know what would be there if I walked at the suburb, that my co-worker said didn't exist. I couldn't bring myself to Google it,

not at work, not before I could really rest and recover. I was getting on by willpower alone, and it was quickly fading. I felt like it was made out of a soap bubble, and the slightest tremor would destroy me. I felt like my brain would pop with any more stress. I scheduled an Uber to pick me up instead.

That also went well, as they didn't talk, and I stared at my phone the whole time. as the driver pulled up to my apartment building I could almost convince myself that the whole thing had been an extremely vivid nightmare I had on the way to work the subway existing or not who knows

maybe I was walking the whole time and just made up the subway to protect myself I knew that didn't make sense but I didn't care I was beyond exhausted I just wanted a hot shower and my bed no I needed an extremely hot shower and then to fall into a sleep

damn near like a coma. I unlocked my apartment door and pushed it open. I heard something scrape across the floor and I looked down just to have panic flood through me all over again. Fresh ice-cold terror washed away any

other thoughts as I looked at the floor. It was my book. The one I had lost on whatever journey I had taken. It was covered with dirt. Nearly pitch black, damp earth clung to it as if it was excavated from a grave. A little black beetle trundled out from between the pages.

I was sitting on a park bench minding my own business when I heard someone knocking the air next to me. At first I thought it was someone that had hit a baseball with a bat nearby and the sound had travelled, but it was rainy and approaching midnight. There wouldn't have been anyone outside playing baseball. I had just gotten off work and decided to have a seat at the park that it must pass on my way home. There's a tree directly over the bench that had chilled me from most of the rain. When I dismissed the first thought

for the sound's origin, the second, my brain, still clinging to rational explanations, arrived. It had been a gunshot. I'd never heard a gunshot before, not one in real life, but it seemed plausible at the time.

This, of course, put me on edge. I was alone, unarmed, and still had about a mile and a half on my walk home, The park held several towering trees and the lights placed intermittently throughout the park did little to dispel the darkness and shadows abound. Anyone could easily hide beneath the umbrage of the trees, completely hidden with a clear view of me, since a light pole stood just by the bench. I scanned the area trying to discern some human-shaped object in the darkness, but saw nothing beyond the form of trees and some other recognizable park paraphernalia. fountains, benches, trash cans, etc.

Of course, any of these subjects could hide or partially conceal a human body if they had mine to hide themselves. I peered through the darkness for what felt like ages, but saw nothing. The sound did not repeat, and in my burgeoning fright, I tried to tell myself that it couldn't have been a gunshot,

that if someone had fired a gun, they would have fired a second shot to ensure that their victim was dead. That aiming accurately in the darkness would be incredibly difficult. With this panic and see rationalisation, I gave up my scrutiny of the shadows, picked my bag,

and began walking the rest of the way home. I passed the boundaries of the park, glancing over my shoulder every few seconds to ensure that no one was following me. Once I'd gone past several intersections without spotting anyone, I calmed down a bit and slowed my walk to a more casual stroll.

The rain continued on, unrelenting, but my hood kept most of the water from my face, I was utterly soaked though, and silently thanked whatever power bestows luck, because I wouldn't have been able to flee from my pursuer with such heavily drenched clothing. When I reached the corner, just as I rounded it, I heard the same sound, the short, concussive knock, right at the left side of my face. I flinched, stopping in place as I did so, but my eyes had stayed slightly open. There was nothing at the corner. no one down the sidewalk and yet the sound

had seemed to come from directly next to me the streetlights that lined the way illuminated a bear and soaked the sidewalk I took a tentative step down that way and became suddenly aware of how audible my footsteps were as the water sloshed about within the soles of my shoes

I realized that there couldn't have possibly been anyone near me I would have heard them even if I hadn't seen them all the shops along the sidewalk were closed, the signs that said such faced the street, the neon shapes or letters dimmed or completely off. The street to the right was devoid of cars, and the line of shops across it were equally inactive. I was alone, and yet I had the feeling that something was around, some invisible

presence. Certifiably unsettled, but also fearing pneumonia, I continued on. All the stores, most of which I'd visited at some point, seemed to blend together into a single and darkened structure as I sped by. I wasn't running, but I wouldn't call my movement walking either. A stuttery, almost skipping gate that probably looked laughably ridiculous, but I didn't care.

With each second, that indiscernible presence seemed to draw closer. I finally reached the block on which my apartment complex sat and slowed my walk. I was fairly tired, the rain, having made the last stretch and exhaustive exertion.

My building, ahead just across the street. There is a gated side entrance, but it can only be exited by a motion-activated sensor on the other side, not entered. I had to go around the corner and head to the front of the complex and use my key to go through the sidewalk gate. I just made it across the street, when the knock happened again, this time right in front of me. I recalled away, almost slipping and falling backwards. There was nothing up ahead, nothing that could have produced the sound. My heart rate increased, nearly to the point of tachycardia, and I became hyper aware of myself and surroundings.

adrenalineine kicked in, and my body tens itself in preparation for an encounter. I had never felt this way before. So instinctive, so primal, so terrified. The next night came suddenly, more sudden than the others I mean, and despite my physiological changes, it took me off guard. It had it come from behind, and I practically lurched forward, cursing loudly,

as I threw my hands out to prevent myself from falling into my face. I quickly scrambled to my feet and turn around, but, as you probably guessed, there was nothing there, nothing that I could see. I had become completely oblivious to the rain. My clothes were totally saturated,

my hood matted down to my head, all worries of sickness due to exposure to the weather, but totally ejected. All I could think about, and I wouldn't even call it intelligent thought, was the thing prowling around, knocking on the air around me. Another step towards home,

and then another, a third, fourth. Ten steps later, another knock came. This time, I actually felt the dispersed air. It hit my face, an invisible shockwave. I continued on, now running, mindful of, and thankful for the rest of. rain, which mixed in with my tears.

I didn't want to be seen crying. To be seen hurrying away from an invisible pursuer, flinching every few seconds would be embarrassing enough. I reached the gate, key in hand, and unlocked it. I slowed my pace, but still kept up a jog, weaving through the parked cars in the lot. A corner rounded, a set of stairs climbed, and I was at my building.

I slowed to a walk, finally reaching the corridor at the end, of which sat my apartment. Just before I reached the door Another knock sounded This time it was unmistakable Because it The force or thing which before it struck the air Had now hit me

Right in the forehead It felt like a punch A solid close fist strike to my cranium It sent me backwards And I slipped on the water I had trailed into the once dry corridor I fell on my back hard But luckily had some instinctive sense to keep my head up at the last second. Nonetheless, my vision briefly became blurry. The light fixture overhead seemed

to expand, throwing its illumination in wavering rays upon the space around me. I leaned forward, expecting to see some manifestation of the thing which had chased me for nearly three miles, but all I saw was the door to my apartment. There were no footprints, no puddles made by someone other than me. Slowly, as to not make myself even dizzier, I rose to my feet. I listened for the faintest sound that would indicate the presence of something else in the corridor, or descending the stairs that led to it. But all was quiet. Even the noises of the rain were muffled to the point of inaudibility.

To all my regular senses, I was alone. And yet, I had undoubtedly been punched in the face. Despite my home being just a few feet away, I didn't want to enter, didn't want to lead the presence into my apartment. where it could haunt and harass me to no end. Some vague intuition told me that it wasn't right in front of me, that I could safely put my back to the apartment's door and gazed down the corridor towards the stairs.

I was cold, still soaking wet and tired, but I didn't dare kneel or assume a position of rest. I needed to be alert, as perceptive as possible. I wasn't sure what to do if I saw someone or something, but I wanted to be as ready as the circumstances would allow. Eventually, I sensed the approach of the unseen entity, not with vision or sound, but an inner prescience,

some deeper extrasensory perception had picked up on some physically imperceptible signal, an ability, I believe intrinsic to everyone, capable of being unconsciously utilised during moments of such unique and pre-natural territory. The entity, I sensed, was coming from my left, through the solid concrete wall of the corridor. As fast as I could,

encumbered by my water-locked clothing, I dodged to the right. Sure enough, I heard that all too familiar knock and felt the air shift just beside my face. I just narrowly dodged another punch aimed at my head. I've never been a fighter, never even had a physical confrontation, but something awoke me that night.

Instead of simply fleeing and awaiting the next attack, I reposition myself to strike, and threw the best punch I could muster, aimed towards the general area at which I had sensed the entity, and my fist struck something solid, something a few feet from the wall, seemingly in mid-air.

A sort of triumph overcame me, and following that was a short-lived, but impassioned fury. I swung again and again, striking the invisible assailant with successive blows. Most were feeble, considering my exhaustion,

but there were many of them. I pummeled it with both hands, hands until my knuckles hurt. I heard no sound, and while the surfaces my fist made contact with seemed to shift, as if it were attempting to block my blows, it did not try to retaliate. I don't think it could. I don't think anyone had ever managed to fight back. The final blow landed and what I was sure was its head, and I finally let my arms fall. I panted, more soaked in sweat than water, and stepped back a few feet. The adrenaline and anger had begun to wear off, And I felt the post-violence fatigue slowly encroach upon my body and stiff in my limbs.

Outside, the rain picked up and flashes of lightning illuminated the dimly lit corridor. In one brief flash, I saw a humanoid figure hanging limply from the surface of the wall, as if fused within the concrete. Its body was mostly translucent, barely identifiable, as anything other than a figure, an outline. For a moment, I stared with the satisfaction of one. who was defeated a formidable opponent. I had no idea of what it was, and hadn't been able to see it,

and yet I'd won. This satisfaction lasted for a few seconds. Before my eyes, the thing rose from its incapacitated state still attached to the wall. It raised its face to me, and I fell back against the opposite wall, utterly petrified by the infernal image before me.

Its face was caved in, and the blackness within seemed depthless. Its torso was opened vertically, creating a massive trench from forehead to navel. The cavernous blackness of this body opening seemed to drink the corridor's light. I felt myself some spiritual part of me being drawn into that abysmal orifice. Just as I thought it would swallow me, entoming me in that awful darkness, another flash of lightning lit up the corridor and the image disappeared. The air which before had taken on a stifled heaven,

grew light again, and my nerves eased up almost immediately. With the same higher sense that had anticipated the creature, I knew that it had departed, gone back to its stygian realm wherever there may be. The blow to my head still hurt as I stumbled to my apartment. I wouldn't have consciously survived another. I don't know why I was chosen as its prey, but I had beaten it, driven it back to immateriality. Now, days later, I occasionally see others on my walks to and from work, and though I no longer hear the knocks, I sometimes see people flinch, seemingly for no reason at all, as they go about their business.

They look around, confused, then carry on, eyes glancing here and there. If the source of their distraction is what I suspect, I hope they have the courage and resilience to face it as I did. I'm sure that it would have taken me to some awful, dark-choped sub-existence if I hadn't thought back. I felt an unreal despair in that brief vision of its half-manifested form, a soul-plighting experience that I've still yet to fully recover from. I wouldn't wish such a black and dreadful fate upon anyone. When you live in the middle of nowhere, you have to get used to certain things. When you live in a town like prodigy, that only gets more true.

Sometimes a cow will go missing from a field in the middle of the night. Other times someone will come across roadkill, strung out across the length of the road, from one ditch to another, with pieces missing. Occasionally, when people leave their trucks on the two tracks in the middle of fields during harvest, they would come back to a tip truck or even ruined tires. The town, officially, chalked it up to some naughty city kids, or even some of the teenagers in town, running around and wreaking havoc. Unofficially, we all knew something else was going on, but no one had ever seen it.

There's always a story though, especially in Prodigy. I guess it was only a matter of time before someone ran into it. The night we first saw the thing in the fields, it started out like any other. I was only 15 at the time, but Oliver was 16 with a full driver's license and everything. I don't know if you know anything about what teenagers in small... towns do for fun, but if you do, then you probably know that the number one pastime is to get in a car with your friends and cruise until you run out of gas. All we had in Prodigy were fields and long, winding dirt roads, so it made sense to put them to use. Most of the time we would blast

music over the stereo, buy some snacks at the gas station and joke around all night. Sometimes we would drive out past all the houses, way past the feedlot and park somewhere on the side of the road, before climbing up on top of Oliver's truck and looking at the stars. The only difference, I assume, is that kids and Prodigy are usually a little more aware of where they are and what's around them when they're out in the middle of a field after dark. Prairie kids around here know that, usually, you aren't the only thing out there. Most of the time it's just a deer or a loose cow or even a coyote. Sometimes, it's not.

You just learn how to be careful. learn how to be careful, and you usually don't go by yourself. At this time in my life, it was nice to get away sometimes. Laying in the bed of Oliver's truck, or climbing up on top, and looking at the stars, while we blasted classic rock through the open windows, was a preferable way of spending my time. Usually, Jay and Logan would come with us, and the four of us would have a blast out there by ourselves until we absolutely had to go home. That night, though, it was just me and Oliver, as we drove through.

through town, past the still inexplicably scorched sight of the old church, and coasted along what felt like a hundred different dirt roads. Jay was babysitting, Logan had work, normal stuff. We weren't exactly bothering to keep quiet. The last house we had passed was at least 10 miles back, probably more. We had settled into our routine of playing music through the truck stereo as we got comfortable on the blankets that I had brought in the bed of Oliver's truck, talking and yelling jokes and howling in laughter his stereo had Bluetooth so we could listen to whatever we wanted through his phone

without having to climb around a million times that changed the radio station or rotate CDs we did leave the window at the back of his truck open though mostly so we could snake a phone charger through it we sat in the bed of his truck for nearly an hour before I started to feel weird about something I like to think that in most situations I have pretty good intuition.

My mom has always described me as a good judge of character, but I'm not sure that's all it is. Maybe I'm just more aware of my surroundings and what's going on than the average person, or maybe I'm totally normal and my friends just don't pay attention. Whatever it is, sometimes I get this feeling.

Oliver calls it my spidey sense. It's like a little buzzing voice somewhere in the back of my brain that makes me want to look around and make sure nothing is going on. And there that feeling was, creeping at my spine, making it feel like someone's breath was hot on the back of my neck, and familiar, buzzing alertness, settling in the back of my head. Something's moving, paying attention. Turning my attention away from Oliver,

who was deep in the middle of a story about some crazy nightmare he had a few nights previously, I turned my head to survey the dark, endless wheat, fields on both sides of the park truck. Most of the time, it alerts me to nothing more than an animal, quietly wondering around. But I usually figure it never hurts the check. The truck's engine was off, but the keys were in the ignition and turned so that the lights in the truck were on, illuminating a neat little circle around us, and shining dimly a couple feet into the fields on each side of the truck.

With a gentle wind, it all looked like a vast, waving ocean, separated in the center by a pale dirt road that disappeared into the inky blackness outside of our little haven of light. I used to love the way tall grass and wheat fields looked when they were blowing in the breeze, uniform waves flowing back and forth. I couldn't see anything of interest on the left side of the road, closest to where Oliver was sitting, so I'd turn my head to look over my shoulder at the field on the right side of the road instead. Oliver kept talking, knowing me well enough by now to let me do my thing. It seemed to be the same thing on that side too,

nothing of interest, until something, nearly at the bottom of my field of vision, caught my attention. It was a subtle movement, nothing crazy, but it was a big enough break in the smooth waving pattern of the field that it caught my eye.

It wouldn't exactly be uncommon for an animal to have wondered in the middle of a field though, especially not this far away from town, where animals had a bit more feeling, free rain. If an animal, like a deer or a cow, had somehow gotten past this fence and wandered out this far, we would have seen it clearly above the growing wheat. The wheat hadn't grown told enough yet to obscure anything that big. Anything smaller, like a rabbit or fox, would be able to slip around without us seeing it, though. That's probably why, at first, I wasn't too concerned.

Oliver had finally paused this story, leaning a bit closer to me and my side of the truck to try and figure out what I was looking at. I apologised and explained that I was still listening. I just thought I saw something. It's probably a fox or a raccoon out in the field, I said, even though I couldn't quite find it in me to tear my eyes away from the field. By this point, the ways of movement in the field were uniform again, giving the impression that whatever had been moving had stopped. I don't see anything, Oliver said,

staring off into the distance and squinting his eyes like it might help him see better. I don't either. I just thought I saw something moving around in the field. I shook my head and leaned back, settling down on the blankets again. Probably a raccoon or something. With a sigh and quick shake of my head,

I turned back around and faced Oliver. He eyed me for a second. but didn't say anything, and launched right back into his story. Honestly, if we got freaked out every time a rabbit or a deer interrupted us by wandering around in the dark, we would never finish anything. Even though I'd turned my attention back to Oliver, it was half-hearted at best. I couldn't shake the buzzing feeling in the back of my head, and even though I hadn't seen anything or being given an actual reason to be scared,

it was starting to make me anxious. I had no reason to believe it was anything but an animal but the fact that I hadn't seen the animal was bugging me I was so caught up in my own head that I almost missed the subtle noises in the field behind me my eyes shot back to the field abruptly interrupting Oliver's story I tried to listen closer but the music from the stereo was too loud

I waved my hand at Oliver a few times hoping he might read my mind and get the hint before I leaned closer to him and was able to grab his arm. Wait, I patted my hand on his arm once or twice, throwing my brow as I looked from him to the field and back to him again.

Turn your music down, pause it or something. Oliver reached her his phone, which was lying face down in the blanket in front of him and pressed pause. I almost immediately wished that I hadn't asked him to do so. The noise we heard once the music was off

was loud, much louder than I thought, and sent a slow shiver up my spine once I could hear it clearly. I couldn't pinpoint from where in the field it was coming from. It sounded like it was in front of us and behind us all at once. It was a low, pitiful groaning sound, coupled with a sharp chittering noise, like someone was moaning through chattering teeth. If it was an animal, it sounded in pain.

But something told me, it wasn't an animal. Above all, there was silence. We could hear no bugs, no other animals, nothing else. Oliver, I whispered, swallowing dryly, my hand still on his arm. Please tell me you can hear that. With my sights strained on the field again, I strayed my eyes, looking in the same spot I'd seen the movement last time,

only to have a sharp movement in the ditch at the edge of the road, catch my eye. I nearly jumped out of my skin, turned on my head to get a look. The tall grass in the ditch right by the side of the road was swaying, maybe a foot away from where the lights when the truck ended, and then it was on the road.

It was too dark that far down the road behind us to truly see what was crawling through the dirt, but if the clumsy, skittering movement of its limbs, flashing just out of reach of the circle of light, were anything to go by, it wasn't a kind of animal I had ever seen. We realized,

too late as it was pulling itself into the left field and rustling through the wheat, that whatever that thing was, it was circling us, stalking, hunting. For a moment after it disappeared, the wheat stood still and everything was silent. Oliver and I were frozen. My ears were straining to hear anything aside from my own terrified breathing, dreading the sound of low, dry moaning or teeth chattering together. What followed the stillness were a series of dry, clumsy vocalizations,

garbled and uncomfortable to hear. I twisted my finger in the fabric of Oliver's jacket, scared halfway out of my mind. It sounded hollow, like someone, something, was trying to wrap its mouth around words that didn't quite fit.

We listened for a second in horror as the noises grew louder, and then we realized. It was trying to speak. A Leaver. A drawn-out, twisted version of what sounded like Oliver's name

called to us from the ditch, coupled with a hollow sound of slowly gnashing teeth. It tried again, voice scratchy and pained. Oliver Pass, pass. A deep, Gravely groaned punctuated the deeply wrong attempt at the sentence, and I came to a cold

realization. He was listening to us. Not only that, it was mimicking us. Mimicking me? Next to me, Oliver whispered a sharp expletive under a shaky exhale. Climbed through the window, I whispered through clenched teeth, my breath catching in my throat as I tried not to panic. Start the truck. I released his arm My fingers burning from how hard I had been gripping the fabric of his jacket Oliver said nothing But I was answered with the same sharp

Shockingly loud, chittering noise from earlier Oliver leaned forward onto his knees reaching out with shaky fingers to grab the open window at the back of his truck I thanked whatever God might be listening That Oliver had always been a skinny kid So we could at least fit through the window Oll Yiver

Stringing the syllables together sounding more like a person with every passing second The thing in the field groaned And chattered away as Oliver slowly pulled his upper body through the window Oliver Oliver

Oliver I was too scared to move I didn't want to try climbing in through the window for fear of taking my eyes off the section of grass where I'd last seen the movement, and I was absolutely not about to get out of the bed and tried to go around to get in the passenger seat. I wasn't moving or taking my eyes off of the field until we were off this godforsaken road.

Oliver, please, tell me you can hear that. I stared into the dark as a pitchy, dry version of my own voice bounced back at me. It had practiced my words until I could string them on. altogether. The sentence was choppy, stilted, and the emphasis was off, but it sounded like me. Whatever it was started to slowly creep through the wheat that was hiding it so well. I could make out the path it took, following the sideways parting of the wheat, standing out from the rest, which was barely moving now that the breeze had died down.

It moved slowly. After the way it skittered across the road, I knew it was intentional. The movement was nearly lined up with the side of the truck now As Oliver pulled his legs through and finally flipped around Getting situated in the front seat as quickly as he could And watch the subtle movement grow closer to the fence If it passed the fence All that would be in the way of it getting to us was a shallow ditch And I had a feeling that wouldn't do much to stop it

The sound of the engine starting up nearly made me cry Oliver wasted no time in stumbling on the gas as soon as the engine started up, and he could throw it in drive. Over the sound of the engine and the tires throwing gravel, I could distinctly hear the sound of quickly gnashing teeth, and, as we peeled out and quickly picked up pace, the thing shot forward through the ditch. As it did, I saw distinct flashes of dirty, peeling, rotting skin,

like it was bubbling up and flaking right off its bones. As it reached the ditch and scrambled for the road, I saw its hand, and that was enough for me. Without thinking, I reached through the window and into the cab and slammed my hand up into the lights, switching them off. I didn't want to see whatever was going to come crawling out of that field. It only half worked.

As we spied away, I could see the vague shape of it behind us on the road, racing to catch us. It seemed much bigger than I thought, and if we hadn't been in a truck, we never would have been able to outrun it. Its movement seemed clumsy, almost, but it didn't seem to have any trouble running around after us. Eventually, we lost it. Our speed outmatched it, and it fell behind with a series of growling moments. As soon as I couldn't see it anymore, I felt safe enough to climb back into the cab of the truck through the window. I wasn't going to ask Oliver to stop or pull over so I could climb into the seat regularly.

Neither of us said anything as we turned the corner and took the fastest way back to town that we were. could. I stared at the dashboard. The image of the mangled, rotting hand with cut up, bleeding fingers, reaching through the grass burned into my mind. There are a few stories floating around town for the next week. Apparently, along the road where we had been parked, something had ripped the entire section of fence out of the ground, snapping the wires and breaking the wood posts.

The whole area of wheat and grass was destroyed, trampled into the earth. I don't like thinking about what could have happened if we hadn't been in a truck, or what could have happened to Oliver or anyone else, if they had been alone when that thing starts mimicking voices. And I prefer not to think about the fact that it had been hunting us. Probably the whole time we'd been parked on that road, we avoid that area now. I wonder sometimes if that thing is still mad, that its prey got away.