CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 7 SCARY Horror Stories to vibe with on a quiet summer night

Episode Date: June 21, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 👁️►25:44 "We Were Alone During the Amber Alert. Then I Looked Under the Bed" Creepypasta►50:30 "We Broke the Seal on the Old War Tunnel. We Found What Was Left Behind" Creepypasta►1:09:59 "This Town Warned us to Never Speak to the River Wives" Creepypasta►1:57:51 "I Signed Up to Work in a Fire Lookout Tower. But I Can’t Explain What I Saw" Creepypasta►2:24:30 "A Company Sent Ex-Cons to Chart a Mine No One Else Would Touch." Creepypasta►2:51:25 "Something is Growing in the Tree Where We Buried Our Daughter. It Has Her Face." CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"-    • "I wasn't careful enough on the deep web" ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher, and...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creepypasta  ►"Long Stories"-    • Long Stories  FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter:   / creeps_mcpasta  ►Instagram:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Twitch:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Facebook:   / creepsmcpasta  CREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only

The front door to my apartment stuck like always. I should have sanded the frame down months ago. I should have done a lot of things. The hallway light flickered and fizzled into nothing as I stepped over a pile of unopened mail and made my way to the fridge. Inside, the air smelled like old mustard and aluminium and it lingered in the air too long, even when closed.

I pulled out the last microwave meal and peeled back the corner of the film, then watched as the trace stuttered left to right on top of the correct turntable of my microwave, making it hot around the corners and frozen on the inside. I passed the kitchen table on my way to the bedroom and dropped my keys like usual. The metal clinked against something soft,

and the whole tablecloth shifted sideways. I paused and looked down, noticing a round lumped beneath a round lump beneath a round lump beneath a fabric. I thought maybe it was something my ex had left behind, maybe a button or a marble that had rolled under and been forgotten. So, I pulled the mat up. The second I saw it, I recoiled.

My heel caught the chairleg and I nearly fell backwards. My heart almost skipped a beat as I stood in shock, gripping the table's edge or trying to make sense of the sight in front of me. There was a fully formed human eye, wet, detailed and embedded in the wood. The skin around it was faint and translucent, barely raised, but enough to show it wasn't drawn or carved. It also seemed to blink. I stared at it, expecting it to vanish, to prove itself as some trick of the light or

exhaustion. But it didn't. The thing stayed there, staring straight up at me. The pupil shifting slightly, as if adjusting to the angle of my shadow. I kept telling myself there had to be an explanation. Maybe it was a fungus, some kind of growth that reacted to heat or light. Maybe moisture in the wood was making it warp, and my mind filled in the rest. That was possible. wasn't it? I squinted and leaned a little. It had a light blue iris that shot through with broken red veins. There was a little milky film along the edges. My scalp brickled, but I forced myself to breathe steadily. I pressed the tableclothed down again, flattening it over the thing, hoping he would disappear. But when the lump remained, I couldn't help miss with it. I grabbed a little bit of

a spoon from the drawer and tried prying the eye, but it didn't work. I couldn't get it wedged, and any effort to damage whatever had taken the shape of an eye proved pointless. So I just gave up. At least I could say I tried getting rid of it on my own. I placed the cloth back over it and tried forgetting. I'd call someone, not now, but maybe later in the week. I didn't have the cash to throw around on some specialist, and it didn't look dangerous. I hadn't been hallucinating at work or anything. I'd been eating fine, sleeping enough, more or less. Whatever it was, it wasn't hurting me. I woke up later than I should have, and as I shuffled to the bathroom to brush my teeth, I remembered the lump. So, I snuck a glance at the table again. The tablecloth had a

another bulge under it now. Two-ray shapes pressed through the cloth side-by-side, distorting the fabric. I already had a feeling as to what would be there. But I forced myself to keep moving. I wiped my mouth, stepped back into the bedroom, and got dressed. I poured a half-cup of bitter coffee from the cold pot and locked the door behind me without glancing at the table. I didn't need any additional stress. I'd get rid of it, eventually. Things were worse at work. Someone had botched the inventory numbers in the overnight batch, which meant none of the reports matched the previous week. I couldn't fix it without re-entering everything by hand. Plus, the office was full of complaints before I even got my headset on. I kept getting yelled at, and it didn't help that I couldn't forget

about the kitchen table. I tried not to. I knew how much a full mold treatment would cost. They'd have to come in, tear part of the surface out, spray the place down, and maybe even inspect the dry wall. The table was cheap, but not something I could replace right now, and I really didn't want to throw it away. I didn't have time for this.

I needed that table to not be turning into some weird freaking biology exhibit in my kitchen. When I eventually returned, the air in my apartment felt heavier and the window had fogged up again. I headed toward the kitchen to pour a glass of water while I try my best not to look at the table. But my curiosity got the best of me, and I caught sight of the tablecloth in the corner of my eye. It was raised more than it was that morning. The entire surface was covered in bulges, maybe a dozen or so. So, I peeled it back. A collection of eyes stared back at me.

Some were wide and alert, others moved slowly, blinking with effort. There were brown ones and hazel, and some flat grey, others nearly violet. A few were bright red around the edges, veined and swollen. One had long lashes, another was cloud. with a pale film. It was spreading like some form of mould of fungus, so I opened my laptop and typed out mold inspection near me. The top result looked professional.

There was a chat box open already, offering a quote. I clicked out of it. The price was more than I had to spare. My next paycheck wouldn't come through for another five days. So I closed the tab. I went to bed without brushing my teeth. Sleep didn't come easy. My body kept twitching like it wanted to stay awake.

I flipped the pillow twice and tried lying in my stomach. The sheets were damp with old sweat. At some point, I must have passed out. In the morning, when I stretched, I felt it immediately. My back wasn't. pressing against fabric. It was uneven and damp in places. The weight across my ribs shifted.

Something was underneath me. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe slowly, making the sensation disappear weirdly enough. When I opened them, however, it returned. I sat up fast and threw the blanket off. The mattress. was covered in eyes. They stretched from the headboard to the foot.

Some tucked near the corners, others exposed across the surface. I could see the indents where I'd slept across them. Some had left wet trails, others blinked up at me lazily, their lids crusted with yellow discharge. One followed my movement as I stepped back. I gagged, but nothing came up. I looked around the room Nothing else had changed

The walls were clean The floor was fine I stared back down at the bed It was getting out of control Was this even a fungus What was I looking at It just didn't make sense I walked to the kitchen and picked up the phone

My fingers slipped on the screen once But I managed to book a late-night slot with a mold removal specialist. The quote that gave me made my stomach twist, but I didn't argue. I gave my dress and said I'd be home after seven. I got dressed in silence. Work meant nothing that day.

I sat in my chair, stared at the numbers on the screen, and answered one call, maybe two. The rest blurred. Every few minutes, I thought I saw something twitch in the corner of the monitor. I ended up leaving two hours early without permission. I needed to be there when the Exterminator arrived. The sun had dropped below the buildings when the Exterminator and I met.

I pulled up outside and he stood there, already looking worn out. The guy looked mid-forties with a thick coat zipped halfway and a clipboard tucked under one arm. his spray tank had dried streaks down the side. He nodded, asked if I was the guy, and I led the way. Then, I saw the apartment. I paused in the doorway. The eyes had taken over everything. They covered the back splash behind the sink, nested in the gaps between counter tiles,

and split from half-open drawers. The coffee maker had one in the sink. in the reservoir partially submerged. A few had stuck to the inside of the fridge door. One blinked slowly and quietly between a ketchup bottle and a box of baking soda. The worst were the clusters. They started forming small bunches, growing in tight patches.

One whole corner of the ceiling looked swollen with them, blinking at odd intervals. Some had red-rimmed lids, Others were cracked through the iris. I didn't say anything. I didn't have words for it anymore. Everything all right, sir, the exterminator asked, finally. I turned toward him.

I stared too long before answering. You don't see all this? He looked around again, slower this time. His eyes passed over the sink, the walls and the table. I watched for a change in his expression. There was none. See what exactly, he asked. He said it carefully and politely,

try not to set anything off. I looked back at the room. One of the eyes on the cabinet had started to leak. The liquid was thick, pale yellow, and it ran down the handle toward the floor. I wiped my palms on my pants, Do your thing, I guess, I said. He nodded, adjusted the pressure valve on his tank and started spraying.

When the spray hit the eyes, I waited for a reaction. But the eyes didn't seem to react to it. Should clear up by morning, he said once he finished the perimeter. You'll want to keep the windows open if you can, air it out overnight. He handed me a receipt. I tapped through the payment screen on his phone. He walked away and the door clicked softly behind him. I stood there for a few seconds, then turned and walked straight to the bedroom.

Surely they'd be gone soon. Just like he said, the bed was still a mess of pupils and lashes. I pulled a thick quilt from the closet, threw it over the mattress and added an old comforter. I pushed down hard across the fabric. I couldn't see them anymore, but I knew they were there. I lay down on top of the layers. I could still feel them, but... When I closed my eyes, the pressure vanished.

The twitching beneath my back disappeared. When I opened my eyes again, the pressure came back, a slow return of weight along my spine, tending under my shoulder blades. I sat up fast and looked down. The eyes had pushed through the padding, stretching the quilt fabric. They blinked at me through the threads. And then, an idea popped into my head.

I closed my eyes and immediately felt the pressure underneath me disappear. When I opened my eyes again, the eyes reappeared. I didn't know what to do with that. Sure, I couldn't feel or see them when I closed my eyes, but it didn't change much. But at least I could sleep, mostly undisturbed. That was something. When I woke up, the entire apartment was buried in them. There wasn't a single surface left untouched.

The ceiling was dense with them. Some fused together, lids tangled into swollen folds that blinked out of the walled. sink. The wall had eyes where the paint had cracked years ago. Some nested along the doorframe. I stepped off the bed and into a field of them.

I tried walking slowly but it didn't help. I closed my eyes and tried to navigate through my apartment blind. I managed to pull it off and got outside, though on the outside. Things weren't better.

The sidewalk had begun a change. They were tucked between the cracks in the concrete. One blinked from the inside of a broken soda can. A few were staring from the storm drain. I walked fast in my car. When I got to work, I went straight to my desk. The monitor was already on. There was an eye on the screen itself, faint behind the glare. I sat down and tried to open the call dashboard. I didn't get far. Someone tapped my shoulder. It was the assistant manager.

You're wanted in the back. I followed them down the hallway. He was sitting at his desk, hands folded, face still. He used to be clean cut. Now he looked swollen. He'd always had a ruddy complexion, but his cheeks were rippling. Under the skin, something was pushing forward.

The folds of his neck moved. He stood up and walked toward me. His chest shifted under the shirt. Pockets of skin bulged, then opened. Eyes blinked from his sternum. I could see them from the fabric of the shirt. Two more peeled from under his collar. His gums had them two.

Each time he moved his jaw, pale fluid slipped from the corners of his lips. It ran down his chin, caught in his tie. He opened his mouth. It was filled with eyes that leaked pus. He said something, though I couldn't hear it. I was too distracted by the abomination he had become. He said it again, louder. Are you even listening?

What the hell's wrong? with you lately. I blinked hard. I, uh, huh, he stared for a second. Then his voice dropped. Get out. I didn't argue. I got to the parking lot and stopped beside the car. The eyes had gotten inside. The seat was lined with them. The steering wheel had them wrapped through the leather. One looked out from the base of the air vent. the rearview mirror was covered, the lenses facing inward. I couldn't drive even if I wanted to. I turned around and walked.

The neighbourhood looked bent out of shape. A stop sign had a ring of eyes running around its rim. The bus stop had them in the glass. A kid near the corner bent down and pulled something from the grass. She held it up to show a mother. It looked like a white daisy at first Until it blinked A blue iris sat in the middle of the petals

Unblinking in a palm I didn't stop I didn't slow down When I got home I had to shoulder the door open It resisted for a moment and gave I stepped inside carefully There were more now Thicker clusters

The table had sprouted an entire patch of them, eyelids tangled into another, shifting in a wave across the surface. I reached my chair and sat down. It was covered too. They pressed into my legs, my back, the base of my spine. I didn't care. I closed my eyes. And they disappeared. I kept my eyes shut for a long time.

I breathed in through my nose and waited for the tension to ease out of my shoulders. I knew what I had to do. I known for a while. I could make them disappear. I stood up. My knees cracked under the weight of it all. I walked to the kitchen and opened the drawer under the cutlery. I had to dig under old spatulas and dull knives to find what I needed.

A spoon. It had dried sauce on the edge, but the shape was right. I placed it on the counter. Next draw, I found the scissors at the back, past a ball of twine and a melted flashlight. The blades were half rusted, but they opened clean enough. I stared at both for a moment. The metal felt cold against my skin. Then I walked to the bathroom.

I sat on the countless eyes covering my bathroom floor. I held the phone in my hand and dialed emergency. My thumb hovered over the call button for a second before pressing down. I'm hurt, I said when the dispatcher picked up. Severe bleeding. I'm on the floor. I don't think I'll stay conscious for long. They asked questions. I gave my address.

I ended the call before they could say anything else. I leaned back against the tub and took the spoon in one hand. The scissors lay across my lap. I blinked once, slow and heavy, then raised the spoon. I pressed it into the bone just beneath my eye. The pressure sent sparks up my spine. I slipped the rim upward, forcing it behind the socket. It didn't slide clean.

My hands were shaking. The first movement gouged into the flesh above the lid. The skin tore away. Warm blood streaked down my face. The pain didn't make me stop. I dug deeper. The handle braced against my chore. I grunted, screamed.

My shoulder locked. The eye fought back, wobbling in place, pushing outward. I screamed again and pulled harder. There was a wet pop. and the eyeball dislodged, but stayed connected by something deep and sinewy. I could still see through it. It dangled against my cheek. I grabbed the scissors.

My fingers slipped. The first cut missed. I clipped the skin. The second one caught the optic cord halfway. I pressed the blades together. The snip wasn't clean. It felt like trying to chew rubber. When the connection severed, everything went dark on one side as a wet mass hit the floor.

I panted hard, bracing for the second. The other eye took longer. I slipped twice. My vision kept blurring. The metal tore through the socket wall and I ripped the lid off without meaning to. The bulb pushed forward on its own. I stabbed deep. Something in my head cracked.

and my nose started bleeding. The eye split as I pulled. When it was out, I held the pieces in my lap. Everything was black. I slumped forward. My arms slid out under me. The spoon clattered away somewhere behind the toilet. I could hear sirens.

The blood soaked into my sleeves and pulled beneath my jaw. But at least I couldn't feel. or see those eyes anymore. When I woke up, the world was quiet. My face was wrapped in gauze. My body was stiff, but the pain had dulled into a deep throb. I could breathe clearly again. I knew I was in a hospital bed.

I could hear the faint beep of a monitor and the low hum of machines. The door opened and somebody stepped in. You made it through, she said. You lost a lot of blood. You're stable now, but... You won't be seeing again. I didn't say anything. She walked closer and adjusted the monitor.

They couldn't save the eyelids either. They were torn past repair. It means blinking won't be possible, so you'll just need to get adjusted to everything. Still, I didn't speak. I listened to the shuffling of her shoes against the floor. I imagine the light above my bed, flickering the way hospital lights always do. She walked out, closing the door behind her. I lay still.

At first, I felt peace. Then, the mattress shifted. It was slow, barely there, a rise under my back. I didn't have to see them to know. They were here. I held still, my throat tightened. I could feel the shapes beneath me moving, swelling upward, slow and certain.

I could feel their gaze through the layers. But I couldn't see. That had been the rule. That had always been the rule. So why were they back? Was it ever about sight? Or was it about closing my eyes? I was 16 when it happened.

I didn't talk about it for a long time. But sometimes, when I can't sleep, I still go over that night in my head. I'm older now. I've moved out and got my own place and job. But a part of me is still anchored to that house. There was something about it that. never made sense. We grew up in a bad area.

I'm talking burglaries, gang signs sprayed over garage doors, cops cruising past our streets slow enough to make it feel like they were waiting for something to happen. I saw someone get dragged out of their car in front of our house when I was 13. We heard gunshots a few blocks over so often we stopped checking the news the next morning. people broke into homes for TVs, tools, even food. It happened all the time. But it never happened. To us, that was something I could never explain.

We weren't special. We didn't have a dog or bars on the windows. We didn't even have a working security system. Sometimes I'd come home and find the screen door unlatched or a window that looked tampered with. but nothing ever came of it. My mom would brush it off and tell me not to worry. I tried not to, but it always stuck with me.

On the other hand, my old man was gone before I even turned six. I used to ask about him sometimes. My mom never had much to give. She said he worked in a specialized field, whatever that meant. I figured it was a nice way of saying, He was mixed up in something illegal. Maybe ran off to keep us safe or save his own skin. I never bought the noble sacrifice angle.

He left us behind. My mom worked her ass off to keep things afloat. I watched her come home with her feet so swollen she had to sit on the bottom step to untie her shoes. She'd run her hand through my hair and go check on my little brother before she even made herself a plate. She was always tired, but never stopped trying. I couldn't imagine walking out on that.

I started stepping in when I got old enough to see how much she carried on her back. I didn't want my brother growing up with a kind of resentment that built up in me. I figured if I could keep his world calm, maybe he wouldn't need to carry a grudge. His name was Michael, same as our father. I remember fighting her on it when I first heard. I was only eight, but I remember sitting on the side of her hospital bed saying it made my skin crawl. I didn't want to come home and say that name again every day. I didn't want to picture that man every time my brother laughed or cried or needed help tying his shoes.

But she wouldn't budge. I called him Mikey, still do. wouldn't say the full name if I could help it. He was a good kid though. Smart, curious, always in his own little world. My mom got the call on a Thursday night about 20 years ago. She didn't say much when she answered. She only stepped out onto the porch with her coat still on.

I stood in the kitchen, watching the clock tick toward 10, already knowing what it meant when I saw how she kept her hand on a hip, nodding. She came back in after a while, and before I could ask, she rubbed the side of my face and told me she needed to leave in the morning, some project downstate. It was part of a job, some contract work she'd picked up to fill the gaps that a full-time gig didn't cover. It wasn't optional. She packed fast. It wasn't a first time leaving for a job like that, but it had never been for a full week before. She made a list of meals and taped it to the fridge, left cab money under the toaster in case something happened, and showed me where she kept

the house keys she used to hide in the crawl space. In the morning, she left before the sun came up. She stood in the hallway for a second, watching me make toast, and said she didn't like leaving us. I told her I knew, and I'd take care of everything. She held onto the doorframe, like she didn't want to let go of it. Then she walked out without looking back. She trusted me with a house, and more than that, she trusted me with Mikey. Later, after dinner, Mikey was laying on the floor with his knees pulled up, while he scribbled into the back pages of a notebook he'd torn.

from school. I was sitting on the couch, flipping through channels I wasn't watching, but every so often I looked at him. He was humming under his breath, some off-key tune he'd made up that he never stopped repeating. He was focused on whatever he was drawing with a seriousness that didn't fit an eight-year-old. He always had that far off focus when he got stuck in his head. I didn't think he was weird. I think he saw things differently than most people. Since he could form full sentences, he'd been adamant that there was something in his room. Not someone, something. I remember him telling Mom that it whispered to her while she slept, said he woke up one night and saw it petting her hair. She didn't know what to say to that.

Clearly, it freaked her out, but she told him he had a vivid imagination and turned the lights on in his room for a week after that. It didn't help. Mikey tore my train of thought when he joined me on the couch. He sat close enough that his shoulder touched mine. That was always his way of asking for something without saying it outright. When I didn't react, he finally spoke. Do you think we could watch a scary movie? he asked. I gave him a side eye.

Since when do you care about scary movies? I found out about them today in school. Me and my friends were talking about monsters and they said people make movies out of them. You already have enough problems sleeping. I won't if I see what they really like, he said smugly. I figured if I'd have a little. If he saw a guy in a rubber suit pretending to be a ghost, it might break whatever spell he'd put himself under.

Fine, I muttered, but if you have a nightmare, I'm making you sleep in the laundry room. He smiled and shook his head. I won't. I started flipping through the three channels. Most of it was junk. But one station had a horror line-up running. There was a zombie movie halfway through, and another one about some haunted motel.

I let the previews play while Mikey leaned forward, fascinated. Then the screen flickered black, and the emergency broadcast tone kicked in. I froze, hands still in the remote, as that flat buzzing drone filled the room. Mikey leaned back, confused. The words, Amber Alert, appeared in block white letters, then switched. to the red warning screen. The message said there had been a confirmed break-in a few blocks over.

The authorities urged residents in the surrounding neighborhoods to lock all the windows and doors and to report anything suspicious immediately. Mikey read it slowly, lips moving, then turned to me.

He didn't seem worried, but he watched me get up. I could already feel my chest tightening. It wasn't the alert itself. It was the idea that if something went wrong, I'd be the one standing between him and whatever came through the door.

I'm gonna check the house, I said, go brush your teeth, get to bed. But, no, the move is over. He groaned and stood up, dragging his feet toward the stairs. I walked to the front door, pressed on the lock, tested it twice. I pulled the windows closed, tightened the lap,

shut the blinds. My hand was shaking, and I hated that. After my paranoia induced energy wore off, I shut off the lights in the living room and headed upstairs. I passed Micah's room and saw that his door was cracked open. He was already under his blankets. He didn't say anything when I walked by, but I knew he was still awake. I stepped into my room and shut the door behind me. I dropped into bed and stared at the ceiling, the same as Mikey was probably doing. I kept my phone close. The charger cable was lying on the ground unused. I hadn't plugged it in earlier, and now I didn't feel like the right time to go hunting for the outlet. I must have been hovering on the edge of sleep. When I heard it. A high-pitched scream.

Mikey's voice I sat up so fast my shoulder cracked My feet hit the ground And I was through the hallway Before I knew I'd stood up My heart kicked hard in my chest I didn't have time to think He was screaming

And there was no question in my mind What that meant The alert The burglar must have broken in And now was after Mikey I should have grabbed something a bat, the chair by the stairwell, anything. I didn't.

I pushed his door open so hard it bounced off the wall behind it. There was nothing. It was only Mikey, sitting up in bed with his arms around his knees, crying through his teeth. His eyes were wide, stuck on something that wasn't there anymore. He saw me and flinched, then opened his mouth to speak. but nothing came out. I walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. My hands were shaking worse than his.

You're okay, I said. I kept my voice low. My throat was dry. You're all right. He didn't answer. His breath hitched a few times before he could get it under control. I reached over and pulled him in. He was sweating through his shirt.

Bad dream, I asked. He nodded. His face stayed buried in my shoulder. I wanted to be annoyed, but I wasn't. That scream had torn through everything I thought I could handle. The fact that it was a dream made it easier, but it didn't make it go away. I was still wound up so tight, my neck hurt. You want water?

I asked. No. he whispered, You want me to sit with you a bit? He nodded again. After a minute, he pulled away and wiped his face with the sleeves of his pyjama top.

He wouldn't look at me. It was the monster again, he said. I glanced around the room, taking it in. There were clothes on the floor, a plastic cup with a juice box straw still stuck in it, and one of his drawings taped to the wall above his head. A thick black line ran down the middle of the page, splitting it in two.

On one side was a boy with a balloon, and the other side was a weird figure made of scribbles. He saw me looking. Can you check? He asked. His voice cracked at the end. You know there's nothing here, I said, already standing.

He probably, He probably packed up and moved when he heard me coming. Mikey didn't laugh. He watched me with his hands bawled into his blanket. I sighed and walked over to the closet. I slid it open and waited. Nothing but a few shoes and one of my old huddies he kept stealing when I wasn't looking. I turned to him and gave a mock gasp.

Empty. Guess we caught him on a smoke break. still nothing. All right, I said, Let's go all in. Clauseits cleared. Now for under the bed. I dropped to one knee and leaned in.

I expected dust, a sock, a piece of broken toy. Maybe one of his drawings crumbled up and shoved out of sight, but that's not what I saw. At first, all I saw was darkness and the glint of something smooth in the back corner. I thought it might be a marble or one of those glass eyeballs he picked out of a Halloween prize bin last year.

But then it blinked. It didn't blink like a person. It flexed. A long vertical slit opened and closed slowly. And I realized it was staring at me. Two massive yellow eyes sunk into a head that should not have fit in the quills. crawl space beneath a child's bed frame.

The pupils adjusted as I stared, thin and long, narrowing against the light. The longer I looked, the more of it I could make out. It was covered in thick, uneven fur, damp around the edges, clinging to the floor as if it had soaked into the boards. His body stretched deep beyond the foot of the bed. thick limbs pressed against the underside like they were forced there, like it had wedged itself into a shape that didn't belong to it. It stared at me, its mouth was slightly open, its tongue sat limp between rows of disjointed teeth,

thick strings of spit hung from its jaw. There was something in that look, something not curious, not afraid, not hostile either. If anything, it looked pleased. I couldn't breathe. My chest locked up. I could feel my pulse in my ears, but I couldn't will my body to move.

Then its jaw shifted. Not wide, but enough to show more of the teeth. It grinned at me. The spell snapped. I threw myself back and scrambled to my feet. feet. Mikey was watching me with wide eyes, waiting for me to say he was crazy, or that it was clear, or that we could both go back to sleep. I didn't say anything. I grabbed him by the arm and pulled him so hard he stumbled. I dragged him out of the room, across the hallway, toward the attic

hatch near the laundry closet. He was asking questions. I couldn't hear them. I pulled the chain, drop the ladder and shoved him up ahead of me. I scrambled into the attic behind him, grabbing the string and yanking the ladder back up with both hands. It retracted with a crack. I slammed the hatch shut and sat back, listening for anything beneath us. Nothing.

Mikey was sitting in the corner near the insulation rolls, breathing through his nose, trying not to cry. I sat beside him and stared at the house. hatch. I pulled her my phone. I cracked thing I bought from a guy at school for 40 bucks. The screen was scratched but still worked. I dialed 911 and pressed it to my ear. My hand wouldn't stop shaking. It rang once before the operator answered. I didn't wait for her to go through the usual questions. Someone broke in, I said. There's someone in a house.

I hesitated. That wasn't what I meant, but I didn't have the words for what I'd seen. I couldn't tell her there was something under the bed, so I didn't explain. I repeated myself, voice cracking. There's something in her house, we're in the attic, please send someone, please. She asked for my address. I gave it to her twice. She told me to stay calm.

She said officers were en route. and asked if I could describe the intruder. I didn't answer that. I told her the doors were locked, that we were hiding. I asked her how long they'd take. Then, the screen went black. I stared at it for a second, not understanding what had happened. I pressed the button.

Nothing. I flipped it over, nothing. It had died in my hand. Mikey looked at me. He didn't ask if it was okay. He knew from my face that it wasn't. And then, from downstairs, something broke through the kitchen window, followed by scrambling steps and drawers opening and closing. Eventually, it was accompanied by another sound.

A massive crash that sounded like it came from where Mikey's room would have been. Another set of steps started, but they were strange, like whatever was down there didn't walk often. The first view was slow, then it turned into what sounded like a gallop. Something big moved through the house, gaining speed. The other set of footprints, presumably in the living room, stopped. A while later, I could hear bloodied screams, cabinet slammed, A table-tipped, chairs screeched across the floor, wood splintered. Something thick and weighty tore through the hall.

I heard an animalistic noise roll up through the floorboards, something between a growl and a cough. Something started crunching and a massive gulp radiated through the house. Mikey buried his face in my side. I couldn't move. then all sound ceased. Nothing followed. Only the cold stillness of insulation pressing against my back,

and Mikey's rapid, silent breaths against my ribs stayed. I didn't know what was going on down there, but I knew, sure as hell, I didn't want to find out. I didn't ask Mikey if you heard it. That would have been insulting. He was sure. shaking, hands clenched around my shirt. I didn't speak either.

I didn't want my voice to break the silence in case the silence was what kept it from returning. Time passed. When the first blue light hit the far window in the attic, I audibly gasped. A car door slammed, then another. Boots moved across the porch. A voice called out from the front of the house,

but I was too afraid. to make a sound. They found us both in the attic. We were pale and shaking. My throat was so dry I couldn't answer their first question. Mikey hid behind me, still holding onto the hem of my shirt.

One of the officers stepped in gently, eyes scanning the hallway, his free hand near his hip. They led us downstairs once they confirmed we were alone. The house was a wreck. The dinner table had been split in two,

its centre legs crushed inward. Two chairs were broken in places, one lodged halfway through the dry wall. The cabinet doors hung open and their contents scattered across the floor. A streak of something dark had smeared across the linoonium. One wall, the one beside the coat rack near the stairs, had been cracked open with sheer force.

I could see where the wood splintered outward. The broken kitchen window led in a gust of wind, and on the floor below it was a pistol. The officer picked it up with gloved hands. He turned it to his partner and said something I didn't hear. From what I overheard, they identified it as having belonged to the man from the Amber Alert, the burglar who'd been breaking into homes nearby.

one of the officers patting my shoulder. He told me I'd done a good job, said calling it in had probably saved both our lives. His tone carried confidence. He looked past me a few times while he spoke, scanning the room as if something might still be standing in the shadows. He said the guy must have broken in, panicked, and fired off around before trying to escape,

or maybe something else scared him. They didn't know. No one had found anything at all, and they never found that man after this. I nodded and kept my mouth shut. I didn't see a reason to correct him. I wouldn't have known what to say if I tried. Years later, I kept thinking about what the cop said,

that maybe something scared him off. I never saw the thing. under the bed again after that night. I don't think Mikey did either. He stopped talking about it, but I've thought about it more than I care to admit. That night, it could have followed us up to the attic. But it didn't.

And I've come to believe it wasn't haunting Mikey at all. It was guarding him. I don't usually get sent to jobs with anybody, which suits me. people are alright but I'm not built for chat I'm terrible at eye contact and I always miss the punchlines apparently I've got the social instincts of a damp traffic cone still I like what I like

and that's all the boring wartime stuff no one under 60 gives a toss about but I've learned not to bring that up unless someone's very bored very polite or already halfway through a scotch air so they can't tell me to shut up. Anyway, the job was a disused tunnel flagged under the Southcut clearance survey. No one had set foot in there since 1944, and when something's been sealed that long,

you've no idea what you're walking into. So, they sent me with Dan. He was in his early 20s, one of those blokes never without his airpots, a vape, and a running commentary on UFC fights. It's not my usual preference, but I've survived worse. I once did a week on the Carlisle line with a bloke who thought Dunkirk was in Germany. Our job was the log debris, test the clearances, and ensure the place wouldn't shear a wagon in half, ready to open up

for public use in the summer. It looked promising. They'd greenlight a proper team. If not, they'd break it up and pretend it never happened. Our boots hit the ballast just past 5 a.m. Geared up in our safety gear, filtered respirators, toolbags and radios. The tunnel entrance was locked up with heavy-gauge chain-link fencing, two layers deep, backed by timber boards and a padlock the size of your fist. It looked like someone had gone at it with bolt cutters and it had been clumsily patched up. Above it, the original cast iron arch loomed, rusted and stamped with a wartime engineering mark.

You'd miss it, unless you knew what you were looking for. Once we cracked the vensing and slipped inside, we clicked on our torches, both beams cutting lines through the misty black. The air hit us once we got far enough in. Even with a respirator, it felt like licking the inside of an old kid. kettle. Every step stirred up dust. Dan glanced around and muttered. A bit grim in here. Yeah, can't imagine coming in here without respirators. Have you ever heard of the crossline? I asked. Dan shook his head. Is that like, a brand? Nah, that's the name of the line this tunnel was part of. they used it to move supplies between coastal depots and the RAF sites,

mostly crates, fuel, and the odd medic unit. March 44, it caught a Luftwaffe strike at the southern mouth just as a supply train broke down inside. Dan's voice came quiet over the crunch of our boots. Never heard of that one, he said. The blast created a vacuum effect. I continued, a touch too brightly for the sun. subject. Sucked a fireball straight down the tunnel while they were fixing the train.

Whoa, were there any survivors? I gave a dry shrug. Place would have been charred end to end by the time the fire burnt out. With another line still running and a war to fight, they didn't bother with the recovery crew. Just sealed it up and moved on. Dan stayed quiet after that. Boots, crunching beside mine. I didn't say anything else either. After a few minutes, he cleared his throat and muttered something about a featherweight bout he'd watched last weekend, like he couldn't bear the quiet any longer, said the bloke came

in underweight and still managed to drop the other guy in the second round with a spinning elbow. Absolute belter, he called it. I nodded, grateful for the mood change. even if I had no clue who's on about. It wasn't long after that, till we noticed signs the tunnel had taken a knock or two. A few ceiling plates were broken,

with rusted bolts hanging loose, and there was a shallow pile of crumbled brick near one of the cable housings that looked more recent than the rest. Nothing structural, but enough to keep your eyes peeled. Then we started spotting bits of cloth, mostly torn and oily ground into the gravel. There was a piece twisting under a bolt.

It looked like canvas, only thinner. I gave it a nudge with my boot. What do you think it is? Dan asked. Could be a leftover sleeve from the poor sods they sealed up. He stared at me for a beat. You're joking, right? Of course I am. I said, half-laughing.

It's probably just a bit of coat from some drafted trespasser poking around. It does look weird, though. Should handle this, he muttered. Stuff like this can trip someone up if they don't see it. Proper hazard if it's sticking up like that. He crouched over it and gave it a once-over with his glove. Feels weird, bit tough, not what I was expecting. All right, I said.

said, watching him pull out a multi-tool from his bag. I'll log the next segment up ahead. The junction box should be just past that bend. I tapped the radio clipped onto my chest. Channel 4, yeah? Shout if you need anything. Or if the fabric starts acting all haunted. Either or.

He snorted. If it does much of anything, I'm lagging it. Fair play, I said. and carried on ahead. The tunnel swallowed me up. Each step pulled the air thicker. It was damp and stale, like the breath of something sleeping.

Every 20 or 30 yards, there was a refuge bay, built for workers to duck into when trains passed. I made a habit of counting them to pass the time. Just after the eighth bay, I spotted the glint of twisted steel, the husk of a furrow of a furrow. freight wagon.

My heart actually gave a little thump. It was a supply train from the crossline story I'd rambled a dan about. It was gutted, half melted across the rails. One axle had folded in on itself, and most of the siding was gone, peeled back like a tin of spam. What remained was pitted with rust

and speckled with the droppings of whatever bats or birds had snucked in over the ears. My torch played over the wreck, and I caught hints of sinced fabric fused into the rivets, a melted boot sole stuck beneath the wheel assembly. I felt giddy, then grim. And then there was movement, just beyond the wreck. Something disturbed the gravel. I froze, torch fix dead ahead. I thought it was a bit of debris settling, but just where my light couldn't reach,

I noticed the shape, slow and jerky, dragging itself from the far side of the carriage. At first, I thought some homeless guy had found a way in and picked the place for shelter. Wouldn't have blamed him in fairness. It was dry and quiet.

You can't be here, mate, I called. There's hazardous conditions. You need to clear off. I won't press you. Just get out. That was when he shifted into my light. The first thing I noticed was

it looked like he was wearing someone else's skin or trying to. Chunks of it clung to him. It was as if he'd torn it free in a frenzy and slapped it over himself without care. Bit of torso. a forearm part of the thigh.

The rest of him was raw, a blistered patchwork of wet red tissue and veins like overstrung wires. I staggered back, hard, boot skidding over the ballast and landed like a sack of bricks. My torch slipped from my grip, skittering across the gravel

and landing a few feet in front, its beam fixed squarely on the thing. I didn't go for it, no. I turned and bolted, heart-hammering, feet slipping over loose stone. I threw myself into the nearest refuge bay and crouched low in the dark, breath snagging in my throat. I stayed silent, listening for footsteps, until I realized the texture under my knee wasn't ballast. Whatever it was was tacky and stuck to my travel. I reached for my phone and lit the lock screen.

The glow spilled over the torn flesh. Skin was missing in wet flaps, chunks of it peeled and cut off messily, exposing glistening muscle and slashed tendon. It was clear the man, or whatever it was, had done it. My hand shook as I cut the light and pressed back hard against the stone. Every inch of me was wound tight with panic, but I didn't dare move or breathe too loud. I strained to listen for any sign that the thing out there had heard me, but there was only a faint sound of metal clinking and some sort of sloshing.

So I shifted forward just enough to risk a glance around the bay's edge and saw the creature was caught on heavy steel cabling that had fused it. into his flesh. It carved deep, wet gouges through the meat of his legs where it had melted in. Every tug sent a fresh jerk through his frame. He tried to move forward, but the cabling dragged him back. As horrific as it was, I felt a twisted jolt of relief because it meant he couldn't get to me. So, I crept forward on all fours as slowly. as I could manage, keeping my eyes fixed on him. He was still jerking, still struggling against the cables,

raw legs dragging in little bursts. But I kept going, until my fingers found the torch and closed around it. Just as I was shimming away, my radio lit up. Southcook Control. This is Red Lead. Enemy overhead. Repeat. Enemy aircraft sighted. Brace for impact.

It was tinny and staticy. The creature jerked harder, responding to the sound. He threw himself forward with a raspy scream. His limbs stretched at sick angles, cabling, biting deeper as he tore through his own meat. That sudden frenzy broke me. I turned and ran at full sprint, torch clutch tight, and breath slicing in short, panic burst through the respirator. Then, Dan's voice filtered in, crackling through the static.

Callum, callum, mate? I heard him breathing, fast and shallow, like he was trying not to be heard. Something's here. I don't, I can't. I fumble for the radio. Dan, I'm on my way, just hold on. Don't move, all right. whatever's down here, it's not right.

Just come back, come back. Another burst of static and no reply. I ran, trying to keep my bearings, while every bone in my body begged me to look back. I knew it hadn't gotten free. I hadn't heard it following, but my body didn't care. I couldn't stop imagining it, hunting me down.

Every step felt too. slow. I wanted nothing more than to grab Dan and escape out of the tunnel. When I reached where I'd left Dan, his toolbag was still there, sitting just where he'd placed it. There was no sign of him, though. My torch flicked across the walls, until it caught in a maintenance tunnel branching off to the side, narrow and half choked with dust. I stepped toward it, My heart hammering, torch-hill tight. Dan? Dan, I called, cursing myself out in my head for not just booking it out of there alone.

Then I saw him, hunched over near the far wall of the maintenance tunnel, breathing in shallow rasps, back turned, shoulders twitching like he was about to throw up. Dan? I said again lower this time I saw something down by the wreck it was wearing someone's skin or something

I don't know but we need to get out now as I got closer I realized the skin along the spine looked torn and stretched his proportions were off he was too broad in the shoulders

and too long in the limbs I realized then that it was one of those skin creatures, and this one had done a better job than the last. It shifted, turning fluidly. Dan's face twitched as the thing twisted its neck. It straightened up and lunged towards me. My boots skidded as I tore back through the tunnel,

light bouncing off Sutton Stone. I could hear it's a regular footfall, was pounding and scraping against the gravel as it chased me. The mouth of the tunnel appeared ahead, that thin slice of morning light calling like a lifeline. I charged full tilt, shoulder-checking the gate as I hit it. The chain link rattled, hinges groaning as it gave way under my weight. I burst into daylight and spun around, grabbing for the edge of the gate,

trying to haul it closed. But I wasn't fast enough. The thing was right behind me. The service train we'd taken in sat a few dozen yards down the track. I vaulted the step and scrambled inside, boots thudding against the metal floor. I turned to see if it had followed, and just in time to watch it slammed to the gate, limbs flailing. The second its bareback met daylight. It shrieked.

The exposed flesh sizzled. blistering and splitting down, steam hissed from beneath Dan's skin. It stumbled, jerking violently. What was left of Dan's face sagged sideways, folding at the edges. Then it reeled back, flailing as it crawled in reverse, dragging itself back into the dark. I stood there, panting, hands braced against the inside wall of the carriage. I shakily tore the respirator off my face and sucked in the cold morning air

in deep and frantic gulps my heart was still in my throat every muscle in my body twitching with the tail end of the panic when I was sure it wasn't coming back I climbed down from the train legs jelly beneath me and turned toward the entrance

part of me wanted to turn around and leave it swinging, but letting it out wasn't an option. So I hauled the gate shut and snap the lock into place, stepping back fast the second it clicked. After that, I sat on the train floor for a while with my elbows on my knees, and when I could bring myself to move again, I started the train up and took it slow on the way back, my hands white-knuckled on the throttle. I told the sight leads there was a collapse. Dan got caught in it and I had barely made it out. When they asked about recovering his body,

I said it was buried deep under debris, inaccessible without risking more lives. Anything to keep anyone else from going back in. That night, I just lay there, flat on my back, staring at the ceiling, and I couldn't stop thinking. My heart kept throwing itself around in my chest like it hadn't figured out the danger was over. So I got up, I turned the telly on and started flicking through the channels, looking for something

loud enough to drown out my thoughts. I landed on a fight rerun, and it took a second to realize it was the one Dan had been on about, a featherweight belt. I watched the bloke duck a hook and come back with a spinning elbow that dropped the other guy flat, and he was right. It was an absolute belter. The Hiltock Cottage was somehow even smaller than it looked online, but it made it feel more charming. Sunlight split generously through the mismatched windows, catching on the old breast fixtures and the worn but beautiful woodwork that ran along the door frames. Or the garden was wild and overgrown in the best way,

full of wild pollinator flowers for bees and tangled roses, with time creeping into the cracks of the old stone path. It had flaws, but the price had been unbelievably low for what it was, and Mara was over the moon. I love it, she beamed, arm spread like she was already embracing it. And look at that view. It's like a painting. There are so many pretty places to take pictures off from my shop. She was right.

Our view was stunning. Fields folded over each other in soft, green swells, a thin river glinting with seams of silver. While the town itself sat low, a smudge of clustered rooftops nestled in the valley, ringed by more of those sleepy trees. I had told Mara it was a romantic reset. I used words like digital detox and back to basics, which she ate up.

But what she didn't know was I was buried in debt so deep I couldn't see daylight. Cards, loans, sharks that keep lending, even when I had nothing left to prove I could pay them back. I'd bet our house as a final hope to get it all back, and I'd lost. This cottage was a cheap scapegoat. I just didn't know how long we could keep it up. The general store sat squat and low, as if it had grown there. Inside, it smelled like old wood and something sharp like vinegar or pickled onions. Mara was already halfway down to one of the narrow aisles,

asking about local trails and making conversation the way she was always good at doing. The man she was talking to was in his late 50s, maybe older. with a weathered face and hands that looked too big for the delicate register he tapped with one knuckle. When he finally looked up, he did it slowly and grumpily, in that way that I assumed came with age. He looked at Mara, then me, and finally tilted his chin towards our new home. The Riverwives don't like being seen, he said. His voice was calm, but it felt rehearsed. especially not by young women.

Mara paused, halfway through flipping a trail map over. The what? The ones by the river, he responded quickly. You'll know them if you see them. Don't let it get that far. And if you have to walk past the river, wear something that doesn't invite trouble. Cover up.

Before we could ask what he meant, another man, a customer presumably, spoke from somewhere in the store. He's right, don't greet him in. Do you best to ignore him. Mara turned, frowning like she was trying to decide if this was a joke

or some backwards performance art. I watched that she folded the trail map with careful fingers, her mouth pressed into a polite, unreadable line. She didn't say anything, but the silence felt like it had teeth. She gave the man a short nod

and stepped away. the trail map still clutched in her hand. At the far end of the counter, a woman looked up from a station behind the battered produce scale, late 60s maybe, with a pinched expression that made it hard to tell if she was squinting at something. She looked at Mara. Girls dressed like that in the city, I'm sure,

she said, sizing Mara up. But the river's not a place to be soft-hearted. She dropped a handful of apples into a paper bag and folded the top slowly. Some bits out here take advantage when you go offering bits of yourself without thinking. Mara smiled politely, but I could see the muscle working in a jaw. She wasn't the type to speak to strangers, so she gave her quick, of course, and turned to me. I caught her expression, the kind of look that meant, get me out of here before I say something, I'll regret.

Let's go, I said, already moving. Still need to get to the hardware shop before it shuts. Thank you for the advice. We stepped out into the sun, and Mara was quiet for exactly three seconds. Bloody hell, she muttered. Cover up, because my arms are out. It's 21 degrees, and I'm wearing a nice sundress.

Sorry for dressing like it's a warm day and not a funeral. She didn't wait for me to respond. Just kept walking. I get that it's a small town, she said. But come on, offering bits of yourself, wear something that doesn't invite trouble. She made air quotes without slowing her pace. It's all just polite language and know your place, girl. Did you notice they didn't say a word to you?

I did notice, I said, and yeah, it's daft. I glanced back at the shop, then ahead at the worn cobbles, tufts of grass poking through the gaps and nettles crowding the edge of the road. These people have known each other forever. They've grown up together and seen each other through weddings, funerals in the lot. They've probably sat in the same pup with the same pint and the same complaint since the 70s. I kicked at a loose stone. We're just new faces to them. It doesn't matter what we say or how reasonable we know we sound.

It's just us stepping into their town. That doesn't make what they said right. Just means it's not about us. I gave her a nudge with my elbow. You know, you could always bring a few soaps around to the shop. You give them something nice. They might start being nice back. That got the corner of her mouth to twitch.

just enough to call it a win. A few days in, I was still finding my rhythm, but Mara took to the countryside as if she'd always belonged in it. She was already in boots, basket looped over her arm, picking wild things from the hedgerow as she knew them by name. She dried bundles of herbs on twine, stretched across the kitchen window. Yarrow, mugwort, lavender, horse tail. always something gently fragrant tucked beneath her ear.

She sang when she worked, little hums and wordless melodies that carried through the house like incense and cheered me up as I worked remotely. Sometimes I'd find love notes folded and slipped under my coffee mug, tiny sketches of flowers or hearts, which felt great, until I remembered the real reason we were here. I started going for early runs. Most mornings I was out the door before Mara was up, lacing my shoes under the doorstep while the sky was still waking. It gave me space to think properly. But no matter how far I went, I always ended up circling back to the same thought.

I needed to tell her. And the longer I left it, the worse it would be. I'd lost her old life to a stupid, selfish mistake. I hadn't just messed up. I'd properly wrecked things. This cottage, this so-called fresh start, was damage control. And yet, she liked it here. She was happy, and part of me kept wondering if I told her now,

would she be furious enough to leave, or would she stay because, despite everything, something good had come out of the mess? I didn't know. I just knew I couldn't keep dodging it forever. One of the first few mornings, I decided to try a different path. I was still working out which ones were worth the mud and which ones didn't leave you stuck two fields from where you meant to be.

This one dipped through a patch of larch and followed the river for a bit. I hadn't been that way before. It was colder down there, damp hung heavy in the air and caught in your throat. And in the mornings, there was a fog that thickened, the closer you got to the river's path. I spotted some figures in the fog. There were women standing knee-deep in the river, backs turned, half-lossed between the trees and the fog. They seemed to be barefoot. Their dresses hung soaked and heavy, clinging to their legs, headscarves knotted tight,

not a strand of hair showing. They moved in silence, slowly and steadily scrubbing stained fabric against old wooden washboards. One of them lifted a strip of cloth, wet and heavy. She twisted it with both hands, and red water trickled out. Then my foot went out from under me. I went down hard, knee first onto the path. Pain shot at my legs sharp enough to make me swear out loud. My palms followed, scraping against the grit and shaving away my skin.

I stayed down for a second, catching my breath. When I looked, blood was already starting to soak through the fabric of my joggers. When I limped back into the kitchen, Mara was already at the counter, hanging another row of drying bundles in the window while she made breakfast. She turned, took one look at my laparrow. leg, then my top, and frowned. What the hell happened to you? Riverpath, I said, slipped.

She eyed the bloodied streaks down my trousers, the stubborn stains spreading beneath the fabric. She touched the hem gently, then looked at me for a moment. Lucky you, she said. I made a new bar yesterday. It's good for blood. Could pull that out nicely. She moved to the shelf and peeled back the linen from the stack of pale grey soap bars, all the same size and shape, more than she usually made in one go.

I frowned. You planning a bulk sale I didn't know about? She didn't answer, too preoccupied with ensuring her food didn't burn. She passed it to me like she hadn't heard the question. Use cold water first, she said. Always cold. heat sets it in, then scrub it out with this, work it into it, let it sit a bit. She didn't offer to do it for me, which was strange for her.

Was it the path by the bend? She asked, almost offhandedly, where the fog rolls in. I nodded. She didn't look up. That's where the best wild yarrow grows, loads of it just before the river curves back inland. some of it's already gone to seed, but I've still been able to find the good stuff. She stirred the pot on the stove,

her wrist moving slowly and steadily. It's quiet out there, she said. I know what you're going to say. Yes, I saw the riverwives as they call them. Don't worry, she scoffed. I didn't bother them. But I still think it's mad that a town like this, that just oldest women stand out in the cold,

doing laundry like it's 1820. Bloody backwards if you ask me. Those long pause as I record my encounter this morning. Yeah, you're right, I said, but it's not our place. Do you really need to go all the way out there for Yarrow? I can pick it up for you on my runs if you want. She turned slowly. I like it here, she said.

I love it actually, but I'm not stupid. You've seen. how they talk to me, like I'm a child or a house cat. She set the spoon down, a bit harder than she probably meant to. I won't play small just because it makes this place more comfortable. I like my walks. I like finding things with my own two hands. I don't need someone fetching Yara for me, like I'm some little wifie who's safer staying inside. All right, all right, I said gently. I get it. I'm sorry. She sighed, pinching the breach of her nose.

Sorry, that wasn't aimed at you. Just... All of it. This place is so beautiful until people start speaking that way. I stepped forward and rested a hand lightly on her back. She didn't pull away. You're right, I said quietly. You shouldn't have to shrink, not for anyone.

She looked at me, and something softened behind her. eyes, her shoulders dropped a little. We moved here to grow, and instead I'm supposed to fold up smaller. You won't, I said, not with me, not ever. She leaned into my chest with a soft, exhausted sigh, and I wrapped my arms around her, careful of the herbs still tired at her hip. I like that you worry, she murmured. Just don't make it delicate. I'm not. I know, I said, you're a bloody force. That got a quiet laugh.

She pressed the forehead into my shoulder and let it sit there for a few seconds longer. Then she pulled away and gave my leg a glance. You'd better get scrubbing, by the way. If you let that set, I'm not making a second batch. Noted, I said. Cold water, firm scrubbing. Let it sit. Got it.

She gave me a mock stern nod, and went back to her pot. I waited a few days before running again. My knee still twingeed when I bent it too far, but I told myself the ache was good. It meant I was healing. It was early again, and the fog thickened as I got closer, just like last time. This time, however, I was determined to see what was past,

the river. And as I'd expected, they were there again. The same women in soaked dresses, dragging the soaking clothes against the washboard. But this time, one of them turned slightly like she'd heard me coming. Her face stayed hidden, just enough that the scarf blocked everything but the curve of a jaw. Would you be kind, she spoke, and give this one a twist, These old hands aren't what they used to be. She held up a sodden sheet. It was dark and dripping. She turned it slightly in her hands.

It hung limp and lifeless, the water sliding off in long, reluctant ropes. There was something in the way she asked, though I couldn't put my finger on it. So I stopped. The fog pressed against my back. The only sound was the slow drag of fabric and the slap of water on stone. The bird song had long disappeared. My fingers twitched like they might move on their own

and I shuffled my feet forward but then I noticed their arms. They were pale and bloated way past the usual prune from water. Then I noticed the folds of the dress near her wrists were torn in places like the fabric had been picked at and the sheet.

It wasn't clean. The water sliding off it was thick and red, too heavy-looking to just be mud. Come on, love, she said again, voice softer this time. You've got young arms. I've had awful joint pain lately and a terrible bit of rheumatism in the elbows. It just needs a twist.

She gave the sheet a small, hopeful jiggle like that would draw me close. She still didn't look at me, which bothered me more than I wanted to admit. I don't know why, but it made my skin crawl. There was something unnatural about someone asking you for help without ever meeting your eyes. My wrists have been locking up something terrible, she added, as if it hurt just to say. All this damp in the air, worse than it used to be. you'd be doing me a kindness.

The other women didn't react. They continued dragging their fabrics against the washboard, like I wasn't even there. The words from the general store came crawling back. Eyes low, don't greet them, don't offer anything. I thought it was cruel the first time, rude for the sake of it. But at that moment, it felt like advice was passed on with caution. Still, I hesitated, because what if she really was just some old woman in the cold water, soaked to the skin, wrists giving out from years of doing this exact motion?

What if I was being the bad guy here, watching a struggle and walking away like it could cost me something? Um, I began. Oh, sotted then, she snapped at my voice, suit yourself. The shift in the tone shocked me. It wasn't the sort of hurt you'd expect from being turned down. It was snappy and impatient, like she dropped something and blamed me for not catching it. Not even a moment for an old woman with bad arms,

she hissed, more to the river than me. What a thing, to watch someone's struggle and turn your back on them. Must be nice, being young and quick. Men are so bloody selfish. I clenched my jaw, heat flared across my face from embarrassment. A few days ago, Mara had practically bitten my head off for offering to help. Now, some old hag in a river made me feel like the villain for not pitching in. I didn't know what the hell women wanted anymore.

I decided to stay silent and let the fog have the last word. I turned back to the path and let my feet do what they came here to do. Move. My breathing evened out as I picked up my speed. The rest of the trail cut through thickets and a small patch of pine. The cold stuck to my skin, and the sound of the river grew faint behind me. And I let it fade. By the time I got home, the sun had risen properly.

The mist was already pulling back like it hadn't touched anything. But something had. I felt off like the run had taken something out of me. My legs ached, my fingers felt stiff, and there was a throb in the back of my head that hadn't been there when I left. I skipped breakfast, took a shower so hot it should have scolded. Still, it barely did anything. By late afternoon, I was curled up on the sofa under a blanket, useless.

Mara came in from the garden with dirt on her knees and a fresh bundle of herbs in one hand. That's me sorted for a few months. She was slightly wet from getting caught in sudden rain. She glanced at me, taking in my pale face, then back at the kettle near the fire. You're not running tomorrow. I wasn't planning to, I said. My voice came out hoarse, like. I'd been shouting when I hadn't said much of anything.

You look like a washed out sock, she said, crouching to soak the fire back to life. Bit a man flew. Something like that. She didn't press and set the kettle above the fire more carefully than usual and sat beside me, still smelling like rosemary and wet grass. Maybe your body's trying to tell you something, she said quietly. they keep pushing into places that you don't want to. I didn't answer.

I didn't know how to really. She didn't know it, but she was spot on. She passed me a cup of tea she hadn't asked if I wanted. Strong, slightly bitter, the kind she made when I was sick. You resting tomorrow? She asked again, gently this time. Yeah, I said. I'm staying in.

We can have a lion together. She smiled, but kept a distance. Absolutely not, she said. I make soaps, not cures. The last thing I need is catching whatever this is and sneezing over my stock. I gave a weak laugh, half into the tea. Wow, no bedside manner.

She grinned, not in the job description. You want sympathy, you'll have to bribe me with biscuits. Then you'll get some tea and toast in bed, if you're lucky. The next morning, the sun woke me up before I was ready. It poured through the thin curtains and strips, warm across my face. Nice, actually. One of those rare moments where the light feels soft instead of sharp.

I still felt awful, and it became clear that I sweated through the night, despite the fact that the sun's warmth and quiet made me feel like I could have maybe stayed like that for a while. I reached over, expecting to feel the softness of Mara's skin. But the bed was empty. The covers on Mara's side were flat and cold. I blinked up at the ceiling, confused for a second. I'd been looking forward to tea and toast in bed

like she usually did when I had the man flew. I listened for her. The house had thin walls. You could hear everything in it. But there was nothing. Just quiet. I sat up, slowly. My head swam with that awful cotton wall in your skull kind of dizzy.

Everything felt a bit too bright, a bit too sharp. My legs were heavy with fatigue. But I swung out of bed anyway, feet hitting the cold, tile on the floor. I made my way around the house, noticing nothing unusual, until I saw that her boots were missing. She wouldn't have gone far, or at least, that's what I told myself at first. But something didn't sit right. Mara had already gathered all the herbs she needed.

She'd said so. Everything was drying nicely on the twine above the sink, and the rest of her supplies were tucked away. in their usual spots. I looked up at the shelf where she kept her finished soaps. The top row was still lined with the usual's, lavender, oat, rosemary.

But the pale grey bar she had me used the other day were gone. I moved closer, squinting. Maybe they'd me moved to the market box. My brain felt fogged over, like thinking through cling film. I touched the shelf ready to

steady myself. Nothing, not a single bar left. I opened the bin on instinct. Half buried under yesterday's peelings was the linen wrap she used for packaging. The same dotted one she'd used when she first showed me the batch she had folded once, then crumpled, like someone had changed their mind at the last second. I knew where she'd gone, even before I admitted it. I knew.

I turned and grabbed the nearest pair of shoes, my head spinning as I bent down, but I shoved them on anyway. The air outside was sharp but warm from the rising sun. That same low mist was back again, thicker near the fields, sticking to my throat with every breath. My legs protested the second I pushed into a run.

Cold muscles, left over fever. I felt wrong. But still, I ran. The trail was soft from last night's rain. I kept slipping, catch myself just before I went fully down. My breathing turned quick and ragged too soon. I followed the curve on the path, past the hedgerow, past the spot I fell before. And then I saw a boot prints in the mud, leading down to the water's edge.

I picked up speed. And there she was. Mara stood at the bank, boots muddy, sleeves pushed up. She had both hands out in front of her, offering the soap to the river wives. The woman closest to her lifted her head. And I saw her. Her face was puffed out in places and sunken in others, like it had been soaking too long in the wrong kind of water.

Her bloated corpse came to my face. Her skin had that grey, puffy look like you'd seen pictures you wish you hadn't clicked on. Her lips were pulled thin, but puffed at the edges, like they were losing their shape. I opened my mouth to call out, but instead my stomach turned. The run, the fever, and the sight of the woman all hit me at once. The taste of last night's food climbed back up my throat, and I barely had time to lurch to to the side before it came up. I doubled over, retching hard, hands braced to my knees.

Bitter, half-digested vomit hid the mud with a wet slap. My eyes watered, the noise, the stench, and the sting in my nose all grounded me and made it worse. I wiped my mouth through the back of my dressing-gown sleeve, heart still hammering, chest heaving. And Mara had turned towards me with a colour of the colouring. concerned look on her face. She didn't have time to say anything.

The river wives moved faster than they had any right to. One of them surged from the water in a wet heave, cloths slapping against stone. Mara turned too late. Her hands fumbled, soap slipping from her palms

and hitting the rocks. Another one rose behind her, then another and another. They surrounded her, waterlogged, limbs coiling around her legs, waist and arms. One pressed the palm flat against her chest. Her boots lost grip and her knees gave.

They began to drag their washboards across her back, over her arms, over a scalp, like they were trying to strip her clean. They worked fast. Her clothes came apart at the seams. Threads poured like worms from the stitching. Her skin went with it, peeled back in patch. red blooming and then vanishing under the froth. One of them worked at a wrist until the joint gave a little pop,

then twisted. Another opened their mouth wide and bit down a Mara's shoulder like it was bread. The flesh gave. Mara's mouth opened, but no sound came. I forced myself upright. Stumbling forward, my legs didn't want to cooperate. Mara reached out in a last, weak attempt to push away, to reach for me. But then her head went under.

Her hair was the last thing I saw of her, fanned out on the surface, like ink in water. I finally made myself step forward and one foot sank into the bank. But I didn't go any further. I couldn't. I was outnumbered. There were too many of them, and whenever they were, they weren't just old bats with bad joints. I threw up again, barely staying upright, still shaking. I could taste it all in my mouth and the feel of last night's sweat still clinging to my neck.

One of them turned slightly in my direction, just enough to let me know she'd clocked me, and I stumbled back weakly, shoes skidding in the mud. My heel caught a root and I went down hard, hand scraping against the cold, muddied stone as I scurried back in my feet, losing a shoe to the river. And I ran faster than I had ever run before. I didn't stop until I hit the edge of the village. My lungs were burning, my chest felt too small. One foot was raw, my socks soaked through, and mud clinging to the back of my leg. like tar. I stumbled into the center, wheezing, hunched, eyes scanning for anyone.

The first person I saw was the woman from the shop. She didn't flinch. Your estate, she said instead, eyes flicking to my missing shoe, then the blood and the dirt down my arm. You went down there, didn't you? I opened my mouth to speak, but the world Words weren't ready. My throat closed around them. Behind her, another man leaned out from the post office steps. He took one look at me, then shook his head like he'd seen all he'd needed. You were warned, son. Better not bring that hassle into town. Either leave or go back and finish what you've started.

I shook my head, still breathless, voice barely there. I need the police. I need someone to... The woman scoffed. Actually scoffed. Oh love, no one's calling anyone. What would they even do? Fill out of form and lose it?

I looked up at her. Mud streaked at my legs, acid in my throat, one shoe gone to the river. I must have looked half mad. She's gone, I said. It came out dry and, it stung. They took her, the woman from the shop just shook her head. Then it's done. She looked me over her again, but there was no pity in it. They're not coming for you,

she said. Whatever happened out there, it was between her and them. They don't take much interest in men. She nodded at my state, like that explained it all. You're not there's the bother, unless you give them a reason. She paused momentarily, as if deciding whether to waste the time saying the rest. Then she nodded toward the village green. You can waste your morning reporting it. The police will be down there, poke around with a notebook, and by the time they do, they won't find a thing. They never do. She shifted a weight and tucked her hands into a cardigan sleeves. Or, you can come inside, sit down and have a cup of tea, let it settle a bit, figure out what you want to do next. If anything, I couldn't answer.

The clouds had closed in and rain had started again. That fine, soaking kind. She gave me a look that wasn't quite sympathy, just something like, well, pick. The weeks that followed were still. slow and quiet in the worst kind of way. The shop lady was right. The police didn't find anything. They looked at me like they knew what was happening,

like an adult checking under a child's bed for monsters. They asked me to walk them through it, so I did. The whole thing sounded like a story. One of them nodded like he was listening, but I could tell he wasn't hearing a word and just filling in boxes in his head. They stepped down to the river eventually, boots careful on the edge, like they didn't want to get dirty. One of them crouched and stared at the water for a while, like it might offer something up if he looked long enough.

The other paced around with a stick, prodding at the reeds like he would find her folded neatly in the mud, just waiting to be uncovered. They didn't find anything. They knew they wouldn't. I could see it in the way they moved, slow and half-hearted. In the end, they gave me a number to call and said someone might be in touch if anything came up, though it probably wouldn't.

I didn't leave the town. I couldn't. Every room still had her in it, despite our short time here. Her handwriting on labels, her coat on the back of the door, a stupid mug with a chip in the door, the handle she always said gave it character.

Some mornings I'd wake up forgetting, turning to her side of the bed, expecting her weight and warmth, only to be met with a flat sheet and silence. And that's all it took. The silence would drag me back to that day, straight to the mud, her final moments when she reached out. My chest would lock up like someone had stuck. their hand inside and squeeze tight, and my hands would shake. Breathing would come out wrong, sharp and fast like I was choking. Sometimes I'd curl up and try to ride it out. Other times I'd

sit up and press my palms to my knees like they might pin me to the moment and anchor me down until the wave passed. It always passed, but it took its time. Some days, I thought I should burn the whole house down with myself in it. But I didn't. The people in town started treating me differently, with nods and cups of tea. The townspeople stopped to ask how I was holding up. They didn't say sorry, not outright, but it was there in the way they helped me. The shopwoman, Hilda, even started saving me the good milk without asking.

One of the older men gave me a spare radio, in case the silence ever gets too loud. You're one of us now, Hilda said, handing me a paper bag of apples without charging. Everyone loses someone eventually, in one way or another. So I stayed, partly because I had nowhere else to go, and partly because of my debt. Even if I could, the thought of packing up and moving on somewhere else was. Without her made me feel sick. I kept Mara's little shop going under her name, changed the labels on a soap to Mara's blend,

and started selling them at the market. They did well. I messed up a few batches, some trial and error. But before I knew it, they started to smell like hers. It was maybe a month when I realized I was out of Yarrow. I'd use the last bit of it on the latest batch. It didn't feel right to stop making one of her bestsellers. I thought about asking someone to fetch some for me,

but that felt like cheating. So I waited. A few days turned into a week. I kept putting it off and even tried looking for it in different areas. At one point, I told myself the blend didn't need Yarrow. But I knew I was wrong every time I ran my thumb over the label. Mara would have been furious at me for half-assing something under her name. The thought stuck and grew teeth.

I kept seeing her hands the way she held the bars when they were still curing, her thumb running along the edge. She'd never half-finished anything, not even breakfast. And there I was, letting fear decide what could. got made and what didn't, letting it whisper that maybe it wasn't worth finishing. Maybe I was safe and not to. Mara would have seen through that in two seconds. She'd have thrown something at me, probably a damp tea towel,

and she'd have followed it up with that sharp look she had. The one that said, pull yourself together. And she'd have been right. All I did was give you. the anger spaced to grow. It started low my chest and curled around the edges of everything as it festered into the corners of the cottage and onto her side of the bed. Eventually, it boiled up into an idea. One I couldn't shake away, no matter what I tried. That evening, the local pub was lively and dimly lit. A few of the regulars scattered across

the low tables, shouting across to each other, cracking jokes. The fire was more glow than flame by now, mostly embers tucked into the grate, flickering just enough to keep the cold off the walls. George, the gent who gave me the radio sat near the back, half watching darts on the telly. I took the stool next to him, no fuss, and didn't bother with a pint. You still got that Shotgun, I asked. Bloody hell, he said after a pause, you don't start with hello anymore. Didn't feel like chatting. Clearly, he glanced at me suspiciously, like he already knew why I was there.

What for? Foxes, I said, being getting into the garden, they've dug up half the beds, most of Mara's corner, chewed through all her hard work. that made him pause and he set his pint down onto the sticky table somberly. Bloody hell, he muttered. That patch always looked proper. Never thought foxes would go after herbs.

He went quiet at that, brows drawing in a touch, the lines around his eyes settling deeper as if he were figuring out whether that was the truth or not. Been hearing that from folks too, he said after a beat, Not just foxes, badgers and rabbits too.

All of them turning up where they shouldn't be. They're bold, like they forgot how to be wild. Don't bolt anymore. Just stand and watch you like they're taunting you. I nodded once. That's what they've been doing. He studied me again. You planning to shoot anything?

Only if I have to. He let that sit between us for a second, then gave a small nod. I'll get it to you in the morning, he said. One day only. Barrow pulls a bit left if you're not paying attention, and it kicks like it's got something to prove, so don't try and be clever.

I won't. Once I had the gun, I set out early. The sky was grey, and the path was soft with last night's rain. The shotgun was wrapped in oil cloth and strapped across my back. I could feel it. it with every step. Foxes, I'd said, pests. George must have known.

He'd handed me the gun like he understood. He said nothing but gave me a small nod, the kind that said, do whatever you've got to do, mate, but don't come crying after. The fog was thicker this time, proper thick. It clung to the hedges and swirled low across the path.

The visibility was awful. The river wasn't even in sight yet. But I could feel it just around the bend. That damp, cold presence and impending doom. I stopped walking, reached back and undid the strap. It came free without fuss, oilcloth damp with mist. I enrapped it slowly, feeling the weight of it in my hands. It felt wrong.

like it knew I had no business holding it. My arms weren't made for this. My hands weren't steady. I never handled one before. Not properly. Not like this. And there I was. Alone in the mud with fog at my ankles

and a loaded shotgun in my grip like I knew what the hell I was doing. I broke it open to check the two shells. They were right where they were meant to be. and when I clicked it shut, it made a proper sound, clean and final. Then I kept moving slowly. My boots sank a little into the wet ground with each step. I could feel the thud of my heartbeat in my jaw and fingertips.

Then I saw it. A figure of a woman standing in the water with her back turned, her dress soaked and clinging to her legs, and her head was wrapped in a scarf, pulled tight. Every muscle in me went taut. I raised the gun and flicked the safety off with my thumb, clumsy and stiff. The click was louder than I expected. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The figure reacted to the noise, one foot dragging through the water like she was remembering how to stand. Her body swayed slightly, and every part of her.

me tensed. My arms were locked and my shoulders tightened. I braced the stock against my shoulder properly, lifted the barrel and lined it up through the grey. The fog swirled around her, thick as milk, only showing a blur of her. I couldn't see her face, but I knew what this was, what it had to be. One of them. I had seen this before. I knew this shape. This silence, the soaked dress clinging to her legs, sleeves hanging heavy, hair hidden, no part of her left to recognize. She was just another one of them, waiting for a next victim. So I aimed. And just when I had her square in my sights, she spoke,

Did you finally bring those biscuits you promised me? The words took the ground from under me, without warning, and my arms dropped just a little and shook. I couldn't help it. It felt as if the gun had become heavier. Because it was her. It was Mara. Around five years ago,

I started gravitating towards jobs that made solitude a requirement instead of a consequence. Just after finally accepting that I was an introvert, I tried wildlife surveys, a forestry internship, and even worked private fire mitigation one summer before this gig found me. It's how I ended up at my post on the northern edge. Tower 9. The government, or whoever owned this place, refer to it as a conservation perimeter or some other empty phrasing.

What it really was, though, was a swath of wilderness too big and too wide. wild for anyone to trust leaving alone. The acreage stretched far enough to swallow town's hall. 13 fire towers covered the zone. 13 watches, if you counted us all. They called us rangers, though it was more about fire prevention than policing hikers or keeping bears away from trailheads. Most rangers keep to their towers,

but some of us made a habit of breaking the rules we decided were pointless. Technically, we weren't supposed to leave our posts without clearance, especially during the dry season. But out here, miles from the nearest supervisor, the rules didn't mean much. Logan worked out in Tower 7, which sat a good few miles east. He didn't talk much about where he came from. He'd nod through most of a conversation, say something dry under his breath, then go quiet again. but he was solid. We didn't hang out often,

but sometimes we'd meet halfway between towers, trade supplies, pass a flask, and sit in silence. I liked that about him. But not everyone was like Logan. Ezekiel worked out of Tower 8,

the closest one to me, and he'd been there longer than anyone. Every ranger I asked gave me a different answer about how long he'd been. around. Some said five years, others said 20. I knew only this. He never left. Those were the only two towers that were within reasonable trekking distance. The other towers sat so far away, the only interactions I ever got with them was through the radio. Winter rotation was optional.

Most of us rotated out during the snow season, took breaks, went home, let the off-season. Let the off-season. and crew handle things. But Ezekiel stayed through all of it, year after year. Supposedly, he'd signed some agreement with the agency to maintain permanent watch. I'd only spoken to him twice. Both times were uncomfortable. The first time, I passed him on the ridge while heading toward Tower 6. I didn't say anything to him, and I felt bad about it.

But Logan had told me so much creepy stuff about Ezekiel that I almost didn't even want to speak to him. He didn't say anything either until I was nearly past and asked me if I'd seen anything strange on my way. I said I hadn't, and he just looked away and seemed to be focused on something else entirely already. He wasn't warm, far from it, and I didn't really like spending too much time around him. My first winter in the tower wasn't forced on me. I asked for it. The agency gave me a pay cut and in short I understood

the response time would be a joke if anything went wrong. But I signed off anyway. I was starting to really like this job. Once Logan cleared out, the ridge went dead quiet. His tower light stopped flickering across the tree line in the evenings.

That left me. me and Ezekiel. I didn't think about it much. I just focused on the scenery. The forest itself had no straight edges. It was hills and valleys stitched together by frozen creeks. Snow blanketed the evergreens early that year. Most of the smaller trees had dropped their leaves already,

and the taller one stood out black against the white. Wind carved up the snow into low spines, that looked like frozen wakes, as if something had swung through the powder and disappeared. I was out near the edge of my patrol line. When I saw it, the light had shifted into that flat winter amber that makes shadows long and deceptive. I'd been inspecting some of the brush piles left behind by the firebreak crews. The wind was quiet and the trees barely moved. Then, a break in the whiteness.

It was too far off to sea clearly, but it looked like a large deer limping. I don't mean walking unevenly. I mean dragging itself forward and slow, halting burst, like one of his legs didn't want to follow. My first instinct was the stay put. We're told not to interfere with wildlife. If an animal dies, it dies. We aren't rescue. But I hadn't been out here long enough to be numb about animal suffering.

I stood there for a minute, staring across the slope. The sky overhead was clear. Visibility wasn't bad. I could see the shapes of the trees for a few hundred yards before they disappeared behind a ridge. The animal had crossed into a shallow trench and left the trail behind it. A broken red line bleated. into the snow. I figured I could follow it for a bit and see if I could help it somehow.

I wasn't even sure how, but I knew it'd stay in my mind. If not, I could at least make sure I didn't go down in some ditch where nothing would find it until spring. I checked my belt, my radio was on, my coat was zipped tight, I still had enough daylight to get back if I moved quick. I started walking. The snow had only started falling the night before, so it was easy to see the fresh marks. But the tracks were off.

I've seen deer prints plenty of times, and these didn't match. They were larger, for one thing, and they weren't symmetrical. The spacing between them seemed wrong, longer than a deer should have been able to manage with a limp. I stopped to examine them several times, crouching down to touch the edges. Some of them looked melted around the sides, as if the heat had softened the snow when they formed. An injury may be, a birth defect. I kept moving forward. The blood trail dipped into a shallow drainage basin where the trees thinned out.

I followed it between clumps of dead brush and saplings. half buried under snowdrifts. The wind began to shift while I walked. I felt it before I heard it. Sharp, low, funneling down the slope like something alive. The clouds hadn't warned me. The sky had stayed open and glassy above the treetops. But within seconds, the snow came driving in sideways, fine and fast.

The shift was absolutely. One moment I could still see the trees standing in soft ranks ahead of me. Then, without build up, they disappeared. Wind slammed through the trees and pulled the temperature down so fast my fingers ate through the gloves. I stopped walking, turned a slow circle. Everything I'd used to orient myself, tree formations, ridge lines, even the slope under my feet, vanished, beneath a layer of rushing white. I squinted through the sudden torrent.

The trail had disappeared. So had everything else. I looked behind me. Where my bootprints had been only seconds ago, there was nothing. The snow had sealed them up as if I'd never walked there at all. My first thought was the find higher ground. I turned around and took two steps, then stopped again.

I couldn't see anything I recognised. Even the sound of my own steps felt swallowed by the wind. It wasn't that I couldn't tell which direction I'd come from. I had no idea which direction anything was anymore. I reached for my radio and keyed it. Tower 9 to anyone on frequency, come in. Nothing. Repeat, this is Tower 9.

white-out conditions, need triangulation or direction assist. Anyone reading this? Silence. I lowered the radio. I tried to listen past the storm to find some auditory landmark that might give me a clue. Still, there was nothing except wind tearing across the snow and the occasional snap of overburdened branches breaking underweight. I started walking again.

I kept my bearings tight, using small trees as markers and moving slowly, hoping to recognize some formation or shape that would confirm I was looping back toward familiar territory. I paused again and took a long breath. My breath fogged up the inside of my hood. I adjusted the drawstring, tried to calm the pounding in my chest. Getting lost out here wasn't new. Every ranger did it at least once. I kept walking. Minutes passed.

I couldn't tell how many. Then I saw something on the ground ahead. It was the deer, or what it looked like one. I approached slowly, expecting it to jolt up the way wounded deer sometimes do when you get too close. But it stayed still. Half buried in the snow, ribs rising in a sharp curve, one hind-legged. twisted off to the side at an unnatural angle. The closer I got, the less it made sense.

I stopped ten feet away and stared. Its head was all wrong. At first glance, it resembled a deer skull, long and narrow, with patches of fur frozen stiff across it. But the face had lips, thin, cracked lips, stretched back over teeth. almost human. Its neck bent upward in a way no animal spine should have allowed. Antlers or something like them jotted out in short nubs from either side of its skull,

but they had branching ends that looked almost sculpted. Its torso heaved, slow and unsteady, and I realized it was still breathing. I took one step back, then another. My boots sank into the snow. I tried not to make noise. Its eye turned toward me, singular, strikingly human, and its body convulsed.

A paw shot forward from beneath its torso. Not a hoof, not a deer leg. A bear's limb, thick and matted with fur, punched into the snow and dragged the rest of the body forward as it rose. It stood half upright, something between a man and a beast. Then, it lunged. I dropped my radio and fell sideways into the snow. Its claws grazed the sleeve on my jacket, tearing the fabric but missing the flesh.

I rolled backward and kicked at its ribs, but its weight bore down fast. It snarled, wet breath blasted against my face. neck. The smell made me gag. I noticed then a massive bleeding gash on its side. Quickly, I grabbed a branch off the ground, snapping it from the ice. I drove it into the thing's injury. It made a deep, choking noise and reeled back, landing hard. I scrambled to my feet and ran. I pushed through snowdrift and tree trunks, branches tearing at my clothes, branches tearing at my clothes, breath heaving through my throat. My legs went numb from the cold, but I didn't stop. I ran until my lungs burned, and the wind was a wall against my chest. I didn't even realize

where I was until I saw the structure through the white. Thin metal legs extended upward into the mist, too straight to be natural. I recognized the silhouette immediately. A tower. Ezekiel's Tower. Somehow, I had looped west. I didn't waste time. I found the staircase and started up. My boots barely gripping the ice-slicked metal. I knocked when I reached the top.

No answer. I knocked again, harder this time. Nothing. I pushed the door open. The warmth hit me first. A weak orange glow flickered from an old stove in, in the corner. The windows were covered in thick, mismatched curtains. Blankets and furs were piled around the walls. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me, my fingers trembling.

I didn't realize how cold I'd been until the heat hit my skin. Then, I looked around. I'd never been inside Ezekiel's Tower. I didn't know anyone who had. The space was packed with things that didn't belong in a lookout. Wall to wall, hooks and shelves cradled with weapons. Rifles lined the east wall, handguns rested in open crates. Ornamental carvings marked every one of them. Rooms, letters I couldn't read. Lines and circles scratched into the stocks and barrels.

Several of the bullets were laid out across the table under the window. Their surfaces glinting like silver or some other, precious metal. Dreamcatchers hung in the corners, animal schools rested on ledges, each of the forehead marked with red wax or ink. I backed away from the table and sank into a low chair near the stove, trying to catch my breath. My chest ached. I leaned forward, resting my arms on my knees. Then I heard the stairs creaking outside. I immediately thought of that thing. My first thought was that it had tracked me down, and now I had nowhere to actually go. I raced toward the wall for one of Ezekiel's guns, when the door opened behind me, and Ezekiel stepped inside.

His coat was dusted in snow, his gloves were off. He shut the door and looked over at me with no surprise. I looked at him, dumbfounded, my hands resting on one of the rifles, still at a little bit of the attached to the wall. I, uh, Ezekiel, you won't believe me, but... You saw it, he asked. I opened my mouth, trying to explain, but he cut me off before I could finish. Was it injured?

I nodded. Good, means the trap worked, he responded. After a brief silence. Well, he said at last. since you already saw it. He turned and met my eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been a grimace. It can't be helped now.

He walked across the room with a slow certainty of a man who knew where every board creaked. He moved past the stove, past the table with a bullet, and stopped in front of a tall shelf near the corner. His hands hovered momentarily, then landed on a thick, water-waped book, bound in leather, and marked in strange faded lettering. He pulled it free, thumbed through the pages, and found what he was looking for. I am sorry, though, he said, not locking up.

I hadn't let one slip in in over a decade. Maybe I am getting old. The pages made a dry sound as he turned them. It's smart. Ezekiel muttered, eyes scanning the page. Real smart. See, some people think it's three creatures sewn together. Some think it's one thing splitting apart into three.

He turned the book toward me. The illustration on the page looked too exact to be guesswork. Antlers, human faces, claws from something simian or bear-like. Its body was sketched mid-motion. He looked at the page, then back at me. You're lucky it was wounded. Would have killed you otherwise. He snapped the buck shut and slid it under his arm.

Then he crossed to another shelf. His hand moved quickly this time, grabbing a flat circular object wrapped in cloth. He unwrapped it and held it out to me. It looked like a mirror, but the surface was dark. than glass, more reflective than metal. The edges were edged with symbols, and the reflection it gave back felt delayed. Take it, he said.

I didn't move. He held it closer. You're coming with me. You know where it was last. I need you to take me there. I stared at the mirror, then at him. You think I want company. I'd rather do this.

alone, one man would have trouble taking it down, two should make it manageable. He let go of the object. I caught it, cradled the weight of it in both hands. You're part of this now, whether you want to be or not. After that, Ezekiel briefly explained the plan to me. I was to be a distraction since I held its scent and it saw me as its prey. I was to point the mirror toward it, leaving it frozen just long enough for Ezekiel to take it out. Ezekiel put his coat back on and grabbed a large tool, or looked to be a crossbow from the wall, and motion for me to move in front of him. I obeyed.

The snow had slowed, though only slightly. By the time we set out, the wind still bit through the treetops, and the sky hung low above us, dull and thick, but it wasn't a full whiteout anymore. We moved downhill, cutting through what was left of my trail. Ezekiel walked with purpose, one hand gripping his crossbow, the other steading himself along exposed trunks and roots. He didn't speak much, except a nod when we hit terrain he recognized from my descriptions. I stayed in front of him, scanning every branch, every path of se.

snow that looked uneven. I wasn't sure if the thing had kept moving after it attacked me. I wasn't even sure it could bleed out. That was the problem. I didn't know anything about what it was or how we were going to take it out. We found the place after 30 minutes of trudging. It wasn't far from the tower. I'd run further than I realized during the panic.

The snow in the clearing was broken. and stained, dark veins criss-crossing through it in wild spirals. Ezekiel moved to the center, crouched down, and studded the ground. He shifted the snow gently,

brushing away the surface to expose the soil beneath. I get thinking about whether I could actually do this, whether I'd freeze if it showed up again, whether he'd see it in my face. He looked over his shoulder at me,

Keep your eyes open. It hit us without warning. One second we were standing in silence and the next the trees exploded into motion. Snow burst upward as a massive form barreled out from the gully to our right. Ezekiel spun, raising his weapon, but the thing was faster.

It slammed into him before he could aim. The crossbow flew from his arm. grip and skidded into the trees. Zekiel hid the ground hard. I froze for a moment. The creature loomed over him, its shape warping in place, when muscle met hide. One shoulder twitching, as if it had too many limbs packed into too little space. Its breathing was aggressive.

It was angry. Its jaw stretched open as it stared at Ezekiel. Its eyes were set wide. across his head, mismatched in shape and size. Zekiel tried to reach for something at his belt, but the beast slammed its elbow across his chest. I heard something crack. I ran toward them and kicked hard into the thing's exposed flank.

My boot landed near the wound I'd seen earlier. The creature shrieked and stumbled sideways. I fell back and grabbed Ezeko by the arm, but he was too heavy to move. His legs didn't respond. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. His hand finally twitched and pointed. Toward the crossbow.

The creature's body shifted as it rose. Bones stretched, fur slowed off in clumps, revealing muscle underneath that pulsed visibly. It looked at me, then at Ezekiel. It growled a low noise that vibrated in my chest. Move, Ezekiel managed the painful shout. I backed up, raised the mirror, and held it in both hands. I had forgotten I still had it until then.

The creature looked directly into it and stopped moving. Its head tilted, its limbs slackened. The snarl faded from its face. For a moment, it simply stood there, frozen. I lowered the mirror and dove for the crossbow. My hand wrapped around the grip, fingers clumsy with adrenaline. I turned back toward it and brought the weapon up. I hadn't fired one in years.

The trigger felt unfamiliar. The bolt was already loaded. I aimed. Then hesitated. I only had one chance and if I missed, it blinked. and the spell broke. The creature launched forward again, this time angling toward Ezekiel.

His hands went up weakly to defend himself. I quickly inhaled and pulled the trigger. The bolt sank deep into the creature's ribs as it twisted mid-motion. It shrieked, a horrible noise that shifted in pitch halfway through as if several voices were laid beneath it. Its body staggered, then shimmered.

The edges of it began to thin, stretching outward like smoke caught in a reverse wind. It disappeared. The clearing was silent again. I looked over. Ezekiel was slumped against the trunk, his coat soaked through with blood. He gave a dry, hoarse chuckle and shook his head. Not bad, he coughed. It was at that moment,

that I wondered if a sequel would ever need help again. After all, he was getting old. I wasn't a good man. I didn't grow up with the wrong crowd or fallen with bad influences. I made my choices. When the trial ended, the judge said I was the most calculated man he'd ever sentenced and granted me life without parole.

No visitors, no possibility of release. They buried me And that was that Until she came along That day Guards pulled me out of my cell without a word Two stayed at my sides Two more behind

We passed through corridors where walls Sweated under fluorescent lights Doors slid open ahead of us After key card scans Eventually We stopped at a reinforced door One of the guards stepped forward and unlocked it without speaking. Cold air drifted out into the hallway.

Inside was a table bolted to the floor and two chairs, one empty, one occupied. Her eyes were already locked on mind before I sat down. She wore a grey suit with a faint pinstripe pattern, hair pulled tight against her head, skin pale but without blemishes. The guards forced me into the chair across from her, wrists shackled to the ring at the centre of the table.

She didn't introduce herself. Do you want to rot here until your skin comes off your bones? She asked. What do you want a chance? She sounded studio practised. I didn't answer. She slid a folder across the table. A thick black clip held the pages to get.

I could barely move my arms, but she didn't seem concerned with that. There's a sight, she said, tapping the folder with her index finger. A cave, deepest ever discovered, deeper than anything on record. Our first expedition didn't return. She didn't blink. They made several kilometers down before something killed them. We believe it was biological. possibly sentient.

She let that sit for a second, then flipped the folder open. The first image was an aerial shot of a dense mountain range, followed by several grainy stills of people in environmental suits carrying gear through a jagged tunnel. We considered sending qualified personnel, but the risk is too high. We'd rather lose someone replaceable. You're a murderer, a terrorist,

You're already a dead man. If this doesn't work, we'll find another one like you. Cheaper that way. She paused. Then she folded her hands. You won't be alone. After a short debrief, you'll be taken to the cave entrance with three others. You'll be outfitted with recording devices, weaponry and monitoring equipment.

There is a strong likelihood you will not return. If you survive and complete the contract. You walk free. She tapped the folder again. Clean record. You pick where you go after. My first instinct was the laugh. I hadn't tasted outside air in over a decade.

I hadn't seen a sky without mesh across it since sentencing. So, I didn't ask what the contract involved. What they were really looking for, or how many had already died trying to find it. It didn't matter what I signed. I'd already died once. If this got me out, even if it killed me for good, I was ahead. Fine, I said, strap me in. She nodded to someone I couldn't see.

I felt the sting of a needle in my neck. Cold spread through my spine before I could ask where I'd be taken. The ceiling peeled away from me. Then the light. Then everything. I woke in a bed with clean sheets, white walls, a smooth ceiling with a built-in glow panel that lit the room without a bulb or fixture. Before I could sit up properly, a door opened. A man in sterile clothes stepped inside, gestured, and stepped back without a word.

I followed. They took me through a short corridor and into a chamber where the lights were brighter and colder. Four chairs faced the screen. Three were already occupied. A man with a tag that read, Hollis on his shirt, sat with his legs spread wide, arms tattooed to the wrist, jaw unshaven, and a permanent smirk planted across his face. He glanced at me and snorted. Drew sat beside him, bald and built thicker. His hands clasped between his knees.

He didn't react to me at all. He stared forward with dead focus. The third was smaller. Shoulders hunched, nervous energy rolled off her in waves. She twitched every few seconds. Sometimes her head jerked to one side. Sometimes her knuckles tensed, then released. She'd make a strange sound every once in a while.

It looked involuntary. Nobody said a word as I sat in the same. the last open seat. The lights dimmed and the screen blinked on. We were ushered into another room after the short presentation ended. Some vague footage of cave walls and sensor data. Nothing identifiable. This one had a long table, cold steel surface and no chairs.

A man in a black uniform stood at the far end, holding a remote in one hand and a tablet in the other. As you already know, he sighed, you're going underground. You'll be outfitted, you'll be monitored, your vitals, your recordings, every word you say will be logged. You'll have one guide. Her name is Wren. The girl with the ticks, presumably Wren, glanced up but didn't speak. She was part of the first mission, he continued. She didn't witness the attack.

She abandoned a team before it occurred. She was found days later at the mountain base. She ran, Holly said, grinning. You're sending us down there with a coward. Wren flinched and her shoulders jerked. She tried to hold still, but the tension inside her was impossible to miss. The man ignored them both. You are explorers.

You're being given an opportunity. Find out what happened, find out what they discovered, assess the biological threat. You will have audio and video documentation running at all times. You will not go off plan. You will not deviate from the route she outlines. You will not improvise. Do that, and you'll have a shot at walking out. They loaded us into the back of a truck with no windows.

No light, no sense of movement beyond the vibration of the road beneath. Ren and I sat across from each other, silent for most of the first hour. Her leg bounced nervously. You're right, I asked. She blinked hard and nodded. Yeah, sorry, it's... Well, it's not. She stopped and forced her head straight.

It's hard sometimes. You were there before. She nodded again. What happened? Well, she said, it's silly but I was scared. I left before anything even happened, as you heard. I didn't have a reason, I guess. I just kind of felt claustrophobic maybe.

I don't know. Something about the place spooked me, so I ran out of the cave. I'd walked all night. I looked at her carefully. And you still don't know why you left? I've been trying to figure it out. out, especially after they questioned me a bunch of times, I guess I did avoid danger. She seemed sincere.

You scared of going back in? She perked up, suddenly full of energy. Of course, something in there killed my colleagues and... She slowed. They told me I breached contract and I was required to do this. After a brief pause. Why are you here? She asked.

I mean, really. I lit some buildings on fire. I said, keeping the other things secret. She didn't look away. Do you regret it? I didn't answer her right away. I watched her instead. I guess so.

Her eyes flicked back toward me, searching for something. Maybe she found it. She gave me a small nod, then looked away again. When the truck stopped, they kept us inside for another 20 minutes. When they finally opened the doors, daylight hit me so hard I had to shield my eyes. A dozen figures waited near a chain-link gate that had been rigged into a stretch of pale rock. They wore gear, helmets, visors and gloves.

We looked at them in disbelief as they pointed toward a bit. crate full of weapons. I took a shotgun and a sidearm. Hollis went straight for the automatic rifle and smirked when they didn't stop him. Drew slung a belt of shells across his shoulders and picked a pump action like it was a toy. You really given us guns?

Hollis said, shaking his head and turning around to face us. They gave the prison crew guns. Hollis turned toward Wren, who would back herself against the side. of the truck. She hadn't taken anything from the crate. What about her? He said.

Do we even need her? What if we take her hostage? Maybe walk her back out. Tell them we want a helicopter or something. He didn't sound serious, but he didn't sound like he was joking either. One of the mask guards looked at him, and Hollis piped down.

He looked disappointed. I guess that wouldn't work, would it? A man in a hazard suit gave a final briefing. Equipment had already been staged inside. Ammunition, lights, nutrition packs, water. There was no communication once we entered. We would document everything, follow the route, and if we tried to exit early,

the doors would remain locked until the scheduled retrieval time. The cave entrance was tiny. a little more than a slitting stone. The walls were uneven, jagged in some places, and smooth in others. They were wide enough for two of us to walk side by side with space in between. We moved through long tunnels that opened into chambers large enough to park aircraft in. Wren led the way. She had a tablet secured to a vest and a laminated map strapped to a leg.

We found a flat stretch of the same. tunnel that widen near a wall of crushed sediment. Someone had left old markers, orange tags half buried under dust. Wren told us this was the first stop. We weren't expecting to reach the next landmark until morning. We dropped gear, unrolled mats and sat down in the dirt. Drew leaned against the slab of rock and slept almost immediately. After a few minutes, Wren approached me.

She looked hesitant. I don't want to be near them, she said. Yeah, I know. Maybe I'm getting scared for no reason again, but... I don't know. What if they do something? They might, I said. Whatever, let's just stick together.

The two of them and the two of us. Sure, I nodded. She breathed out through her nose and nodded again. Then she lowered her head and mumbled something I didn't catch. We all woke up around the same time and nobody spoke. We just started walking again. It was a strange situation. We all knew we could potentially die here.

Whatever had killed those researchers were still down here. And now that we were getting closer, that realization was sinking in deeper than ever. before. A few hours in, the cave shifted. The walls widened again, and the floor began to level out. The slope that had pulled us down from the start eased, but the tunnel didn't narrow. It kept expanding in every direction. That was the first place we saw the trail. It stretched across the stone like someone had spilled a vat of silver and let it cool. Long lines of dull. metal fused with the ground, following the cave's natural channels.

Some parts had pulled into circular patches. Others looked like they had been flung out during motion. Thin trails, scattered, but clearly following something's path. Wren stopped and knelt. Um, she started. The original crew, there was a satellite scan. If I remember correctly, something in this range gave her a return that matched heavy rhodium content. It was a really dense and unnatural concentration. It could

have been worth a fortune, so it's no wonder there are traces of it around. We listened briefly. Drew talked about bringing some of it back and potentially getting paid for it, but no one answered him. We kept walking. More trails appeared. Some ran along the walls, a few looped over natural arches over our heads. It was everywhere. We had reached the junction where the ceiling opened into a chamber, almost the size of a hanger. The walls glinted, strips of exposed minerals caught the low light, veins of gold and

something darker ran through the rock like roots frozen in place. That was when I heard it. A series of sharp clicks echoed behind us. They were fast. I turned. It emerged from the bend in the tunnel without warning, moving on all fours, but rising as it entered the open chamber. Its forearms twisted at a sick angle, ending in serrated appendages that resemble both talons and surgical blades. Beneath its skin, if it could be called that, something pulsed in irregular spasms.

The cables of muscle rolled beneath a fused, metallic and oily surface. as though it had been dipped in molten chrome and left it congeal in uneven patches. Its head was horrific, elongated, tapering to a point that hovered behind its shoulders. The jaw split downward instead of opening wide, unhinging into four separate folds, and molten metal leaked out in thin lines that hissed against the stone. He raised his head and looked around, almost like it was trying to listen. We looked at it in the silence, and then Hollis lifted his rifle and fired it. A full burst tore through the cavern air, shells clattered to the ground.

The noise was deafening. Drew stepped up behind him and joined in, racking around into the chamber with a grin. The creature didn't even flinch, but it started moving toward them, seemingly now alerted to their presence. It was fast and fluid. Hollis got half a breath into another laugh before it reached him. One swipe took his legs, another tore through his chest. I didn't see what happened next. There was in a sound beyond the gunshots and the wet slap of contact.

Drew kept firing until the gun locked open. The creature pivoted toward him, already moving. I turned and ran, and that seemed to alert Ren. She moved with me And a body convulsed in both physical and vocal ticks The shots behind us faded Then there was nothing Ren gasped

Her mouth opened but she didn't speak I pushed the harder toward a split in the tunnel ahead We moved fast and low And I started to realize something It was blind I slowed pulling up your behind a wall of rock where the ground dipped. Her head shook.

She kept whispering something beneath a breath, split up by involuntary yelps that were too loud for comfort. You have to stop. Do you hear me? She nodded hard. Her jaw clenched tight. Sweat ran down the side of her face in streaks, and her whole body trembled from the effort of holding still. It can't see.

He can only hear us. You have to stay quiet. She nodded again, and this time her body stilled. Not entirely, but enough. We moved without speaking. Every step felt calculated, every breath too loud. The tunnels narrowed again as we descended. Behind us, sounds from the creature could still be heard,

but it was far enough away to give us some hope of survival, Not even bullets damaged it, so our best bet was the try to sneak past it somehow. We entered another chamber, smaller than the last one, but wide enough for the darkness to stretch past the range of our lights. The ceiling bowed downward. I stepped around a jagged edge and nearly tripped over a body. Or what was left of it. It wore a suit or what had been a suit once. The fabric had fused the limbs, torn open across the chest, and peeled back at the shoulder.

The skin beneath had dried into something grey, stiff and hollow. I counted three more nearby. Wren knelt slowly next to one of the bodies. I knew her, she whispered. But there was no time for reminiscing or anything of the sort. I tapped her in the shoulder and gestured. for her to move. The tunnel dropped hard after that.

We slid down a slope that forced us onto our hands, boot scraping loose rock. The air was changing again, hotter now, not from the strain. It hit my face before we saw the source. Then we rounded a bend, and the floor dropped out into a massive chasm. Ren and I stared in disbelief as a lake stretched out in front of us, smooth as glass.

Not one made of water, but rather molten metal. Gold, silver, blue, all bleeding into each other in an endless loop. Heat poured from the surface, sweat ran down my back in slow waves. My hands felt damp inside my gloves. I thought about how this was possible. Surely the heat from the molten metal itself would have killed us by now. But my attempts at rationalisation were interrupted by a clicking sound behind us and a realisation that we had just reached a dead end.

We moved to the side and took cover behind a jagged ridge of stone at the lake's edge. It wasn't much enough to break the line of sight, maybe enough to muffle sound. Wren's body convulsed and she put both hands over her mouth but If she made a single sound, we'd die. I could feel the creature approaching. The air shifted as it entered the chamber. She reached for me. Her fingers closed around my arm, trembling.

Her eyes met mine. She knew. I looked at her. I didn't say anything. There wasn't time. Even a whisper could have ended it. She mouthed something. I raised the shotgun.

Her head shook, small and sharp. Her lips trembled, but she didn't speak. Her hand tightened around my arm. I felt her fingernails through the fabric. She tried to pull back. Her mouth opened. No sound came out. Her eyes screamed.

I fired. Her head snapped sideways, gone before the rest of her had time to fall. Blood hit the rock behind us in a wet splash. Her body collapsed at my feet. The creature sprung into motion. I could hear it. It stood on top of the rock I was hiding and slowly dropped itself down. His tail ran right past my arm, and it seemed to inspect Wren's body.

It lifted her up by the torso. and walked out of view. I could hear the liquid sloshing. Curiosity got the better of me. I peaked around the corner to see the monster, slowly walking into the lake of metal, Wren's body in tow. The surface took both of them,

metal folding upward to embrace its body as it descended into the glowing pool. Then, it was gone. The lake smoothed over again, silent, still, as if nothing had ever broken its surface. I didn't know how long it would stay submerged, but I wasn't going to give it time to come back. I stood and ran. I followed the same path we'd taken down or close to it. I kept one hand on the rock to guide my turns.

Everything looked different on the way up. Eventually I reached the chamber where Drew had fallen. His body was bent in half across a flat boulder, split from the ribs down. I recognised the boots before I saw the rest. Hollis lay a few feet away, or at least most of him did. His rifle was still in one hand, his other hand was missing. I kept moving. By the time I saw the faint blue glow of the reinforced entrance,

I couldn't feel my legs anymore. Two guards stood at the threshold. The helmets reflected my face as I stumbled forward. Neither of them moved until I crossed the final threshold and fell to my knees. I didn't speak. They didn't either. One of them stepped forward and removed the shotgun from my back. The other one retrieved the body cam.

They helped me to my feet and led me into transport. A little while later, she sat across from me again in the same suit. We reviewed your footage, she said. Your documentation exceeded expectations. She flipped through a few pages. What happened to Wren was unfortunate. She closed the folder and pushed it aside. You've done your part.

She gestured toward the door. The hallway stretched in front of me, too bright to focus on. A man in black uniform walked me through two checkpoints, then into another chamber. He handed me a small envelope. Inside were travel documents, a debit card, and a folded sheet with my new credentials. I was escorted outside. And just like that, I was alone

I walked until the facility shrank behind me nothing more than a shape at the edge of stone I was free we buried our little girl Elsie in the orchard within the rows of pear trees

she used to run between to mark the spot we planted a young sapling that still had a few years left to bear fruit she loved pears more than any child I'd ever met She'd eat them warm and mushy from the branch

Like it was the best thing she'd ever tasted During harvest She'd march around with the basket half a size Pointing at which ones were the good ones Like a tiny dictator Our little helper The morning it happened She'd been headed outside to play

The same as always I remember the screen door creaked open Then shut And I heard her humming to herself. And then the quiet stretched too long. By lunchtime, we couldn't find her. Not in the yard, not in the house.

Marissa checked the barn. I checked the orchards and yelled a name until my throat hurt. And then I saw the shoe by the pond, sideways in the mud. Everything after that is a blur. But that moment, the shoe. That's the part I still see when I close my eyes. Marissa didn't talk for a while. At night, she'd curl up on her side of the bed with Elsie's pyjama shirt clutched to her chest.

I lay beside her every night, helpless. I'd hold her hand or rubber back while my own chest felt like it was caving in. Her sobs would start quietly, like she was trying to hold them in for my sake. and then they'd break loose, spilling out of her like a flood, and I'd just lay there while my throat burned with the things I couldn't say. When it was over, and she'd gone still again, I'd press my lips to her forehead and whisper something dumb and small-like, It's okay, I've got you.

She never answered, but she always reached for me. One night I brought her a mug of chamomile and sat beside her. I silently watched and she took the mug and held it between her palms. She loved how you peeled them for her, Marissa said. Even when I taught her how to do it herself, she still brought them to you. She liked the way you sang while you cooked, I said, even when you were off key, especially then. She looked at me then. and something in her face softened.

I reached over and took the piece of her hair behind her ear. She leaned into my hand. I miss her, she whispered. Me too, I said. Everywhere. She nodded. We sat like that for a long time. Her fingers intertwined with mine,

the tea forgotten and going cold on the nightstand. That was the night we started talking about. again. Although things were getting better, the bills were still there. Even though we were starting to come back to ourselves, the money was going faster than ever. We saved what we could by burying Elsie ourselves, but the tractor needed a belt, the west vent sagged, and our pump truck sat dry because fuel cost more than what we had. But then, Graftcoe knocked on our door. The man they sent out was named Dr. Levin. He said they found us through a regional yield audit

and flagged our land as having low potential with high legacy viability. That's the kind of language you only hear from people who've never sweat through the harvest. He explained they'd fit our orchard with experimental grafting tech, some kind of bioengineered rootstock that would result in triple yield

and bring the trees back stronger than ever. Marissa asked him if it was safe. He said, safer than what you're doing now. Then he told us they'd sponsor the whole thing and cover installation of materials and even throw a stipend for our time. The only condition was access.

They'd need to monitor everything, growth rate, soil conditions, fruit development. It sounded too good to be real. So we took a few days to think about what we were signing up for. If it failed, or if the tech damaged the trees, stunted the orchard, or left us worse than before, we couldn't afford to recover from that. But then the stipend hit the account, just the advance portion. It was enough to buy fuel and fix the tractor.

So, we accepted. The installation took a weekend. A crew came with crates of tubing, sleek little graph nodes like plugs for a machine, and boxes labelled with long codes and the Graphco logo. They moved quickly and were polite, and a little too quiet. Marissa offered coffee. They declined. By Monday, the orchard was different.

The soil had this strange, clean smell like antiseptic. There were metal caps at the base of each tree, and thin wires ran under the dirt. Elsie's tree got the same treatment as the rest. I didn't like it, but within days the changes started. Birds opened early, leaves spread wide and fast. It was a miracle.

The orchard looked fuller than it had any right to, and then somehow the fruit came, way ahead of schedule. Elsie's tree bloomed with the rest. That morning, I stared at a single bulb hanging off one thin branch, plump, green and tiny. Marissa crouched beside it, eyebrows pinched. That's not right, she said. It's too early, I said, way too early.

What could they have done to speed it up this much? We kept her eye on the tiny, bulb, expecting it to fall off or rot like immature fruit does. But it didn't. It just kept growing. In week one, the single fruit swelled faster than anything else in the orchard. It looked smooth and full, like it had never struggled for sunlight a day in its life. Marissa kept returning to it, lingering longer each time. Her brow furrowed like she was searching for something familiar in its skin. It's round, she said finally, frowning a little, like baby cheeks. In week two, she called me over before I'd even set down my coffee. The fruit had grown bigger, and what started as a bulb was

stretching. It was a soft indent where a mouth might form. At the very top, the skin curled into a little twist of green that looked oddly like a cowlick. Marissa ran a finger gently across the curve of the fruit down to what appeared to be a neck that had begun to form. And beneath it, a roundness that hinted at shoulders. There was a slope to the body now. The faintest rise of arms pressed close to a chest. She always had that little swirl on a temple, Marissa said quietly.

I used to smooth it down every morning, remember? I did. I remembered how every morning, without fail, I'd hold Elsie still, and Marissa would smooth that stubborn swirl back in place with a wet thumb. I nodded, eyes still on the fruit. Yeah, I said softly. You'd smooth it, and she'd mess it up five minutes later. But it's just a coincidence.

By week three, the fruit had a distinct face, and there was no denying it. The rest of the shape had filled out too. Her legs were there now, curled up beneath her in a fetal position. The toes so delicately formed, they looked like they'd twitch any second, and the whole thing hung there, still and eerily peaceful, like she was just asleep. Everything inside me turned heavy. I looked at Marissa, hoping for some shared confusion, but her eyes were fixed, unblinking,

and she studied the fruit like it might wake up if she waited long enough. That's her, she said. I don't care if it's green. That's our girl. She stepped closer, fingers brushing against the chubby cheeks. I remember when she was this little, feels like it was just yesterday. And for a second, standing there beside her, I almost believed it too.

That night, she didn't come in for dinner. I found her in the dark, sitting under the tree, cradling the fruit in both arms like a newborn. Her body curved around it protectively, swaying just slightly, murmuring lullabies. She rocked it with the same rhythm she used to rock Elsie when she was colicky, thumb brushing over the curve of the cheek like she was soothing a real child back to sleep. From then on, Marissa barely left the orchard.

I'd find her under the tree with a blanket draped over a lap and a book open in her hands. She looked alive again, but something about the fruit didn't feel right. I wanted to tell her to slow down and that it wasn't normal but the words caught in my throat every time so I kept quiet I watched as she treated the fruit like Elsie had returned to her she became content and sleep without crying herself to sleep sometimes she'd rest ahead in my shoulder like she used to curl into me

she'd squeeze my hand under the covers and murmur good night before drifting off. There are even mornings where she'd lean over and kiss my cheek before getting up to check the fruit. Her softness in her eyes I thought I'd never see her gain. For a while, it felt like maybe the fruit wasn't so bad. Then Grafco called to schedule a check-in. Marissa's hand shook when she hung up the phone.

I knew something was wrong when she silently worried. walked out to the orchard and sat under the tree like she was standing guard. I found her pacing in the kitchen at 3 a.m., whispering to herself and swinging shears. They'll see her, she said. They'll take her, they'll say it's an anomaly and cut her down. I stepped toward her, gently shook the shears from her hand and said, Hey, look at me. She didn't.

Marissa, I said again. softer this time. It's just the check-in. They won't take anything. We're not doing anything wrong. When she finally looked at me, I saw the fear on her face. You don't know that. They'll see her. They'll cut her down, Paul. I held her face in both hands. I could feel her trembling. We'll protect her. We'll protect each other. You don't have to do this alone. didn't want to lose this happy version of her, so I let go of her slowly and handed her back the shears. If it'll make you feel better, I said, then I'll do it. She blinked hard,

wiped her eyes, and walked out the door without another word. I followed and watched as she clipped the fruit from the branch. Her hands caught it gently like she was carrying something precious. She cradled it close to her chest and pulled out a faded yellow cloth with tiny embroidered ducks. It was one of Elsie's old muslins, and she swaddled the fruit with it. As she wrapped it tight, she murmured, You're okay now, we've got you. No one's going to take you away this time. I promise. I followed her inside and watched her set it gently on the counter. her still wrapped in the muslin.

Her hands hovered. Something's wrong, she said, voice tight. There was a dark spot blooming through the fabric. Marissa gasped and fumbled to unwrap it. The cloth clung to the skin like it didn't want to let go and released with a sickening tearing noise. Marissa let out a sharp breath and staggered back. It was rotting, fast.

The green skin had darkened and peeled back in places to reveal something underneath that looked like flesh. Pulp and muscle twisted together, tiny teeth budding where the mouth had been. One eye collapsed in on itself like it had deflated. Marissa led out a part sob, part gag, and backed into the corner. I didn't know, she was.

I didn't mean to hurt her. Marissa started full body sobbing. She dropped to the floor beside the counter, her back pressed to the cabinet, fists against the temples. I killed her, she choked out. I killed her again. I dropped beside her and wrapped my arms around her while she fought me, crying and pushing and begging.

No, no, please. She was getting better. She was almost done. You were just trying to protect her, I said, my voice shaking. You did what any mother would do. You loved her so much it hurts. That's not wrong, Marissa. She clawed at her sleeves, at her throat,

like the grief was something she could tear out of her skin. Her whole body shook. I just wanted to keep her safe, she gasped. I held her tighter. I know, I whispered, I know. I stayed with her there until a sobs turned to silence. Then I helped her to her feet and walked to her bed. Once she was settled, I lifted the muslin gently from the counter and took it outside.

It felt wrong to throw the fruit away because of how much it looked like Elsie. It was strange. It felt like she was back. she almost looked alive in Marissa's arms. My hand shook as I grabbed the spade from the shed. I walked out to Elsie's tree, knelt at the base, and started digging. The muslin reeked enough to make me gag. I turned my head and swallowed it down.

When the hole was deep enough, I unwrapped the cloth one last time, just enough to see the curve of what used to be her face and lowered it in slowly. I pressed the dirt back over gently, smoothing it flat with my palm, and sat there a long time, not ready to leave. When I stood and brushed the soil from my knees, I looked up. Another fruit was growing, just beginning to swell. Marissa was still asleep when I came back in. Her breathing was shallow, and her face was swollen from crying.

She didn't stir when I sat beside her and laid my hand on her back. I let her rest. The next morning, Grafco arrived. Two reps this time. Dr. Levin and someone knew in a navy jacket, clipboard in hand, both of them all business. I told them Marissa wasn't feeling well. They didn't ask questions. They weren't expecting anything from Elsie's tree anyway.

According to their notes, it wasn't supposed to yield for another season. They stopped to take growth measurements, height, trunk width, the soil balance. But the other trees? They were thrilled, called the results, accelerated but stable, used words like, promising and replicable. When they left, I brought Marissa a plate of toast and eggs. and set it on the nightstand beside her. She hadn't moved much. Eyes half open, but vacant.

Her face still blotchy and tired. You should eat, I said, sitting on the edge of the bed. She turned her face into the pillow. I buried it under the tree, I whispered. Marissa led out this half sob, and something about that broke me wide open. I reached for her, but she curled tighter, her shoulders shaking. And there's...

There's another one. It's starting again. Just a bud, but it's there. The words just came out. I shouldn't have said anything. I knew what that tree was doing to her. But when she pulled her face from the pillow and looked at me, face blotchy and puffy, eyes bright and that hopeful,

desperate way. It was too late to take it back. Another one? She said, barely more than a breath. I nodded. Her hand reached out and held mine. She sat up, slow and stiff, eyes still locked on mine. It wasn't ready, she said.

The last one, it hadn't fully become her yet. I didn't understand at first. She squeezed my hand. It was too young, like picking a pair before it's ripe. Her voice cracked. It wasn't completely Elsie. She leaned in close, forehead against mine. Promise me we wait.

Next time we don't touch it, not until it's her. Just before it happened, that's when we'll know it's done, I hesitated. Everything in me wanted to do. to tell her no, to remind her that it wasn't really Elsie. But she looked so certain, so sure. So I said yes. Marissa watched the new bud every morning like a kid waiting for Christmas. She raked mulch into the soft cradle shape directly under the branch with a fruit hung

and tucked an old pillow into its curve. When I stepped into view, Marissa looked up and smiled like this was all perfectly, normal. She's growing fast, she said, faster than last time. Her voice had that same softener she used when Elsie was sick. I watched her, took the corners of the muslin under the pillow like it was a bassinet. She'll be walking before we know it, she added, with this tiny wistful laugh that didn't reach her eyes. It gutted me. Weeks past, the fruit grew. The fruit grew fuller like it was aging through Elsie's life stages, one feature at a time. But the eyes stayed shut.

It looked like she was fast asleep, like she could wake at any moment. Soon its skin flushed warm to the touch, and when I pressed my fingers to the stem, I could feel a pulse. She looked at me, then gently lifted the fruit and extended it toward me. Hold her, she said. She wants to know who you are. She misses you. I hesitated.

Everything in me recoiled. But Marissa's eyes were steady, soft. So, I reached out the moment my hands touched the fruit. Something in me melted. It was warm, heavy in that way sleeping. children always are, and beneath the skin, I could swear I felt the faintest flutter of a heartbeat. My arms curled around it instinctively. It felt like her, the way she sagged into me after a long day outside.

It couldn't really be her. I knew that. But in that moment, it felt like holding her again. Like she'd never left, then grapher. Go came back. We hadn't expected another visit so soon, but a single assistant came to check the progress. Just a kid, barely older than a college intern, with a silver case and a polite smile. He didn't even knock.

I didn't even know he was here until I heard a crash, and then Marissa's voice high in breaking. They're going to take her, Paul, they're going to see her. She was at the window, wide-eyed. You have to stop them, she said. They'll take her, they'll cut her down like she's nothing. You promised Paul, you promised. I tried to calm her, voice low and steady. I'll handle it.

I won't let them near her. Just stay here. Please, Risa. She shook her head like she couldn't hear me, tears tracking down her cheeks. She's not ready. You said we'd wait. You said we'd protect her. I mean it, I said, already turning toward the door.

I'm going. I'll take care of it. I swear. My heart thudded harder with each step. The assistant was already scanning through the trees and taking notes. I forced the smile onto my face as I approached him, hoping he couldn't see the panic behind it. Morning, I said, keeping my tone casual.

you folks sure know how to pick your weather. He glanced up and gave a short nod, distracted. Yeah, sorry to drop in unannounced. Just a routine check. Shouldn't take long. You'll want to see the roots well on the north row. It tripled last month. He blinked at me, distracted.

Eyes already drifting toward the younger block. That one's still sterile. I added quickly, pointing at ill. else's tree, not due to fruit for another year, maybe two. He nodded slowly and followed me away. But halfway down the row, he paused, glanced over his shoulder. Mind if I take a quick reading over there? He asked, already starting back toward that tree.

I caught up in two strides. It's really not necessary, nothing viable there yet. He shook his head. Dr. Levin wants to monitor the growth, and then he stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the fruit hanging from Elsie's tree. It was rounded, flushed, too lifelike to be dismissed. What the hell? He dropped to his knees to get a closer look, pulling out a handheld scanner from his belt. This wasn't in the notes.

I watched as he raised the device toward the fruit. The scanner peeped. He turned to me. I'm going to have to report this. Panic crawled up my throat. Wait, it's probably just the deformity. The hormones can cause mutations, right? His eyes narrowed.

This isn't a mutation. This is something else. He looked again and reached out like he might touch it. He had no idea. dear what she meant to us. I thought about Marissa, how she'd curl around that muslin like she was holding our girl again, how she'd cried herself to sleep when it rotted, how a voice broke when she whispered. They'll take her. Suddenly, I couldn't see the assistant anymore. I saw a man walking out of there with Elsie's face in a folder. I saw Marissa break all over again, something

I couldn't handle anymore. I thought about grabbing him, just wrapping my arm around his throat and squeezing until the life left his eyes. The thought alone made my fingers twitch. But before I could move, a pruning tool stuck the back of his head with a sickening crunch.

The blade slid in just above the neck through the soft spot where the spine and skull met. A shudder ripped through him, He stiffened on his knees, then sagged forward, gurgling. His arms flailed once, and then he slumped, cheek hitting the dirt. His scanner landed in the mulch of the muffled crunch. Blood seeped into the soil, dark and fast. A low gurgling breath hissed from his throat, and one leg jerked.

He wasn't dead. Damn, I breathed. Marissa stepped into view behind me, her face pale and wet with sweat, the pruning tool hung limp in her hand. He's not, I started. I had to, she said quickly, her voice shaking. Paul, I had to. He saw her. You saw him.

He was going to take her. I couldn't let him take her. He's still alive, I said, dropping to one knee. We need to. No, Marissa snapped. We can't. He'll tell them. We'll lose her all over again.

Her eyes darted to the fruit, then back to me. I saved her, Paul. Don't you see? I saved her. He's dying, Marissa. We can't just, just leave him. We have to, she snapped. You said you'd protect her.

I look back down at the assist. and his chest barely rising. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth. His fingers twitched like he was trying to reach for something. I clenched my fists and squeezed my eyes shut. Every part of me screamed to act to fix it. But I was frozen. Marissa cut to my face with trembling hands.

We're doing this for her, for our daughter. I nodded, barely. Then we need to finish it, fast. I reached down with shaking hands and pulled the pruning tool from where it had fallen. The blade tore out with a wet pop. I hovered over him, the weight of the metal suddenly immense in my hand. His eyes fluttered, a breath weased out of him, his fingers twitched. I could have ended it right then.

I knew I should. I gripped the handle and brought the tip to the base of his skull and froze. My hand shook. He was someone's kid. He didn't deserve any of this. And here I was, on my knees,

about to end it because I was too much of a cow to fix any of it. Then I looked to the side. I saw Marissa holding the fruit. And for a second, I saw Elsie in her arms. My throat burned. I blinked hard, tried to steady my grip.

I'm sorry, I whispered. And then I drove the blade down through the soft spot in his skull. I looked down at the body, blood thick in the dirt, and I felt sick. Was this worth it? I tried to swallow the question, but it's still. there. Marissa brought the tarp from the shed and helped roll his body into it. Neither of us spoke. We dragged him past the rose to the far edge near the compost pit where the ground was softer. I took the shovel and started digging. The smell of dirt and blood mixed in the air. When the

hole was deep enough, we lowered him in. I didn't look at his face. We covered it fast, packed the dirt back over, kicked mulch across the top. By the time we finished, my arms were shaking. Marissa stood beside me, her eyes glassy and far away. We have to clean the scanner, she said, and burn the tarp. I nodded and make sure they never send anyone again. A week passed. Every night I lay beside Marissa

with the weight of what I'd done disturbing my thoughts. I kept telling myself it was for them, but I couldn't shake the sound of the gurgle in his throat. I tried to picture Marissa's face when she held her fruit and tried to hold onto that, tried to believe it was worth it. The fruit had grown bigger.

It was heavier now, thick around the middle and long enough to touch the ground. It curled into the mulch like it was sleeping, and it looked older now, almost the same age as Elsie had been before she died. We both started spending more time under the tree. I'd catch Marissa, brushing mulch away from the fruit side, or humming softly like she used to at bedtime.

One morning, while I tied down a saggy branch, She looked up from where she sat, one hand resting gently on the curve of the fruit. I think she's going to open her eyes soon, she said. I nodded slowly, unsure of how to answer. She looks ready. Marissa smiled. Our baby's coming back, I sat beside her. For that moment, with the smell of bark and mulch around us,

and that fruit between us, it felt like it might actually be true. And then the phone rang from the house. It was Grafco, the same polite voice that had scheduled the check-ins before. Just following up, he said, one of our assistants had scheduled a site visit in your area. Did they make contact? I met Marissa's eyes across the kitchen. Her grip on the coffee mug tightened. No, I said, no one showed.

Understood, thank you. We'll be in touch. The line clicked dead. If that wasn't enough stress, when Marissa turned the radio on, it crackled to life with the tail end of an emergency broadcast. Heavy winds expected across the valley floor, lightning activity reported near the ridge.

Residents should secure loose property and avoid open areas. Advisories are in effect until midnight. Repeat, high wind and lightning warnings issued through tonight. The sky had that bruised tone to it, too dark for the morning. She's not ready, Marissa said quietly. If that wind knocks her down, it won't, I said. We won't let it.

We grabbed what we had. Twine, stakes, and spare netting from the tool shed. I carried out an old canopy from the market days. Metal legs rusted, but still usable. Marissa followed me, arms full of blankets and old towels. The wind had already picked up by the time we reached a tree. The leaves shivered overhead, that warning Russell that comes before the break. So we worked fast.

Marissa crouched beneath the branch, cupping the fruit with both hands, like it might already be slipping away. We should anchor it, she said, something soft just in case. I nodded and wedged an old pillow beneath the branch, tying it up loosely so it cradled the stem without tugging. She wrapped the towels around it like insulation, tucking every edge. Then I pulled the canopy over and hammered stakes around the base. We stretched the mesh netting torte around the front. frame, leaving room for the wind to pass, but not enough to tear.

It looks like a damn tent, I muttered, stepping back. A flash of lightning licked the sky in the distance, followed by a slow roll of thunder a few seconds later. I counted out of habit, maybe three or four miles off. We need to go inside, I said, my voice firm. Marissa refused to move She was still crouched One hand on the branch

The other gently cupping the base of the fruit Through the canopy She's going to be scared alone She said We can't just leave her Marissa She's just a kid, Paul She doesn't understand storms

What if she thinks we abandoned her again I know beside her The air buzzed faintly static in pressure and dread curling in the space between each gust. You've done everything you can, I said. She knows that, but if lightning strikes. Another flash cut across the sky, this one closer. Thunder crackled overhead, and Marissa winced.

I grabbed her hand. Come on, we'll watch from the house. We'll be right there, just like when she spent the night camping in the garden. he didn't leave her then either. She hesitated. Then she nodded slowly. We ran for the house through the rising wind. Once inside, Marissa pressed herself to the window, breath fogging the glass.

The next bolt of lightning struck somewhere beyond the East Grove, close enough that the flash painted the entire sky white. A half second later, the thunder crackled so hard, the glass trembled in its frame. Then a sharp smell hit, electrical and burnt. I looked past Marissa's shoulder and saw sparks flaring

from one of the graph cone nodes at the base of the tree three rows down. Paul, Marissa said, voice sharp. Do you see that? Yeah, I breathed. The sparks caught the dry mulcheworthy. fast. Flames licked up the base of the trunk. Then another node popped. Another burst. The fire jumped

from one row to the next like it had been waiting. Marissa slammed the hand against the window. No, no, no. I grabbed a fire extinguisher from under the sink. Call 911. I barked. Now. She didn't move. Marissa. She tore her eyes away from the window, fumbling for the phone. I bolted for the door, heart pounding. The air outside already thick with smoke and heat. The fire raced faster than I expected. The wind whipped through the rose, feeding the flames.

The extinguisher hissed uselessly against the growing wall of orange and black. I turned and saw Marissa turning toward the tree. Phone clutched in one hand, the shears glinting in the airs, glinting in the dark. the other. Her face was streaked with sweat and panic. We have to get her, she shouted. Marissa, no, I'm not leaving her. She dove under the canopy as flames crept closer through the underbrush. The air was thick and angry. I heard the pop of another node and the shattering snap of a branch. I ran to her. She emerged, cradling the fruit to her chest, wrapped in a blanket.

I grabbed her arm and pulled her back with everything I had. We ran, ducking under limbs, smoke-cloring at her lungs. We returned to the porch just after another lightning bolt split the sky. The boom of thunder hit a second later, like the world was splitting. Inside, she held onto the fruit. like when she carried Elsie to bed after falling asleep on the couch. Its skin glistened as if weeping,

a thick, clear trail rolling down the cheek. Is that sap? I asked. She shook her head slowly. She's crying. She was scared. The fruit didn't pulse anymore, but it was warm. The resemblance was more complete than before.

It looked. Done. Maybe she was ready, Marissa whispered. Another crack of lightning ripped across the sky and thunder followed so fast it felt like it landed on our roof. I looked at Marissa. You called for help, right?

She nodded barely. They're coming. Her attention was on the fruit. She began to run. Rock it gently. Sh, baby, it's all right. It's just a storm. You're safe.

We've got you. She kept whispering to it. Word's soft and soothing, like she was lulling it back to sleep. You're scared now. I know, I know. But we're here. We're not going anywhere.

I turned to the window. The fire trucks hadn't arrived yet. Outside, the orchard glowed with shifting orange light, the trees going one by one. Our whole life unraveled, row after row of work, memory, sweat, just gone. Years of early mornings, of pruning in frost and picking in heat, of coaxing life out of cracked earth, all of it vanishing into smoke. The trees we planted our first spring.

Then, the fire had reached Elsie's tree. The canopy we'd built, meant to shield and protect, caught instantly. The netting ignited like dry paper, flames racing up the edges. The towels and blankets Marissa had so carefully wrapped became fuel. Lightning struck again, closer this time. It split a branch two rows over and sent a shockwaves. through the orchard. I watched the bark blacken and peel, with branches thrashing in the heat.

Another flash lit the sky, and thunder cracked like a gunshot. The mulch around the base popped, and the wires underneath sparked again, throwing arcs into the inferno and feeding the fire until it roared like a living thing. Marissa shrieked. I turned and saw her doubled over the caverns. counter, arms wrapped protectively around the fruit, rocking it. No, no, please, no, she whimpered. Not again, not again.

The fruit's skin had the jaw split open, wet and sudden. A thick line tore sideways through the cheek. The way overripe fruit bursts under its own weight. Inside were muscles and tendons. Pink curled around the edges of the wound like fresh gum. twitching. It glistened with something slick. Marissa's hands scrambled to press the pieces back together. No, baby, stay, stay with me, please, she whispered, pressing her palms against the softening flesh

like she could hold it in place by force. Her fingers smeared black and red residue across the muslin. Don't go, she begged. You're almost there, you're almost done. Please don't leave me. Then it started to cave. The jaw turned dark and blackened fully. The flesh sagged and collapsed into itself, caving inward like it was folding back into the pit it came from. Marissa tried to catch the pieces as they fell, coupling her hands beneath them,

but they slid through her fingers in wet, shapeless slumps. Each chunk landed on the counter with a thick, soft splat. She shrieked again and grabbed at what was left, trying to reassemble it. I can fix it, I can fix it, just give her back. A vein unspooled from the centre and shriveled before I could finish. What was left was scraps of soft black tissue, slick with residue. In the centre lay a single seed. Marissa reached for it with shape.

shaking fingers, hands coated in the pulp of what used to be Elsie. She cut the seed, her mouth moved, but no sound came out at first, just the quiver. Then, her lips parted. No, no, no, this isn't what was supposed to happen. I waited, we waited, she was supposed to be ready, she was almost here. She backed into the wall and slid down. curling around the seed, muttering fragments,

apologies, lullabies. Her eyes were wild, darting toward the window. The storm, the fire. It scared her, she whispered. She got scared,

and she left. Blue and red light flashed against the walls, strobing across the kitchen as sirens filled the air. The fire trucks pulled into the drive, wheels kicking up gravel and smoke. Boots hit the ground running, shouts rang out, water lines hissed as they unspooled.

I stepped away from the window, chest heavy, the sound of the orchard crackling like coal in a furnace. I looked at the seed, still cradled in Marissa's hands, and felt something sickening in my stomach. Marissa rocked on her heels, clutching the seed tight against the chest. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, fixed on nothing. Then she looked up at me, sudden and sharp.

We need to replant it, she said. We can't let it end like this. We need to give her another chance. My throat tightened. I glanced at the seed, then at the glow of the fire. Marissa, I said carefully. We have to wait. The storm isn't done.

Not yet. She shook her head like she hadn't heard me. We can't wait too long. She's still out there. I can feel it. We can't leave her alone for too long. She gets scared. It took hours to fight the fire.

The orchard was a patchwork of scorched trunks and blackened earth by the time the smoke cleared. What hadn't burned down was drowned. We lost nearly everything. The pears, the apples, the entire eastern block, years of pruning, grafting, and coaxing life from bark and soil, all gone. When the trucks finally rolled out and the sky had cleared,

I walked back inside. Marissa had fallen asleep on the kitchen floor, the seed still clutched to her chest. I stood over her for a long time. Then I reached down and gently pry the seed from her fingers. She stirred but didn't wake. I carried it to the bathroom, closed the door, sat on the edge of the tub,

and stared at it resting in my palm. It looked harmless, just a simple seed. But I couldn't do it again. Marissa would heal eventually, so I flushed it. I watched as the water swirled and it disappeared. Then I sat there in the quiet. Not sure if I just killed what was left my wife or finally let my daughter rest.

Then it all hit me. My shoulders caved forward. I bent elbows to knees, face in my hands. And I cried. Big, ugly sobs that shook the floor and scraped up. something I hadn't touched since the day she died. My chest seized with each breath, and I wept until my stomach cramped, until snot and spit smeared down my chin.

Months of keeping it together cracked open in a single, brutal moment.